“Her answer was a very decided negative. Then, slouching to the door, she swung herself down to the ground. I followed, and stood on the threshold, looking down at her. “‘Don’t forget that I’m to paint your picture,’ I said. ‘When will you come back?’ “‘To-morrow, may be.’ “‘I shall expect you. Good-by!’ “‘Good-by, master,’ she returned, reaching up to shake hands. “I watched her as she walked away toward the road, and noticed that she took bold strides like a boy. On reaching the road, she looked back and laughed, then she drew herself together, and began running like a young deer, with little or nothing of her former clumsiness, until she disappeared among the sand-hills. “Thursday.--This morning, just after breakfast, when I had entered the Caravan to prepare my materials for the day’s painting, Tim appeared at the door with a horrid grin. “‘There’s a young lady asking for ye,’ he said. “I had forgotten for the moment my appointment of the day before, and, when I leaped from the Caravan, I perceived, standing close by, with her back to me, and her face toward the lake, the figure of a young woman. At first I failed to identify her, for she wore a black hat and a white feather, a cloth jacket, and a dress which almost reached the ground; but she turned round as I approached her, and I recognized my new acquaintance. “I can not say that she was improved by her change of costume. In the first place, it made her look several years older--in fact, quite young-womanly. In the second place, it was tawdry, not to say, servant-gally, if I may coin such an adjective. The dress was of thin silk, old and frayed, and looking as if it had suffered a good deal from exposure to the elements, as was indeed the actual case. The jacket was also old, and seemed made of the rough material which is usually cut into sailors’ pea-jackets; which was the case also. The hat was obviously new, but, just as obviously, home-made. “‘So you have come,’ I said, shaking hands. ‘Upon my word, I didn’t know you.’ “She laughed delightedly, and glanced down at her attire, which clearly afforded her the greatest satisfaction. “‘I put on my Sunday clothes,’ she explained, “cause I was going to have my likeness took. Don’t you tell William Jones.’ “I promised not to betray her to that insufferable nuisance, and refrained from informing her that I thought her ordinary costume far more becoming than her seventh-day finery. “‘That’s a nice dress,’ I said, hypocritically. ‘Where did you buy it?’ “‘I didn’t buy it. It come ashore.’ “‘What! When you “come ashore” yourself?’ “‘No fear!’ she answered. ‘Last winter when the big ship went to bits out there.’ “‘Oh, I see! Then it was a portion of a wreck?’ “‘Yes, it come ashore, and, look ye now, this jacket come ashore too. On a sailor chap.’ “‘And the sailor chap made you a present of it, I suppose?’