Could one ever forget him as he appeared one day at the seaside, when coming up from the beach with his brief trousers rolled up to his stalwart little thighs? He stood upon the piazza, spade and bucket in hand, looking with deep, sympathetic interest at a male visitor who was on the point of leaving the house. This visitor was a man who had recently lost his wife suddenly. He was a near relative of a guest in the house, and the young friend of all the world had possibly heard his bereavement discussed. But at six years old it is not the custom of small boys to concern themselves about such events. It seems that this one did, however, though the caller was not one of his intimates. He stood apart for a few moments, looking at him with a tenderly reflective countenance. His mamma, seeing his absorption, privately wondered what he was thinking of. But presently he transferred both spade and bucket to one hand, and came forward, holding out the other. I do not think anything could have been quainter and more sweet than the kind little face which uplifted itself to the parting guest. “Mr. Wenham,” he said, “I’m _very_ sorry for you, Mr. Wenham, about your wife being dead. I’m very sorry for you. I know how you must miss her.” Even the sympathy of six years old does not go for nothing. There was a slight moisture in Mr. Wenham’s eyes as he shook the small, sandy hand, and his voice was not quite steady as he answered, “Thank you, Vivvie, thank you.” It was when he was spending the summer at this place that he made the acquaintance of the young lady whose pony he regarded as a model of equine strength and beauty. It was the tiniest possible pony, whose duty it was to draw a small phaeton containing a small girl and her governess. But I was told it was a fine sight to behold the blooming little gentleman caller standing before this stately equipage, his hands on his hips, his head upon one side, regarding the steed with quite the experienced air of an aged jockey. “That’s a fine horse,” he said. “You see, it’s got plenty of muscle. What I like is a horse with plenty of muscle.” [Illustration: “I’M VERY SORRY FOR YOU, MR. WENHAM, ABOUT YOUR WIFE BEING DEAD”] And when we drove away from the cottage at the end of the summer, I myself perhaps a shade saddened, as one often is by the thought that the days of sunshine and roses are over, he put his small hand in mine and looked up at me wistfully. “We liked that little house, didn’t we, dearest?” he said. “We will always like it, won’t we?” “Do you know my friend Mrs. Wilkins?” he inquired one day, when he was still small enough to wear white frocks, and not old enough to extend his explorations further than the part of the quiet street opposite the house he lived in. “And who is your friend Mrs. Wilkins?” his mamma inquired.