“When he was a boy, I mean,” continued Mr. Wragg. “Now, there’s your room, and when you’ve put things to rights, come down and I’ll show you over the house.” He glanced at his niece several times during the day, trying hard to trace a likeness, first to his dead sister and then to himself. Several times he scrutinized himself in the small glass on the mantelpiece, but in vain. Even when he twisted his thin beard in his hand and tried to ignore his mustache, the likeness still eluded him. His opinion of Miss Miller’s looks was more than shared by the young men of Waterside. It was a busy youth who could not spare five minutes to chat with an uncle so fortunate, and in less than a couple of weeks Mr. Wragg was astonished at his popularity, and the deference accorded to his opinions. The most humble of them all was Mr. Gale, and, with a pertinacity which was almost proof against insult, he strove to force his company upon the indignant Mr. Wragg. Debarred from that, he took to haunting the road, on one occasion passing the house no fewer than fifty-seven times in one afternoon. His infatuation was plain to be seen of all men. Wise men closed their eyes to it; others had theirs closed for them, Mr. Gale being naturally incensed to think that there was anything in his behavior that attracted attention. His father was at sea, and, to the dismay of the old woman who kept house for him, he began to neglect his food. A melancholy but not unpleasing idea that he was slowly fading occurred to him when he found that he could eat only two herrings for breakfast instead of four. His particular friend, Joe Harris, to whom he confided the fact, remonstrated hotly. “There’s plenty of other girls,” he suggested. “Not like her,” said Mr. Gale. “You’re getting to be a by-word in the place,” complained his friend. Mr. Gale flushed. “I’d do more than that for her sake,” he said, softly. “It ain’t the way,” said Mr. Harris, impatiently. “Girls like a man o’ spirit; not a chap who hangs about without speaking, and looks as though he has been caught stealing the cat’s milk. Why don’t you go round and see her one afternoon when old Wragg is out?” Mr. Gale shivered. “I dursen’t,” he confessed. Mr. Harris pondered. “She was going to be a hospital nurse afore she came down here,” he said, slowly. “P’r’aps if you was to break your leg or something she’d come and nurse you. She’s wonderful fond of it, I understand.” “But then, you see, I haven’t broken it,” said the other, impatiently. “You’ve got a bicycle,” said Mr. Harris. “You—wait a minute—” he half-closed his eyes and waved aside a remark of his friend’s. “Suppose you ’ad an accident and fell off it, just in front of the house?” “I never fall off,” said Mr. Gale, simply. “Old Wragg is out, and me and Charlie Brown carry you into the house,” continued Mr. Harris, closing his eyes entirely. “When you come to your senses, she’s bending over you and crying.”