Esther said she did not know. The statement was true as far as it went. If he had asked her to guess it might have been harder to answer. She did not know who had sent the rosebuds, but she remembered a conversation with Bob Griffin, during which she had expressed a love for the old-fashioned “tea” rose. And these were tea roses. She was glad that her uncle’s question was framed as it was and that his curiosity was not persistent. She and Bob did not meet again during the following week. Then, one morning, she found amid the Townsend mail which Varunas had brought up from the post office and left, as was his custom, upon the library table, an envelope bearing her name in an unfamiliar hand. Letters and notes were by no means novelties for her now. She had become a very popular young lady and invitations to all sorts of social affairs, not only in Harniss but in Bayport and Orham and Denboro, were frequent. Wondering what this particular note might be she tore open the envelope. The enclosure was brief. “Dear Esther,” she read. “The portrait sketch is done, all but the finishing touches. I am waiting for you before I tackle those. Can’t you come down to the shanty some afternoon soon? I shall be there all this week. I won’t keep you long, but you just _must_ see the thing. It is pretty darned good, if I do say so. Now do come. I shall expect you. “R. G.” She tucked the note into the bosom of her dress, thankful that neither her uncle nor Nabby was there to ask troublesome questions. Of course she should not go to the “shanty,” as Griffin irreverently named his ’longshore studio. Uncle Foster would not like it if she did--that is, she was almost sure he would not. Other than that there was, of course, no reason why she should not go. She did wish she might see the drawing, or sketch, or painting, or whatever it was. It was a portrait of her and, naturally, she would like just a glimpse of it. Any girl would. And Bob was so certain that it was good. If her uncle were any one else--if it was not for that lawsuit and his quarrel with old Mr. Cook-- But, after all, and as Bob had said that afternoon of the storm, the lawsuit hadn’t anything to do with them; they were not responsible for it. Bob Griffin was a nice boy, every one said so. She had half a mind-- By the next day the half a mind had become a whole one. After dinner--Foster Townsend was again away, at Ostable on business connected with the suit--she told Nabby she was going for a walk and left the house. Half an hour later she knocked at the door of the rickety building on the beach near--but fortunately out of sight from--the Tobias Eldridge house. Bob himself opened the door. He greeted her with a whoop of delight. “So you did come, didn’t you!” he crowed. “I thought you would. I knew you had sense and a mind of your own. Come in! Come in! It is all ready for you to look at.”