This was the right touch, just as he meant it to be. Esther’s resentment melted under it. The tears sprang to her eyes and this time they were not tears of anger or wounded pride. She stammered a confession of her own consciousness of guilt at having kept the secret from him. “I am so sorry I didn’t tell you, Uncle Foster,” she declared. “I was going to--I meant to--and then--oh, I guess I was afraid. I know it was wrong. But the portrait is so good--really, it is wonderful. And--and we thought--I thought if I gave it to you for a birthday surprise you might--you might forgive me for letting him paint it.” He held out his arms. She ran to them and with her head upon his shoulder, sobbed repentantly. He stroked her hair. “There, there!” he said, soothingly. “It’s all right now. We won’t fret any more about it, will we? And you must take me down to the shanty, or studio, or whatever you call it, and let me see the thing for myself. Will you do that sometime? Sometime pretty soon, eh?” She lifted her head to look at him. “Do you really mean it?” she gasped. “Do you mean you will go--there--with me? And you won’t say anything to--to him--about--about--” “Of course I won’t! We’re going to let bygones be bygones, you and I. No more secrets and rows between you and your old uncle, eh? No, no, I guess not. We’ll go down there together; we’ll go this afternoon. And if folks wonder what on earth I am getting so sociable with a Cook for--why, well let ’em wonder, that’s all.” She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him. “You are the dearest man in the world!” she declared. “I ought to be ashamed of myself, and I am. _Do_ you forgive me, Uncle Foster, really?” So the reconciliation was complete and the Clark plan had worked satisfactorily so far. But that afternoon, as they walked along the beach together, Esther had no idea of the emotions hidden behind her uncle’s smiling countenance, nor the struggle it cost him to cross the threshold of the Eldridge shanty and meet, with that same smile, the astonished gaze of its young tenant. Astonishment is a very inadequate word to describe Bob’s feelings when Foster Townsend walked in upon him. He turned pale, then red and involuntarily squared his shoulders for the battle he was certain was upon him. And when, instead of opening for a warlike blast, the Townsend lips curved pleasantly and the Townsend hand was extended in greeting, he was too dumbfounded to do or say anything. He stood still, breathed rapidly, and stared. Esther, quite aware of what his feelings must be, hastened to explain. “I have told Uncle Foster all about the portrait,” she said, quickly. “He couldn’t wait until his birthday and made me bring him right down here to see it.... Uncle Foster, you remember Bob. At the horse race that day, he was the one who--”