He called quite early the next morning, as may be guessed, and a more picture-book yachtsman Aunt Abby never set eyes upon. His white duck shoes, trousers, and cap, white flannel coat, dark blue silk shirt, jaunty sailor tie and russet belt, all completed an attire so spick and span that it seemed that he must have just emerged from a tailor shop. But Aunt Abby was not awed overmuch. She had seen his like before, and met him at her door with serene self-possession. "I am Mr. Goodnow," he explained with easy assurance, "and Miss Raymond has kindly consented to accept a few hours' enjoyment in my yacht if you will also honor me." And he bowed again. "We thank you very much, sir," Aunt Abby responded stiffly, "but I must decline for us both. We should hardly care to accept hospitalities which we could not return." "I regret it very much," he answered in a hurt tone, "and assure you I am the one to feel obligated." And then, as Aunt Abby drew back, and the door began to close very slowly, he bowed and retreated in good order. But he was not to be thus checkmated, and from now on he began to watch for chances to intercept and accost Chip. It was, and always had been, a part of her nature to be out of doors as much as possible, and since the close of school she was out more than ever. Somewhat akin to Old Cy in love of Nature, the fields, woods, and streams had always attracted her, and at Christmas Cove the sea added a new charm to which she yielded nearly every pleasant day. And her steps led her far and wide. Down to the seldom-used wharf to watch the tide ebb and flow between its mussel-coated piles, over the broad-rippled sands of the cove when the tide left them bare, around to the long, rocky barrier beyond the cove where the sea waves dashed, were her favorite strolls. The next afternoon she strayed to where the ocean spray was leaping. She had scarce reached her favorite lookout spot, a shaded cliff, when she saw Goodnow approaching. Her first impulse was to return home at once, the next to remain. She did not fear him, he seemed such an effeminate, foppish sort of man, that lithe and strong as she was, she felt she could outrun him, or, if need be, throw him into the sea. And so she waited, cool and indifferent. Although conscious that he was nearing her, she never turned her head until he was beside her. Then she looked up. "I beg your pardon," he said, raising his hat, "but may I share this cliff with you?" And he seated himself near. "It isn't mine," answered Chip, rather ungraciously, "so there's no need to ask." "But every lady has a right to decline a gentleman's company wherever she is," he responded in his usual suave tone. "I saw you coming here, and I'll admit I was bold enough to follow." "And what for?" she answered, in her blunt way, "I never invited you."