“In California. My father had gone out for his health, but he died there.” “Oh!” said Staniford. He had a book in his hand, and he began to scribble a little sketch of Lydia's pose, on a fly-leaf. She looked round and saw it. “You've detected me,” he said; “I haven't any right to keep your likeness, now. I must make you a present of this work of art, Miss Blood.” He finished the sketch with some ironical flourishes, and made as if to tear out the leaf. “Oh!” cried Lydia, simply, “you will spoil the book!” “Then the book shall go with the picture, if you'll let it,” said Staniford. “Do you mean to give it to me?” she asked, with surprise. “That was my munificent intention. I want to write your name in it. What's the initial of your first name, Miss Blood?” “L, thank you,” said Lydia. Staniford gave a start. “No!” he exclaimed. It seemed a fatality. “My name is Lydia,” persisted the girl. “What letter should it begin with?” “Oh--oh, I knew Lydia began with an L,” stammered Staniford, “but I--I--I thought your first name was--” “What?” asked Lydia sharply. “I don't know. Lily,” he answered guiltily. “Lily _Blood_!” cried the girl. “Lydia is bad enough; but _Lily_ Blood! They couldn't have been such fools!” “I beg your pardon. Of course not. I don't know how I could have got the idea. It was one of those impressions--hallucinations--” Staniford found himself in an attitude of lying excuse towards the simple girl, over whom he had been lording it in satirical fancy ever since he had seen her, and meekly anxious that she should not be vexed with him. He began to laugh at his predicament, and she smiled at his mistake. “What is the date?” he asked. “The 15th,” she said; and he wrote under the sketch, _Lydia Blood. Ship Aroostook, August_ 15, 1874, and handed it to her, with a bow surcharged with gravity. She took it, and regarded the picture without comment. “Ah!” said Staniford, “I see that you know how bad my sketch is. You sketch.” “No, I don't know how to draw,” replied Lydia. “You criticise.” “No.” “So glad,” said Staniford. He began to like this. A young man must find pleasure in sitting alone near a pretty young girl, and talking with her about herself and himself, no matter how plain and dull her speech is; and Staniford, though he found Lydia as blankly unresponsive as might be to the flattering irony of his habit, amused himself in realizing that here suddenly he was almost upon the terms of window-seat flirtation with a girl whom lately he had treated with perfect indifference, and just now with fatherly patronage. The situation had something more even than the usual window-seat advantages; it had qualities as of a common shipwreck, of their being cast away on a desolate island together. He felt more than ever that he must protect this helpless loveliness, since it had begun to please his imagination. “You don't criticise,” he said. “Is that because you are so amiable? I'm sure you could, if you would.”