He paused. Pink Harper, who acted as cook occasionally when the _Anne_ was tied up and the rest of the crew were ashore, could be heard bustling about on deck. After a moment Henry rose, and, with an impulsive gesture, laid his hand on Dick's shoulder. “Cheer up, Dick,” he said. “Don't take it too hard. Try to keep hold of yourself. And look here, my boy, we've always stepped pretty well together, and we mustn't let any new thing come in between us--” “Supper's ready!” Pink called down the companionway. Dick was both puzzled and touched; touched by Henry's moment of frankness, puzzled by the reasons given for his opposition to the suggested marriage. It was not like his cousin to express positive opinions, least of all with inadequate reasons. Dick had no notion of leaving the Lake; he could never do so without leaving most of himself behind. Plainly Henry did not want him married, and Dick wondered why. It was half-past seven, and night was settling over the Lake. Already the pier end was fading, the masts of the two schooners were losing their distinctness against the sky; the ripples had quieted with the dying day-breeze, and now murmured on the sand. The early evening stars were peeping out, looking for their mates in the water below. On the steps, sober now, and inclined to dreaming as she looked out into the mystery of things, sat Annie. A shadow fell across the beach,--the outline of a broad pair of shoulders,--and she held her breath. The shadow lengthened; the man appeared around the corner of the house. Then, as he came rapidly nearer, she was relieved to see that it was Beveridge. He was in a cheerful frame of mind as he stepped up and sat beside her. It was pleasant that the peculiar nature of his work should make it advisable to cultivate the acquaintance of an attractive young woman--such a very attractive young woman that he was beginning to think, now and then, of taking her away with him when his work here should be done. “What do you say to a row on the Lake?” he suggested, after a little. “I mustn't go away,” said Annie. “I promised I would be here at eight.” “But it's not eight yet,” Beveridge replied. “Let's walk a little way--you can keep the house in sight, and see when he comes.” “Well,” doubtfully, “not far.” They strolled along the beach until Annie turned. “This is far enough.” “I don't know whether I can let your Captain come around quite so often,” said he, as they sat down on the dry sand, in the shelter of a clump of willows. “It won't do--he is too good looking. I should like to know what is to become of the rest of us.” This amused Annie. They had both been gazing out towards the schooners, and he had read her thoughts. He went on: “You know it's not really fair. These sailor fellows always get the best of us. He named his schooner after you, didn't he?” “Oh, no, I don't believe so.”