For a few moments Sylvia sat absorbed in her train of thought, and suddenly coming to herself, found the stranger's intent gaze upon her. He noted her sudden embarrassment, and hastened to speak. "Thinkright's worst enemy could never accuse him of preaching what he does not practice," he said. "Has he any enemies?" "He's liable to have one in me." The shaggy brows drew down, but the thin, smooth-shaven lips twitched, and the girl saw that the speech had a humorous intent. She smiled. "Then I shall protect him. He is my cousin." "Oh, you're related, eh?" "Yes, and I love him. He is the only one of my relations that I can endure!" "H'm. Poor relations." "No, indeed. Rich relations. I am the poor relation, that is the trouble; but--if you know Thinkright you can imagine how he talks to me about it." "Preaches. I suppose so. Hard on you." "No." Sylvia shook her head and patted the water with an oar. "He has helped me. He knows wonderful ways of helping people." "Well, I'll thank him not to send you out in this water in a boat that you don't know how to manage." The form of the irritable declaration caused Sylvia to view her companion with large eyes. "Now you're here you might as well take a lesson," went on the judge. "Try rowing a bit. If you're going to stay here you'll need to know how." "But I'm not going to stay here," rejoined Sylvia quickly. "Why not?" The odd little man scowled so intently at her that the girl began to feel uneasy and glanced shoreward. "If you detest all your other relations and love Thinkright then why isn't his home the place for you?" "It--the trouble is it isn't his home." "Whose, then?" Judge Trent braced himself in expectation of the answer. "The farm belongs to--to a celebrated lawyer who uses it for a summer home," replied the girl. "Make friends with him," suggested the judge. Sylvia's breath caught. "If--if you knew how I don't want to and how--I must!" she returned naively. Her companion smiled grimly. "Well, here, now,--he's an old curmudgeon, I know him,--never mind him. Let's have a rowing lesson. Take the oars,--there, at that point. Now!" The speaker bent toward the young girl, and his dry hands closed over hers. She glanced at him half in fright, and away again as he guided her awkward movements until the boat moved slowly, but with tolerable evenness, through the water. "Now you're getting it, you see," he said at last. Sylvia began to forget her embarrassment in interest. "Not too deep,--only bury the oar." The speaker glanced up into the eager face so near him. Coral lips, pearly teeth, sunny curls,--loneliness, the stage, an actor husband-- "Turn it right there, steadily; see the water drip off? That's the way"-- Himself with his nose buried in a pile of papers, Martha hysterical, Dunham morose, but himself always unmoved. Laura's baby! He remembered that he had sent her a silver cup when she was born.