Sylvia's heart was beating with unwonted quickness. This was the man who had been willing to pay frugally for her living until she could make one for herself, while too indifferent even to see her; but Thinkright's talks had turned a searchlight upon her own predilections and expectations, with the effect of distracting her attention somewhat from the shortcomings of others. Her present excitement in the discovery of her uncle was mingled with mortification at the remembrance of what her thought had once demanded of him. The boat rocked gently over the blue ripples; the sunshine illumined alike the burnished greens of grass and foliage and the weather-beaten pallor of the implacable Tide Mill. The shrewd, lined face under the high hat kept piercing eyes on the youthful, drooping countenance opposite. "Yes, you're totally different from what I expected," he said again. "You're no more like your mother than I am." She flashed a suddenly suspicious glance up at the speaker. "I am proud to be like my father," she declared. The judge shrugged his shoulders, and the girl continued hotly: "I've come to a place where no one has a kind thought or word for him. I love him twice as much as before." "H'm," grunted Judge Trent. "Even Thinkright draws the line there, does he? Shouldn't wonder. Sam Lacey carried Laura off under his very nose." "Thinkright doesn't talk about him," returned the girl; "but that speaks volumes." "I'm not going to, either. I'm glad you loved him, and that you still do; and now let's see what can be done in our situation. Practically you detest me, but theoretically you love me _a la_ Thinkright. Is that about the size of it?" Sylvia wiped her eyes and gave an April smile. "Now," went on the judge, "supposing we take the latter clause as our working hypothesis. We're both Trents and chock-full of old Adam. I've never had any use for girls, and you have no use for old clams of uncles who keep their heads in their shells when they ought to be coming up to the scratch; but, after all, what's the good of hating one another?" "It's no good," responded Sylvia quickly. "Well, then, supposing you let me in on the rose-colored cloud proposition, too." Sylvia's reply was a question. "Did you really come up here on purpose to see me?" she asked. "I did, indeed. Ought to be back in the office this minute. Dunham--you know Dunham by the way--will have troubles of his own before I can get back." "How is Mr. Dunham?" asked Sylvia, again splashing the water gently with an oar. "As well as could be expected of such a fragile flower. He's straining at the leash now to get to Boston to call on Miss Derwent. I expect my arrival at the office will be the signal for a cloud of dust in which he will disappear, heading for the first train. A very fine girl, too. I 'm glad you met her. If I ever admired girls--except when I'm walking on rosy clouds--I should admire her." "I knew you did!" exclaimed Sylvia, with a little pinch at the heart.