“He had such beautiful boots!” answered Dora, at which there was a great laugh about the table. “O! we must run and tell Connie that,” said Harry. “It will make her laugh.” “What will you tell Connie, then, Harry?” “O! what was it, Charlie? I’ve forgotten.” Another laugh followed at Harry’s expense now, and we were all very merry, when Dora, who sat opposite to the window, called out, clapping her hands-- “There’s Niceboots again! There’s Niceboots again!” The same moment the head of a young man appeared over the wall that separated the garden from the little beach that lay by the entrance of the canal. I saw at once that he must be more than ordinarily tall to show his face, for he was not close to the wall. It was a dark countenance, with a long beard, which few at that time wore, though now it is getting not uncommon, even in my own profession--a noble, handsome face, a little sad, with downbent eyes, which, released from their more immediate duty towards nature, had now bent themselves upon the earth. “Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought.” “I suppose he’s contemplating his boots,” said Wynnie, with apparent maliciousness. “That’s too bad of you, Wynnie,” I said, and the child blushed. “I didn’t mean anything, papa. It was only following up Dora’s wise discrimination,” said Wynnie. “He is a fine-looking fellow,” said I, “and ought, with that face and head, to be able to paint good pictures.” “I should like to see what he has done,” said Wynnie; “for, by the way we were sitting, I should think we were attempting the same thing.” “And what was that then, Wynnie?” I asked. “A rock,” she answered, “that you could not see from where you were sitting. I saw you on the top of the cliff.” “Connie said it was you, by your bonnet. She, too, was wishing she could look over the shoulder of the artist at work beside you.” “Not beside me. There were yards and yards of solid rock between us.” “Space, you see, in removing things from the beholder, seems always to bring them nearer to each other, and the most differing things are classed under one name by the man who knows nothing about them. But what sort of a rock was it you were trying to draw?” “A strange-looking, conical rock, that stands alone in front of one of the ridges that project from the shore into the water. Three sea-birds, with long white wings, were flying about it, and the little waves of the rising tide were beating themselves against it and breaking in white plashes. So the rock stood between the blue and white below and the blue and white above; for, though there were no clouds, the birds gave the touches of white to the upper sea.”