The artist swam well, and vigorously breasted the strong waves which beat against him. It is hardly more than once in a lifetime that a young man has an opportunity to become the hero of a romance, and Mr. Eliot Buckstone seemed to be determined to make a rich investment on the present occasion. It is hardly necessary to say that he intercepted the truant boat, as it was in the act of passing the Point, for to a young man in his frame of mind, with a helpless female before him rushing on to death and misery, failure was as impossible as success to a less determined person. He grasped the gunwale of the boat, and held on; he could do no more, for, short as was the distance he had accomplished, the obstinate waves and the pitch of excitement to which he had worked himself up, had completely exhausted him. He hung on at the gunwale, puffing like a porpoise torn from his native element. The imperilled female, now apparently in less peril than her gallant deliverer, stood up in the stern of the boat, regarding with intense interest and anxiety the amphibious gentleman who had so boldly battled the waves in her behalf. While Mr. Eliot Buckstone recovers his breath, let us glance at her who had unwittingly caused the enthusiastic artist all this trouble and inconvenience. She was rather tall; beautifully proportioned, and exceedingly graceful. Her complexion was naturally fair, but it had been somewhat browned by the summer sun. Her eye was large, soft, and blue; her nose Grecian; and her lips had just curl enough to indicate firmness of purpose. Her face and form would have attracted attention anywhere; but the more spiritual the nature, the more elevated the taste, the higher the intellectual cultivation, of the beholder, the more intense would have been his appreciation of the gentle maiden, whom the wind and the waves were wafting to sea, when the artist rushed to her assistance. “I am very sorry to have caused you all this trouble, sir,” said the lady, in tones so sweet and soothing, and withal so musical, that the marine painter instantly lost all sense of fatigue, and felt whole volumes of fresh, pure air pour into his empty lungs. Eliot Buckstone was not sorry when he saw that face, beheld that graceful form, and heard that musical voice. He was endowed with a highly sensitive organization, and he may be pardoned for the raptures which were kindled into being beneath his wet garments. I am inclined to think, knowing what he felt in this moment of enthusiasm, that he was a fatalist; that he believed fate or providence had at this time, and in this manner, brought him into the presence of the tall maiden, who gazed in pity and gentleness upon him. “No trouble at all, madam,” he replied, as with a vigorous movement he climbed over the rail into the boat, to the imminent risk of swamping the frail craft. “I did not see you, sir, when I called for help,” she added, apologetically.