"I should like to see her ever so much," responded Telly, and then she added rather sadly, "I've never had a girl friend in my life. There are only a few at the Cape of my age, and I don't see much of them. I don't mind it in the summer, for then I work on my pictures, but in winter it is so lonesome. For days I do not see any one except father and mother or old Mrs. Leach." "And who is Mrs. Leach?" asked Albert. "Oh, she's a poor old soul who lives alone and works on the fish racks," answered Telly, "she is worse off than I am." It was a little glimpse into the girl's life that interested Albert, and in the light of what he knew of her history, a pathetic one. Truly she was alone in the world, and except for the two kindly souls who made a home for her, she had no one to turn to. "You will go away to-morrow, I suppose," she said with a faint tone of regret as they were rowing home. "Father said your boat was coming after you to-day." He looked at her a moment, while a slight smile showed beneath his mustache. "I suppose I shall have to," he answered, "but I should like to stay here a month. I've not made a sketch of your house, even." "I wish you would," she said with charming candor, "it is so lonesome here, and then maybe you would show me a little about painting." "Could you endure my company every day for a month?" he asked, looking her full in the face. "I don't believe you could endure ours," she replied, dropping her eyes, and then she added quickly, "There is a prayer-meeting to-night at the Cape; would you like to go?" "Most certainly," he answered; "I can imagine it will be interesting." Albert had expected to see the "Gypsy" in the harbor when they returned that afternoon, but was most happily disappointed. "I hope they will stay at Bar Harbor a week," he thought. And that evening when Telly appeared, ready to be escorted to the prayer-meeting, he was certain that no fairer girl was to be found at Bar Harbor, or anywhere else. She was dressed in simple white, her masses of sunny hair half concealed by a thin blue affair of loosely knitted wool, and had a cluster of wild roses at her throat. It was a new and pleasurable experience to be walking beside a well-dressed young man whose every look and word bespoke enjoyment of her society, and she showed it in her simple, unaffected way. "I am afraid we shall disturb the meeting," she said with a smile, as they were walking over to the village. "The folks will be so curious to know who you are they will sing worse than ever. That's about all they do," she added by way of explanation,--"sing a few hymns, and Deacon Oaks will make a prayer and Mr. Gates another. They may call on you to give testimony," she continued, looking at Albert archly; "will you respond?" "Hardly," was the reply. "I always respect people's religious feelings, but I must confess I belong to the great majority of sinners who have never had a change of heart."