"I am glad that I happened to be near at the time," Jack replied, as
he seated himself without invitation on the bench. "But it is not a
pleasant topic--let us not talk about it."

"I shall never forget it," the girl answered softly. She was silent for
a moment, and then added gravely: "It is so strange to know you. I
admire artists so much, and I saw your picture in last year's Academy.
How surprised I was when I read your card!"

"You paint, yourself, Miss Foster?"

"No, I only try to. I wish I could."

She reluctantly yielded her block of Whatman's paper to Jack, and in the
portfolio attached to it he found several sketches that showed real
promise. He frankly said as much, to his companion's delight, and then
the conversation turned on the quaintness of Strand-on-the-Green, and
the constant and varied beauty of the river at this point--a subject
that was full of genuine interest to both. When the sun passed below the
bridge the girl suddenly rose and gathered her things.

"I must go," she said. "My father is coming home early to-day. Good-by,
Mr. Vernon."

"Not really good-by. I hope?"

An expression of sorrow and pain, almost pitiful, clouded her lovely
face. Jack understood the meaning of it, and hated Stephen Foster in his
heart.