classmates, and although Sidney had since repaid this kindness many times, their relative positions had never greatly altered. Horner was still the better man, in his own eyes and in those of his friend. Yet Sidney was rich and Horner poor. More than this, Sidney's family connections opened to him literary and artistic circles we will not call them ringsthat Horner could scarcely have entered alone. His was a sporadic genius springing from meagre soil, and he might have struggled uselessly his life long, but for the lucky chance that united him to Sidney. Yet it was he who seemed to give. A certain obtuseness is often part of the endowment of rich and simple natures, and Horner's affection for Sidney had never quite lost the slight tinge of patronage with which it started-an attitude easily made ridiculous, had it not been so unconscious and sincere. Its justification was his greater power, a fact, although it must be said that as yet he had not done very much to prove it. Sidney, working with method and precision, unswayed by wayward impulses, quietly increased in artistic stature and in favor with critics and hanging-committees. He was, in short, successful, and we all know that only the disappointed care to sift too carefully the causes of success. Horner, at times, came perilously near this latter class.

He made his daily bread-with condiments-by illustrations for various periodicals, but although this is honorable employment, it failed to satisfy him. His ambitions were vast and vague, and filled him with their restlessness. He was forever planning largely and working furiously, until he dropped exhausted and was obliged to lie by and gather strength for another onset.

One of these forced recruiting seasons was upon him now, and he was defending himself against its depression as best he could, fretting secretly at his idleness, but rowing, fishing, and swimming as if such pastimes were the end and aim of his being. He walked all over the island and sailed all over the bay, and finally wreaked his reviving energies upon an old boat that he found stranded on the rocks. Having repaired her, he painted her, and regarded his work with much satisfaction, as we have seen.

VOL. IV.-23

As, less contentedly, he watched Sidney's nimble fingers, a riotous gust struck him and whirled his cap from his head. When he caught and replaced it, his eyes travelled round the little harbor with its boats.

"Where's the skiff?" he asked, abruptly.

"Miss Kimball has it," Sidney answered, without looking up from his work.

66

Why didn't you make Bates take a heavier boat such a day? By the way, Bates went, I hope, and not Frank.”

"I-why, really, I don't know." Sidney put down his brushes and looked troubled. "I meant to go with her myself, but she got off before we were down. But I suppose so. She would not want a boy with the sea like this."

"Heaven knows what she'd want; I don't," Horner muttered, half under his breath. "Whatever it is, it's likely to be more than I can fathom. But I know what I want-that she should not pass the Point in a cockle-shell to-day."

Sidney looked gravely at the racing breakers, then resumed his painting, as with an effort, saying only:

"I think we may trust Bates." Horner sat idly gazing at the Georgiana, whistling softly to himself, when a cry from Sidney startled him. "By Jove! It can't be." "What-where?"

"Look there!" "Good

A little skiff, wave-tossed, was slowly rounding the Point, and in it, toiling in rowing, sat Georgie, alone. Her hat was blown back and lay upon her shoulders; a strand of her loosened hair curled over it; and her veil and fluttering ends of ribbon whipped about her head. They were picturesque, but made her look as if she were flying signals of distress.

Both men sprang up and ran down to the shore-one had turned white.

They could see that she looked often over her shoulder, as if anxious, and, although she pulled stoutly, she was evidently tired. The skiff made little progress; the oars scarce held the water; the white-caps danced about her mockingly, and the two men watched her in a tense silence. Horner had even started back to get another boat when Georgie,

A SLEEPY Sea with a few idle sails upon it. Hazy distances melting into a sky full of hot sunshine. Subdued murmurs from the beach, where lazy waves lapped gently in and went out again with a low swish, like a sigh.

Such are the changes of the seaside. Who would take that calm expanse for the boisterous main? Or that sedate and white-robed maiden for the rash rower of yesterday? Aphrodite, born of spray and landing from a sea-shell, is a convenient metaphor, but Georgie had probably resembled her less when really coming out of the raging deep, all wet flannel and blowing locks, than she did now when seated in a low wicker chair, safe and dry on the shaded balcony, with her soft, billowy draperies piled about her like foam.

She was doing nothing—that is, she was gazing dreamily upon the dreamy sea and sitting for her portrait, that Sidney was industriously, and at the moment silently, painting.

Julia, who could seldom afford to do nothing, had taken her work-basket to the other end of the balcony, where she said there was more breeze. As there seemed to be none anywhere, it was clever of her to find this out, but possibly her cleverness had suggested other reasons for going there. At all events she fastened her attention upon her sewing, until Horner's restlessness diverted it.

He had come up after Sidney's easel had been placed, and for a little while lounged about, making comments, as was his wont. But he had soon grown

abstracted, then silent, until he suddenly went over and joined Julia. There he sat upon the rail and swung his feet, looking off to sea, making an aimless remark or two, or letting Julia's lively talk ripple over him unregarded, until she said he made her nervous and asked him why he did not read to her. The book they had begun was on the library table; would he get it? How nice! He went obediently, but he did not come back.

All over the house the windows were open, the shutters bowed, and the rooms in that cool twilight beloved of good housekeepers-if not artists-in garish summer. Coming from the outer glare, Horner's eyes were dazzled and he saw only what he brought with him-the image of a white dress projected upon a square of blue.

He went mechanically to the table as directed, and being there forgot bookJulia-himself-and all the world. He stood between two windows; near to one was Sidney's easel, and through the halfclosed blinds the low talk drifted in.

"I have something to ask you," he heard, in Sidney's quiet voice. "Do you know-I am sure you do not-how much you frightened-a-us all yesterday? It still seems a miracle that you are here now. If you knew how cruel such rashness can be

دو

"It was foolish," Georgie answered, without a trace of resentment. "In fact, it was very wrong. I know I owe you an apology for the wetting I gave you."

"No," he said, "not for that."

"Well, for the fright too," she assented, and Horner could tell that she smiled. "To tell the truth, I was frightened myself."

"Promise me never to do such a thing again."

They were the same words that Horner had used the day before, but with what a difference! He in his excitement had slapped them at her rudely. He could see this himself now. Sidney's tone was deferential, soothing-it was more, it was maddeningly caressing. Would she suffer it? Would she not assert her independence?

No. She was answering with the utmost meekness and docility.

Horner felt the blood rush to his temples, then woke to the fact that he was listening, eavesdropping, spying upon -with how sharp a stab the knowledge came!—his rival's privacy.

He went blindly out.

He did not hear a chair pushed back, nor know that Georgie had risen and was coming into the house, so when he met her in the hall the surprise overcame him.

"Do you mean it?" he said, savagely, barring her way, "or are you only fooling-him, and me, and all of us?"

"Do I mean what?" asked Georgie, bewildered, then more indignantly, "I don't understand you, Mr. Horner." "That is not true," he answered, harshly. "A woman always understands."

"I do not understand how you, or anyone, can speak to me like this," she said, coloring angrily. "What do you mean?"

Truly what did he mean? To make a fool of himself? He turned with a short laugh of self-derision and strode out of the opposite door.

The sun was hot upon the hills and on the bare, unshaded rocks, as Horner plunged down among them to the shore; so hot, indeed, that although he felt a fierce desire for motion he sank down presently in the stingy shadow of a cliff, panting and oppressed. He tossed off his hat and tore his collar open, and longed for a storm, for a rushing, mighty wind, for something to struggle with and overcome. For this deadly calm seemed typical of Sidney's suavity and underlying fervor.

"He seems soft enough, but I know him," he said, with clinched hands. "Nothing can move him when he is once set."

And wave after wave of passion surged through him as he gauged the depth of meaning in Sidney's tone and manner.

Before him was the dazzling, glassy water; behind him sunny uplands slumbered; far off drowsy earth and heaven met. Quiet? Peace? Why, in his breast a scorching sirocco seemed to blow, drying up the springs of life and spreading ruin and desolation.

He took his head in his hands, digging his nails into the scalp, and went

back over his life, thinking of what Sidney had been to him. When his mother died; when his father wished him to give up art and go into business; when he had won his first prize; when orders began to come in for his illustrations

at every turn, in hours of trouble, in hours of rejoicing, it was always Sidney-Sidney. It was Sidney whose generous admiration he had so loftily received; it was Sidney whose help he had not scrupled to take; and it was Sidney-could it be Sidney?—who was

to crush him at last.

"He shall not have her. He shall not have her. I'll kill him first."

The shadow of the rock shifted slowly with the advancing day, and Horner shifted his place mechanically to be out of the unbearable sun. The tide had crept away, leaving a stretch of stones and shells covered with languishing seaweed. Here and there a stranded crab, or other water creature, crawled about forlornly. Horner noted the analogy with a dull rage. Had the vigor of his life ebbed away from him? What had happened in these few hours to change the world? A girl had looked him in the face. A girl! There were hecatombs of girls. But his heart answered instantly, "One only-one-out of ten hundred thousand only one for me. Not for me. Never for me."

It seemed as if that blighting moment of sudden knowledge had indeed changed his whole nature. Where were his will, his energy, his certainty of power? Stripped from him! And he saw himself a failure and a fool.

Out of the salt waste before him all his past disappointments rose and confronted him. He had had many, as all ardent, striving souls must have, but he had said to himself that he accepted them, overcame them, or went on in spite of them, patiently pursuing his

ideal and letting that be in itself his

success.

Now he saw that this had been only his vanity. His ideal was worthless, or miles out of reach, and he a futile idiot, posing with fatuous conceit for Sidney's admiration.

And Sidney, who beat him always, in every way, could very well afford to be condescending and helpful and magnanimous.

"I will not have it so. It shall not be. I'll beat him yet," he cried aloud, wrestling with his anguish, and starting up to go-anywhere.

A breeze was ruffling the water and the few sails were filling. Horner was too far under the cliff to see that a black cloud was rapidly rising in the west, but when he reached the cove and saw the Georgiana gently swaying on her line, a longing to escape took possession of him.

On the land was bondage, intolerable humiliation and despair; on the sea was freedom, at least, and air. He broke into a run and bounded down the floating dock to the sloop.

"What are you up to?" called Sidney's voice from the shore. "You're not going out?"

Horner paid no attention, but hauled at the sail. Sidney now appeared, hastening along the dock.

"Can't you see the sky?" he cried. "We're going to have the worst kind of

a storm in half an hour."

Horner still took no notice, but pulled the mainsail to position with a vicious jerk and turned his attention to the jib. Sidney came alongside, and laid his hand on the mast. "Horner," he said, seriously, "be rational. Look there, man. You can

never do it."

"Get out of my way," cried Horner, furiously. "D'ye think there's nothing I can do? If I go to the devil, what's that to you?"

He seized the tiller and, obedient to his will, the Georgiana, with a graceful dip, began to glide from the dock. A strange look of comprehension, half incredulous, half resentful, flashed over Sidney's face; the next instant he leaped the widening streak of water and alighted in the boat. Turning his back to Horner

he gazed seriously ahead, keeping his thoughts, whatever they might be, to himself.

The dense cloud that had piled itself up in the west now rolled a long arm across the sun. From under its curled edges a sickly light fell, causing the caps of the rising waves to show lurid against the horizon. Each rock and headland, every house and tree, stood out in sharp relief; the landscape looked ghastly and unnatural. All the little craft had scurried home in haste, but here and there a schooner lay under bare poles, her men working briskly to stow every rag of canvas.

As the Georgiana emerged from the shelter of the cliff, the wind swooped down upon her, seizing and shaking her violently, but after a moment's shivering pause she tore on with her boom ploughing the water. A fisherman running along the shore shouted to her. Another, high on the rocks, made a trumpet of his hands, and when his words were whisked away by the wind, pointed vehemently to the sky.

Horner noticed with savage joy that Sidney was quite pale and sat with eyes intent and tight lips. He himself seemed mad. The whistling wind, the dash through the waves, the straining sail and cordage, filled him with fierce delight. But suddenly Sidney turned and looked him in the face, a long, silent look of questioning; then sprang up, whipped out his knife, and cut a rope. The mainsail fell and Horner woke from his delirium, too late.

The focus of the storm had reached them. A shrieking gust tore off the jib and whirling it away let them see it fluttering like a white bird far over the dark bay. The wet sail hung low; the trembling Georgiana, careening, shipping sea after sea, yielded to another blast and went over.

Horner had barely time to kick off his shoes when he flew out into space, and his thought as he struck the churning water was that Sidney could not swim.

What happened next he never distinctly remembered. He found himself, panting and bruised, hanging to the Georgiana with one hand and desperately clutching Sidney's coat with the other.