"But there is," she replied, "and one that should be there to make the picture correct. Can't you guess?"
He looked at Telly's face, upon which a roguish smile had come, but it did not dawn on him what she meant.
"No, I can't guess," he said; "tell me what is lacking?"
"Yourself," she replied.
It was a pretty compliment, and coming from any one except Telly he would have doubted its sincerity.
"But I do not want the picture to remind me of myself," he answered, "I wanted it so I could see you and recall the day we were there." She made no reply, and he laid it on the table and asked for the other one. It was all done except the finishing touches, but it did not seem to be a reproduction of his original sketch at the cove.
"I took the liberty of changing it a little," she said as he was looking at it, "and put in the background where you said you first saw me."
"It was nice of you to think of making the change," he replied quickly, "and I am very glad you did. I wanted it to portray you as I first saw you."
A faint flush came into her face at this, that did not escape him, and as she was watching the fire he for a moment studied the sweet face turned half away. And what a charming profile it was, with rounded chin, delicate patrician nose, and long eyelashes just touching the cheek that bore a tell-tale flush! Was that faint color due to the fire or to his words? He could not tell. Then they dropped into a pleasant chat about trifles, and the ocean's voice kept up its rhythm, the fire sparkled, and the small cottage clock ticked the happy moments away.
"How is Mrs. Leach?" he asked at last; "does she pray as fervently at every meeting?"