“O! what was it, Charlie? I’ve forgotten.”
Another laugh followed at Harry’s expense now, and we were all very merry, when Dora, who sat opposite to the window, called out, clapping her hands—
“There’s Niceboots again! There’s Niceboots again!”
The same moment the head of a young man appeared over the wall that separated the garden from the little beach that lay by the entrance of the canal. I saw at once that he must be more than ordinarily tall to show his face, for he was not close to the wall. It was a dark countenance, with a long beard, which few at that time wore, though now it is getting not uncommon, even in my own profession—a noble, handsome face, a little sad, with downbent eyes, which, released from their more immediate duty towards nature, had now bent themselves upon the earth.
“Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought.”
“I suppose he’s contemplating his boots,” said Wynnie, with apparent maliciousness.
“That’s too bad of you, Wynnie,” I said, and the child blushed.
“I didn’t mean anything, papa. It was only following up Dora’s wise discrimination,” said Wynnie.
“He is a fine-looking fellow,” said I, “and ought, with that face and head, to be able to paint good pictures.”
“I should like to see what he has done,” said Wynnie; “for, by the way we were sitting, I should think we were attempting the same thing.”