When a pretty long time had elapsed in absolute silence, each sketcher being totally oblivious of the other, Nigel looked up with a long sigh, and said:—
"Well, you have chosen a most exquisite scene for me. The more I work at it, the more I find to admire. May I look now at what you have done?"
"Oh yes, but I have done not much. I am slow," said the girl, as Nigel rose and looked over her shoulder.
"Why!—what—how beautiful!—but—but—what do you mean?" exclaimed the youth.
"I don't understand you," said the girl, looking up in surprise.
"Why, Kathy, I had supposed you were drawing that magnificent landscape all this time, and—and you've only been drawing a group of shells. Splendidly done, I admit, but why——"
He stopped at that moment, for her eyes suddenly filled with tears.
"Forgive me, dear child," said Nigel, hurriedly; "I did not intend to hurt your feelings. I was only surprised at your preference."
"You have not hurt me," returned Kathy in a low voice, as she resumed her work, "but what you say calls back to me—my father was very fond of shells."
She stopped, and Nigel, blaming himself for having inadvertently touched some tender chord, hastened, somewhat clumsily, to change the subject.