“Young lady,” he said, “if you are looking for corallines, you can’t do better than ask your papa some fine afternoon, to drive you as far as Sheldon, and you’ll find a sight of fine weeds there, as I know, for my boy, my poor boy I lost, I mean,” said he, again touching the rusty crape on his hat, “my boy was very curious in those things, and had quite a museum of ’em at home.”  How could Edith stand against such an attack?  It was plain that the old man wanted to make peace with her, and, cheerfully thanking him, she was moving on, but the old boots grinding the shingle, were again heard behind her, and turning round, she saw Joe at her heels.

“Miss, I don’t know as I ought to have stopped you that night.  I am a poor old fisherman, and you are a young lady, but I meant no harm, and for the moment only did it in a joke.”

“Oh, dear,” said Edith, “don’t think any more about it, I was very cross that night, and you were quite right, I should have got Miss Schomberg into sad trouble if I had gone that way.  As it was, I was out too late.  Have you lost a son lately, said Edith, I heard you say you had just now?  Was he drowned?” inquired the child, kindly looking up into Joe’s face.

“Yes Miss, he was drowned,” said Joe, “he came by his death very sadly.  Will you please, Miss, to come home with me, and I will shew you his curiosities, and if you please to take a fancy to any, I’m sure you are very welcome.  I don’t know any good it does me to turn ’em over, and look at them as I do times and often, but somehow when we lose them we love, we hoard up all they loved.  He had a little dog, poor Bob had, a little yapping thing, and I never took to the animal, ’twas always getting into mischief, and gnawing the nets, and stealing my fish, and I used often to say, ’Bob, my boy, I love you but not your dog.  No, that saying won’t hold good now.  I can’t love that dog of yours.  Sell it, boy—­give it away—­get rid of it some how.’  All in good part, you know, Miss, for I never had any words with him about it.  And now Bob is gone—­do you know, Miss, I love that dumb thing with the sort of love I should love his child, if he had left me one.  If any one huffs Rover, (I ain’t a very huffish man,) but I can tell you I shew them I don’t like it, I let the creature lay at my feet at night, and I feed him myself and fondle him for the sake of him who loved him so.  And you may depend Miss, the dog knows his young master is gone, and the way he is gone too, for I could not bring him on the shore for a long while, but he would set up such a howl as would rend your heart to hear.  And that made me love the poor thing I can tell you.”

“But how did it happen?” softly asked Edith.