All dark-eyed, stalwart young fellows are attractive to me for the sake of one like that who died forty years ago, but this sailor had a charm of manner that is a gift of the gods, let it fall to prince or peasant; the pretty deference of his few words, and the quick, radiant smile, were enough to win friendliness from me.  More than that, something in the set of his head, in the straight gaze of his eyes, held a likeness that made my memory ache.  I smiled back at him instantly.  But Sally’s heart was on her hat; hats from good shops did not grow on trees for Sally Meade.

“I hope it isn’t hurt,” she said, anxiously, and shook it carefully, and hardly glanced at the rescuer, who was watching with something that looked like amusement in his face.  Then her good manners came back.

“Thank you a thousand times,” she said, and turned to him brightly.  “You were so quick—­but, oh!  I’m afraid you’re wet.”  She looked at him, and I saw a little shock of surprise in her face.  Beauty so striking will be admired, even in a common sailor.

“It’s nothing,” he said, looking down at his sopping, wide trousers; “I’m used to it,” and as Sally’s hand went forward I caught the flash of silver, and at the same moment another flash, from the man’s eyes.

It was enough to startle me for the fraction of a second, but, as I looked again, his expression held only a serious respect, and I was sure I had been mistaken.  He took the money and touched his cap and said, “Thank you, miss,” with perfect dignity.  Yet my imagination must have been lively, for as he slipped it in his pocket, his look turned toward me, and for another breath of time a gleam of mischief—­certainly mischief—­flashed from his dark eyes to mine.

Then Sally, quite unconscious of this, perhaps imaginary, by-play, had an idea.  “Are you a sailor?” she asked.

The man looked at her.  “Yes—­miss,” he answered, a little slowly.

“We want to engage a boat and a man to take us out.  Do you know of one?  Have you a boat?”

The young fellow glanced down across the wall where a hull and mast gleamed indistinctly through the falling night, swinging at the side of the quay.  “That’s mine, yonder,” he said, nodding toward it.  And then, with the graceful, engaging frankness that I already knew as his, “I shall be very glad to take you out”—­including us both in his glance.

“Sally,” I said, five minutes later, as we trudged up the one steep, rocky street of Clovelly,—­the picturesque old street that once led English smugglers to their caves, and that is more of a staircase than a street, with rows of stone steps across its narrow width—­“Sally, you are a very unexpected girl.  You took my breath away, engaging that man so suddenly to take us sailing to-morrow.  How do you know he is reliable?  It would have been safer to try one of the men they recommended from the Inn.  And certainly it would have been more dignified to let me make the arrangements.  You seem to forget that I am older than you.”