His brown hair, parted far to one side, swept across his forehead in a smooth wave, as was the old-fashioned way; his collar was of a big, queer sort unknown to-day; the cut of his soldier’s coat was antique; but the beauty of the boyish face, the straight glance of his eyes, and ease of the broad shoulders that military drill could not stiffen, these were untouched, were idealized even by the old-time atmosphere that floated up from the picture like fragrance of rose-leaves.  As I gazed down at the boy, it came to me with a pang that he was very young and I growing very old, and I wondered would he care for me still.  Then I remembered that where he lived it was the unworn soul and not the worn-out body that counted, and I knew that the spirit within me would meet his when the day came, with as fresh a joy as forty years ago.  And as I still looked, happy in the thought, I felt all at once as if I had seen his face, heard his voice, felt the touch of his young hand that day—­could almost feel it yet.  Perhaps my eyes were a little dim, perhaps the uncertainty of the old daguerrotype helped the illusion, but the smile of the master of the Revenge seemed to shine up at me from my Geoff’s likeness, and then Sally’s slow voice broke the pause.

“It’s Cousin Geoffrey, isn’t it?” she asked.  Her father was Geoffrey Meade’s cousin—­a little boy when Geoff died, “Was he as beautiful as that?” she said, gently, putting her hand over mine that held the velvet case.  And then, after another pause, she went on, hesitatingly; “Cousin Mary, I wonder if you would mind if I told you whom he looks like to me?”

“No, my dear,” I answered easily, and like an echo to my thought her words came.

“It is your sailor.  Do you see it?  He is only a common seaman, of course, but I think he must have a wonderful face, for with all his dare-devil ways I always think of ‘Blessed are the pure in spirit’ when I see him.  And the eyes in the picture have the same expression—­do you mind my saying it, Cousin Mary?”

“I saw it myself the first time I looked at him,” I said.  And then, as people do when they are on the verge of crying, I laughed.  “Anne Ford would think me ridiculous, wouldn’t she?” and I held Geoff’s picture in both my hands.  “He is much better suited to her or to you.  A splendid young fellow of twenty-four to belong to an old woman like me—­it is absurd, isn’t it?”

“He is suited to no one but you, dear, and you are just his age and always will be,” and as Sally’s arms caught me tight I felt tears that were not my own on my cheek.

It was ten days yet before Anne was due to arrive, and almost every day of the ten we sailed.  The picturesque coast of North Devon, its deep bays, its stretches of high, tree-topped cliffs, grew to be home-like to us.  We said nothing of Cary and his boat at the Inn, for we soon saw that both were far-and-away better than common, and we were selfish.  Nor did the man himself seem to care for more patronage.  He was always ready when we wished to go, and jumped from his spick-and-span deck to meet us with a smile that started us off in sunshine, no matter what the weather.  And with my affection for the lovely, uneven coast and the seas that held it in their flashing fingers, grew my interest in the winning personality that seemed to combine something of the strength of the hills and the charm of the seas of Devonshire.