In another minute a gray-haired, rather tall and slight, and very well-made lady, with delicate, regular, spirited features, was before me, telling me with a peculiar kind of earnest cordiality, and a sympathy that expressed itself fully in tones, though not in words, that she could not content herself with writing her acknowledgments to me; she must come and see me herself, to tell me how pleased and gratified and touched she was by the offering that I had sent her.

I felt myself too much moved by the associations connected with it, and called up by her, to answer readily; and she, as if conjecturing this, led the conversation gently off, at first to painting in general, and afterwards, as I grew more at my ease with her, back again, with an appearance of genuine interest, to mine.

“There was one little shell,” said she, “in your native group, which was quite new to me, and—­which is more remarkable—­to my brother.”

“Was it like this?” asked I, taking a specimen from my paint-box.

“Precisely.  We felt sure the portrait must be true to life, because all its companions were such faithful likenesses; and then it had itself such an honest, genuine, individual look.  But is it to be found on this coast?”

“Yes.  If Mr. Dudley has not met with it, it must no doubt be very rare; but, near the same spot always, just beyond Cedar Point, under the rocks in the little cove that lies farthest to the south, I have found it more than once.”

“You must be quite an enthusiast in natural history.  Have you studied it long?”

“No, ma’am, never.  I mean,” continued I, answering her look of surprise, “never from books.  I believe I should enjoy it more than any other study; but I know so little yet of other things, and there are so many other things that one needs more to know.”  I felt my cheeks burn; for no sooner was I helplessly launched into this speech, than I perceived what an awkward one it was to make to the sister of an eminent naturalist.  Notwithstanding, as I thought it was true, I could not take it back.

“I agree with you entirely,” said she with a reassuring smile.  “Such studies are fitted much more for the coping-stones than the foundation-stones of a good education.  But then, if you will not think me too inquisitive, pray let me ask you one thing more; and that is, where and how you came by all the information that that group showed.”

“Only by playing on the beaches and in the woods when I was a child.  My mother did not like to keep me in, because she thought that that had impaired my sister”—­here my voice would break, but I would go on,—­Fanny’s dear name should not die out of memory while I lived—­“my sister Fanny’s health; but they were afraid to let me run quite wild, and so she—­my sister—­led me out often wherever I wished to go, and helped me fill a little pasteboard museum which she made for me.”

Miss Dudley’s large, soft, trusty brown eyes met mine tenderly, as she said:  “These things must indeed possess a more than common interest for you then.  Have you that museum now?”