“Is that all?” asked several voices, as Mr. Wallace leaned back and fanned himself with his hat.

“That’s all of the first and second parts; the third is yet to come.  When I know it, I’ll tell you; perhaps next summer, if we meet here again.”

“Then you know the girl?  What is she doing now?” asked Miss Ellery, who had lost a part of the story as she sat in a shadowy nook with the pensive Fred.

“We all know her.  She is washing a coffee-pot at this moment, I believe;” and Mr. Wallace pointed to a figure on the beach, energetically shaking a large tin article that shone in the moonlight.

“Ruth?  Really?  How romantic and interesting!” exclaimed Miss Ellery, who was just of the age, as were most of the other girls, to enjoy tales of this sort and imagine sensational denouements.

“There is a great deal of untold romance in the lives of these toilers of the sea, and I am sure this good girl will find her reward for the care she takes of the old man and the boy.  It costs her something, I’ve discovered, for she wants an education, and could get it if she left this poor place and lived for herself; but she won’t go, and works hard to get money for Grandpa’s comfort, instead of buying the books she longs for.  I think, young ladies, that there is real heroism in cheerfully selling lilies and frying fish for duty’s sake when one longs to be studying, and enjoying a little of the youth that comes but once,” said Mr. Wallace.

“Oh dear, yes, so nice of her!  We might take up a contribution for her when we get home.  I’ll head the paper with pleasure and give all I can afford, for it must be so horrid to be ignorant at her age.  I dare say the poor thing can’t even read; just fancy!” and Miss Ellery clasped her hands with a sigh of pity.

“Very few girls can read fit to be heard now-a-days,” murmured Miss Scott.

“Don’t let them affront her with their money; she will fling it in their faces as she did that donkey’s dollar.  You see to her in your nice, delicate way, Aunty, and give her a lift if she will let you,” whispered Captain John in the old lady’s ear.

“Don’t waste your pity, Miss Florence.  Ruth reads a newspaper better than any woman I ever knew.  I’ve heard her doing it to the old man, getting through shipping news, money-market, and politics in fine style.  I wouldn’t offer her money if I were you, though it is a kind thought.  These people have an honest pride in earning things for themselves, and I respect them for it,” added Mr. Wallace.

“Dear me!  I should as soon think of a sand skipper having pride as one of these fishy folks in this stupid little place,” observed Mr. Fred, moving his legs into the shadow as the creeping moonlight began to reveal the hideous boots.

“Why not?  I think they have more to be proud of, these brave, honest, independent people, than many who never earn a cent and swell round on the money their fathers made out of pork, rum, or—­any other rather unpleasant or disreputable business,” said Captain John, with the twinkle in his eye, as he changed the end of his sentence, for the word “pickles” was on his lips when Aunt Mary’s quick touch checked it.  Some saucy girl laughed, and Mr. Fred squirmed, for it was well known that his respectable grandfather whom he never mentioned had made his large fortune in a pickle-factory.