there was a very fine sunset on the night paul and miss trevor first met, and she had lingered on the headland beyond noel's cove to delight in it. the west was splendid in daffodil and rose; away to the north there was a mackerel sky of little fiery golden clouds; and across the water straight from miss trevor's feet ran a sparkling path of light to the sun, whose rim had just touched the throbbing edge of the purple sea. off to the left were softly swelling violet hills and beyond the sandshore, where little waves were crisping and silvering, there was a harbour where scores of slender masts were nodding against the gracious horizon.

miss trevor sighed with sheer happiness in all the wonderful, fleeting, elusive loveliness of sky and sea. then she turned to look back at noel's cove, dim and shadowy in the gloom of the tall headlands, and she saw paul.

it did not occur to her that he could be a shore boy—she knew the shore type too well. she thought his coming mysterious, for she was sure he had not come along the sand, and the tide was too high for him to have come past the other headland. yet there he was, sitting on a red sandstone boulder, with his bare, bronzed, shapely little legs crossed in front of him and his hands clasped around his knee. he was not looking at miss trevor but at the sunset—or, rather, it seemed as if he were looking through the sunset to still grander and more radiant splendours beyond, of which the things seen were only the pale reflections, not worthy of attention from those who had the gift of further sight.

miss trevor looked him over carefully with eyes that had seen a good many people in many parts of the world for more years than she found it altogether pleasant to acknowledge, and she concluded that he was quite the handsomest lad she had ever seen. he had a lithe, supple body, with sloping shoulders and a brown, satin throat. his hair was thick and wavy, of a fine reddish chestnut; his brows were very straight and much darker than his hair; and his eyes were large and grey and meditative. the modelling of chin and jaw was perfect and his mouth was delicious, being full without pouting, the crimson lips just softly touching, and curving into finely finished little corners that narrowly escaped being dimpled.

his attire was a blue cotton shirt and a pair of scanty corduroy knickerbockers, but he wore it with such an unconscious air of purple and fine linen that miss trevor was tricked into believing him much better dressed than he really was.

presently he smiled dreamily, and the smile completed her subjugation. it was not merely an affair of lip and eye, as are most smiles; it seemed an illumination of his whole body, as if some lamp had suddenly burst into flame inside of him, irradiating him from his chestnut crown to the tips of his unspoiled toes. best of all, it was involuntary, born of no external effort or motive, but simply the outflashing of some wild, delicious thought that was as untrammelled and freakish as the wind of the sea.

miss trevor made up her mind that she must find out all about him, and she stepped out from the shadows of the rocks into the vivid, eerie light that was glowing all along the shore. the boy turned his head and looked at her, first with surprise, then with inquiry, then with admiration. miss trevor, in a white dress with a lace scarf on her dark, stately head, was well worth admiring. she smiled at him and paul smiled back. it was not quite up to his first smile, having more of the effect of being put on from the outside, but at least it conveyed the subtly flattering impression that it had been put on solely for her, and they were as good friends from that moment as if they had known each other for a hundred years. miss trevor had enough discrimination to realize this and know that she need not waste time in becoming acquainted.

"i want to know your name and where you live and what you were looking at beyond the sunset," she said.

"my name is paul hubert. i live over there. and i can't tell just what i saw in the sunset, but when i go home i'm going to write it all in my foolscap book."

in her surprise over the second clause of his answer, miss trevor forgot, at first, to appreciate the last. "over there," according to his gesture, was up at the head of noel's cove, where there was a little grey house perched on the rocks and looking like a large seashell cast up by the tide. the house had a stovepipe coming out of its roof in lieu of a chimney, and two of its window panes were replaced by shingles. could this boy, who looked as young princes should—and seldom do—live there? then he was a shore boy after all.

"who lives there with you?" she asked. "you see"—plaintively—"i must ask questions about you. i know we like each other, and that is all that really matters. but there are some tiresome items which it would be convenient to know. for example, have you a father—a mother? are there any more of you? how long have you been yourself?"

paul did not reply immediately. he clasped his hands behind him and looked at her affectionately.

"i like the way you talk," he said. "i never knew anybody did talk like that except folks in books and my rock people."

"your rock people?"

"i'm eleven years old. i haven't any father or mother, they're dead. i live over there with stephen kane. stephen is splendid. he plays the violin and takes me fishing in his boat. when i get bigger he's going shares with me. i love him, and i love my rock people too."

"what do you mean by your rock people?" asked miss trevor, enjoying herself hugely. this was the only child she had ever met who talked as she wanted children to talk and who understood her remarks without having to have them translated.

"nora is one of them," said paul, "the best one of them. i love her better than all the others because she came first. she lives around that point and she has black eyes and black hair and she knows all about the mermaids and water kelpies. you ought to hear the stories she can tell. then there are the twin sailors. they don't live anywhere—they sail all the time, but they often come ashore to talk to me. they are a pair of jolly tars and they have seen everything in the world—and more than what's in the world, if you only knew it. do you know what happened to the youngest twin sailor once? he was sailing and he sailed right into a moonglade. a moonglade is the track the full moon makes on the water when it is rising from the sea, you know. well, the youngest twin sailor sailed along the moonglade till he came right up to the moon, and there was a little golden door in the moon and he opened it and sailed right through. he had some wonderful adventures inside the moon—i've got them all written down in my foolscap book. then there is the golden lady of the cave. one day i found a big cave down the shore and i went in and in and in—and after a while i found the golden lady. she has golden hair right down to her feet, and her dress is all glittering and glistening like gold that is alive. and she has a golden harp and she plays all day long on it—you might hear the music if you'd listen carefully, but prob'bly you'd think it was only the wind among the rocks. i've never told nora about the golden lady, because i think it would hurt her feelings. it even hurts her feelings when i talk too long with the twin sailors. and i hate to hurt nora's feelings, because i do love her best of all my rock people."

"paul! how much of this is true?" gasped miss trevor.

"why, none of it!" said paul, opening his eyes widely and reproachfully. "i thought you would know that. if i'd s'posed you wouldn't i'd have warned you there wasn't any of it true. i thought you were one of the kind that would know."

"i am. oh, i am!" said miss trevor eagerly. "i really would have known if i had stopped to think. well, it's getting late now. i must go back, although i don't want to. but i'm coming to see you again. will you be here tomorrow afternoon?"

paul nodded.

"yes. i promised to meet the youngest twin sailor down at the striped rocks tomorrow afternoon, but the day after will do just as well. that is the beauty of the rock people, you know. you can always depend on them to be there just when you want them. the youngest twin sailor won't mind—he's very good-tempered. if it was the oldest twin i dare say he'd be cross. i have my suspicions about that oldest twin sometimes. i b'lieve he'd be a pirate if he dared. you don't know how fierce he can look at times. there's really something very mysterious about him."

on her way back to the hotel miss trevor remembered the foolscap book.

"i must get him to show it to me," she mused, smiling. "why, the boy is a born genius—and to think he should be a shore boy! i can't understand it. and here i am loving him already. well, a woman has to love something—and you don't have to know people for years before you can love them."

paul was waiting on the noel's cove rocks for miss trevor the next afternoon. he was not alone; a tall man, with a lined, strong-featured face and a grey beard, was with him. the man was clad in a rough suit and looked what he was, a 'longshore fisherman. but he had deep-set, kindly eyes, and miss trevor liked his face. he moved off to one side when she came and stood there for a little, apparently gazing out to sea, while paul and miss trevor talked. then he walked away up the cove and disappeared in his little grey house.

"stephen came down to see if you were a suitable person for me to talk to," said paul gravely.

"i hope he thinks i am," said miss trevor, amused.

"oh, he does! he wouldn't have gone away and left us alone if he didn't. stephen is very particular who he lets me 'sociate with. why, even the rock people now—i had to promise i'd never let the twin sailors swear before he'd allow me to be friends with them. sometimes i know by the look of the oldest twin that he's just dying to swear, but i never let him, because i promised stephen. i'd do anything for stephen. he's awful good to me. stephen's bringing me up, you know, and he's bound to do it well. we're just perfectly happy here, only i wish i'd more books to read. we go fishing, and when we come home at night i help stephen clean the fish and then we sit outside the door and he plays the violin for me. we sit there for hours sometimes. we never talk much—stephen isn't much of a hand for talking—but we just sit and think. there's not many men like stephen, i can tell you."

miss trevor did not get a glimpse of the foolscap book that day, nor for many days after. paul blushed all over his beautiful face whenever she mentioned it.

"oh, i couldn't show you that," he said uncomfortably. "why, i've never even showed it to stephen—or nora. let me tell you something else instead, something that happened to me once long ago. you'll find it more interesting than the foolscap book, only you must remember it isn't true! you won't forget that, will you?"

"i'll try to remember," miss trevor agreed.

"well, i was sitting here one evening just like i was last night, and the sun was setting. and an enchanted boat came sailing over the sea and i got into her. the boat was all pearly like the inside of the mussel shells, and her sail was like moonshine. well, i sailed right across to the sunset. think of that—i've been in the sunset! and what do you suppose it is? the sunset is a land all flowers, like a great garden, and the clouds are beds of flowers. we sailed into a great big harbour, a thousand times bigger than the harbour over there at your hotel, and i stepped out of the boat on a 'normous meadow all roses. i stayed there for ever so long. it seemed almost a year, but the youngest twin sailor says i was only away a few hours or so. you see, in sunset land the time is ever so much longer than it is here. but i was glad to come back too. i'm always glad to come back to the cove and stephen. now, you know this never really happened."

miss trevor would not give up the foolscap book so easily, but for a long time paul refused to show it to her. she came to the cove every day, and every day paul seemed more delightful to her. he was so quaint, so clever, so spontaneous. yet there was nothing premature or unnatural about him. he was wholly boy, fond of fun and frolic, not too good for little spurts of quick temper now and again, though, as he was careful to explain to miss trevor, he never showed them to a lady.

"i get real mad with the twin sailors sometimes, and even with stephen, for all he's so good to me. but i couldn't be mad with you or nora or the golden lady. it would never do."

every day he had some new story to tell of a wonderful adventure on rock or sea, always taking the precaution of assuring her beforehand that it wasn't true. the boy's fancy was like a prism, separating every ray that fell upon it into rainbows. he was passionately fond of the shore and water. the only world for him beyond noel's cove was the world of his imagination. he had no companions except stephen and the "rock people."

"and now you," he told miss trevor. "i love you too, but i know you'll be going away before long, so i don't let myself love you as much—quite—as stephen and the rock people."

"but you could, couldn't you?" pleaded miss trevor. "if you and i were to go on being together every day, you could love me just as well as you love them, couldn't you?"

paul considered in a charming way he had.

"of course i could love you better than the twin sailors and the golden lady," he announced finally. "and i think perhaps i could love you as much as i love stephen. but not as much as nora—oh, no, i wouldn't love you quite as much as nora. she was first, you see; she's always been there. i feel sure i couldn't ever love anybody as much as nora."

one day when stephen was out to the mackerel grounds, paul took miss trevor into the little grey house and showed her his treasures. they climbed the ladder in one corner to the loft where paul slept. the window of it, small and square-paned, looked seaward, and the moan of the sea and the pipe of the wind sounded there night and day. paul had many rare shells and seaweeds, curious flotsam and jetsam of shore storms, and he had a small shelf full of books.

"they're splendid," he said enthusiastically. "stephen brought me them all. every time stephen goes to town to ship his mackerel he brings me home a new book."

"were you ever in town yourself?" asked miss trevor.

"oh, yes, twice. stephen took me. it was a wonderful place. i tell you, when i next met the twin sailors it was me did the talking then. i had to tell them about all i saw and all that had happened. and nora was ever so interested too. the golden lady wasn't, though—she didn't hardly listen. golden people are like that."

"would you like," said miss trevor, watching him closely, "to live always in a town and have all the books you wanted and play with real girls and boys—and visit those strange lands your twin sailors tell you of?"

paul looked startled.

"i—don't—know," he said doubtfully. "i don't think i'd like it very well if stephen and nora weren't there too."

but the new thought remained in his mind. it came back to him at intervals, seeming less new and startling every time.

"and why not?" miss trevor asked herself. "the boy should have a chance. i shall never have a son of my own—he shall be to me in the place of one."

the day came when paul at last showed her the foolscap book. he brought it to her as she sat on the rocks of the headland.

"i'm going to run around and talk to nora while you read it," he said. "i'm afraid i've been neglecting her lately—and i think she feels it."

miss trevor took the foolscap book. it was made of several sheets of paper sewed together and encased in an oilcloth cover. it was nearly filled with writing in a round childish hand and it was very neat, although the orthography was rather wild and the punctuation capricious. miss trevor read it through in no very long time. it was a curious medley of quaint thoughts and fancies. conversations with the twin sailors filled many of the pages; accounts of paul's "adventures" occupied others. sometimes it seemed impossible that a child of eleven should have written them, then would come an expression so boyish and naive that miss trevor laughed delightedly over it. when she finished the book and closed it she found stephen kane at her elbow. he removed his pipe and nodded at the foolscap book.

"what do you think of it?" he said.

"i think it is wonderful. paul is a very clever child."

"i've often thought so," said stephen laconically. he thrust his hands into his pockets and gazed moodily out to sea. miss trevor had never before had an opportunity to talk to him in paul's absence and she determined to make the most of it.

"i want to know something about paul," she said, "all about him. is he any relation to you?"

"no. i expected to marry his mother once, though," said stephen unemotionally. his hand in his pocket was clutching his pipe fiercely, but miss trevor could not know that. "she was a shore girl and very pretty. well, she fell in love with a young fellow that came teaching up t' the harbour school and he with her. they got married and she went away with him. he was a good enough sort of chap. i know that now, though once i wasn't disposed to think much good of him. but 'twas a mistake all the same; rachel couldn't live away from the shore. she fretted and pined and broke her heart for it away there in his world. finally her husband died and she came back—but it was too late for her. she only lived a month—and there was paul, a baby of two. i took him. there was nobody else. rachel had no relatives nor her husband either. i've done what i could for him—not that it's been much, perhaps."

"i am sure you have done a great deal for him," said miss trevor rather patronizingly. "but i think he should have more than you can give him now. he should be sent to school."

stephen nodded.

"maybe. he never went to school. the harbour school was too far away. i taught him to read and write and bought him all the books i could afford. but i can't do any more for him."

"but i can," said miss trevor, "and i want to. will you give paul to me, mr. kane? i love him dearly and he shall have every advantage. i'm rich—i can do a great deal for him."

stephen continued to gaze out to sea with an expressionless face. finally he said: "i've been expecting to hear you say something of the sort. i don't know. if you took paul away, he'd grow to be a cleverer man and a richer man maybe, but would he be any better—or happier? he's his mother's son—he loves the sea and its ways. there's nothing of his father in him except his hankering after books. but i won't choose for him—he can go if he likes—he can go if he likes."

in the end paul "liked," since stephen refused to influence him by so much as a word. paul thought stephen didn't seem to care much whether he went or stayed, and he was dazzled by miss trevor's charm and the lure of books and knowledge she held out to him.

"i'll go, i guess," he said, with a long sigh.

miss trevor clasped him close to her and kissed him maternally. paul kissed her cheek shyly in return. he thought it very wonderful that he was to live with her always. he felt happy and excited—so happy and excited that the parting when it came slipped over him lightly. miss trevor even thought he took it too easily and had a vague wish that he had shown more sorrow. stephen said farewell to the boy he loved better than life with no visible emotion.

"good-bye, paul. be a good boy and learn all you can." he hesitated a moment and then said slowly, "if you don't like it, come back."

"did you bid good-bye to your rock people?" miss trevor asked him with a smile as they drove away.

"no. i—couldn't—i—i—didn't even tell them i was going away. nora would break her heart. i'd rather not talk of them anymore, if you please. maybe i won't want them when i've plenty of books and lots of other boys and girls—real ones—to play with."

they drove the ten miles to the town where they were to take the train the next day. paul enjoyed the drive and the sights of the busy streets at its end. he was all excitement and animation. after they had had tea at the house of the friend where miss trevor meant to spend the night, they went for a walk in the park. paul was tired and very quiet when they came back. he was put away to sleep in a bedroom whose splendours frightened him, and left alone.

at first paul lay very still on his luxurious perfumed pillows. it was the first night he had ever spent away from the little seaward-looking loft where he could touch the rafters with his hands. he thought of it now and a lump came into his throat and a strange, new, bitter longing came into his heart. he missed the sea plashing on the rocks below him—he could not sleep without that old lullaby. he turned his face into the pillow, and the longing and loneliness grew worse and hurt him until he moaned. oh, he wanted to be back home! surely he had not left it—he could never have meant to leave it. out there the stars would be shining over the harbour. stephen would be sitting at the door, all alone, with his violin. but he would not be playing it—all at once paul knew he would not be playing it. he would be sitting there with his head bowed and the loneliness in his heart calling to the loneliness in paul's heart over all the miles between them. oh, he could never have really meant to leave stephen.

and nora? nora would be down on the rocks waiting for him—for him, paul, who would never come to her more. he could see her elfin little face peering around the point, watching for him wistfully.

paul sat up in bed, choking with tears. oh, what were books and strange countries?—what was even miss trevor, the friend of a month?—to the call of the sea and stephen's kind, deep eyes and his dear rock people? he could not stay away from them—never—never.

he slipped out of bed very softly and dressed in the dark. then he lighted the lamp timidly and opened the little brown chest stephen had given him. it held his books and his treasures, but he took out only a pencil, a bit of paper and the foolscap book. with a hand shaking in his eagerness, he wrote:

dear miss trever

im going back home, dont be fritened about me because i know the way. ive got to go. something is calling me. dont be cross. i love you, but i cant stay. im leaving my foolscap book for you, you can keep it always but i must go back to stephen and nora

paul

he put the note on the foolscap book and laid them on the table. then he blew out the light, took his cap and went softly out. the house was very still. holding his breath, he tiptoed downstairs and opened the front door. before it ran the street which went, he knew, straight out to the country road that led home. paul closed the door and stole down the steps, his heart beating painfully, but when he reached the sidewalk he broke into a frantic run under the limes. it was late and no one was out on that quiet street. he ran until his breath gave out, then walked miserably until he recovered it, and then ran again. he dared not stop running until he was out of that horrible town, which seemed like a prison closing around him, where the houses shut out the stars and the wind could only creep in a narrow space like a fettered, cringing thing, instead of sweeping grandly over great salt wastes of sea.

at last the houses grew few and scattered, and finally he left them behind. he drew a long breath; this was better—rather smothering yet, of course, with nothing but hills and fields and dark woods all about him, but at least his own sky was above him, looking just the same as it looked out home at noel's cove. he recognized the stars as friends; how often stephen had pointed them out to him as they sat at night by the door of the little house.

he was not at all frightened now. he knew the way home and the kind night was before him. every step was bringing him nearer to stephen and nora and the twin sailors. he whistled as he walked sturdily along.

the dawn was just breaking when he reached noel's cove. the eastern sky was all pale rose and silver, and the sea was mottled over with dear grey ripples. in the west over the harbour the sky was a very fine ethereal blue and the wind blew from there, salt and bracing. paul was tired, but he ran lightly down the shelving rocks to the cove. stephen was getting ready to launch his boat. when he saw paul he started and a strange, vivid, exultant expression flashed across his face.

paul felt a sudden chill—the upspringing fountain of his gladness was checked in mid-leap. he had known no doubt on the way home—all that long, weary walk he had known no doubt—but now?

"stephen," he cried. "i've come back! i had to! stephen, are you glad—are you glad?"

stephen's face was as emotionless as ever. the burst of feeling which had frightened paul by its unaccustomedness had passed like a fleeting outbreak of sunshine between dull clouds.

"i reckon i am," he said. "yes, i reckon i am. i kind of—hoped—you would come back. you'd better go in and get some breakfast."

paul's eyes were as radiant as the deepening dawn. he knew stephen was glad and he knew there was nothing more to be said about it. they were back just where they were before miss trevor came—back in their perfect, unmarred, sufficient comradeship.

"i must just run around and see nora first," said paul.