e lighthouse. The
sea view from the cliff edge should be magnificent on a morning like
this.

But it was not of the view, or the beauty of the morning, that he
thought as he wandered slowly on. His mind, for some reason or other,
seemed to be filled with the picture of Martha Phipps as she sat in the
rocking-chair, with the background of old-fashioned plants and blossoms,
and the morning sunshine illumining her pleasant, comely face. He could
visualize every feature of that face, which fact was extremely odd, for
it had been many years since he had noticed a female face sufficiently
for that face to impress itself upon his memory. Years and years before
Galusha Bangs had been forced to the conclusion that the interest of
attractive feminity was not for him and he had accepted the inevitable
and never permitted his own interest to stray in that direction. A
few feminine faces he could, of course, recall; the face of his Aunt
Clarissa, for instance, and--dear me, yes! that of the pestiferous Mrs.
Worth Buckley, his--ah--not his "old man of the sea" exactly, but his
equally troublesome, middle-aged woman of the mountains. Mrs. Buckley
had not attracted his notice, she had seized it, served a subpoena upon
it, and his provokingly contrary memory persisted in recalling her face,
probably because he so earnestly desired to forget it.

But he found a real pleasure in visualizing the face of Miss Martha
Phipps. Her eyes now--her eyes were--ah--um--they were blue; no, they
were gray--or a sort of gray-blue, perhaps, or even a shade of brown.
But the precise color made no real difference. It was the way they
looked at one, and--ah--smiled, so to speak. Odd, because he had never
before realized that one could--ah--smile with one's eyes. Attractive,
too, that smile of hers, the eyes and the lips in combination. A sort of
cheerful, comfortable smile--yes, and--ah--attractive--ah--inviting,
as one might say; a homelike smile; that was the word he
wanted--"homelike." It had been a long, long time since he had had a
home. As a matter of fact, he had not cared to have one. A tent in Egypt
or Syria, furnished with a mummy or two, and with a few neighborly ruins
next door--this had been his idea of comfort. It was his idea still, but
nevertheless--

And then he became aware that from somewhere, apparently from the
heavens above, a voice was shouting--yes, roaring--his name.

"Mr. Bangs!... Hi-i, Mr. Bangs!"

Galusha came out of his