kly launched and glided out from the shadow of the
cliffs. Benjamin stood at his mast. Mary Stella came down to the
water's edge and waved her hand gaily.

"Good luck to you and the best catch of the season," she called out.

Benjamin waved his hat in response. His jealousy was forgotten for the
moment and he felt that he had been churlish to Braithwaite.

"You'll wish you'd come," he shouted to him. "It's going to be a great
evening for fish."

When the boats reached the fishing grounds, they came to and anchored,
their masts coming out in slender silhouette against the sky. A row of
dark figures was standing up in every boat; the gulfs shining expanse
was darkened by odd black streaks--the mackerel had begun to school.

Frank Braithwaite went out fishing the next day and caught 30
mackerel. He was boyishly proud of it. He visited the shore daily
after that and soon became very popular. He developed into quite an
expert fisherman; nor, when the boats came in, did he shirk work, but
manfully rolled up his trousers and helped carry water and "gib"
mackerel as if he enjoyed it. He never put on any "airs," and he
stoutly took Leon's part against the aggressive Mosey Louis. Even the
French Canadians, those merciless critics, admitted that the "Yankee"
was a good fellow. Benjamin Selby alone held stubbornly aloof.

One evening the loaded boats came in at sunset. Benjamin sprang from
his as it bumped against the skids, and ran up the path. At the corner
of his fish-house he stopped and stood quite still, looking at
Braithwaite and Mary Stella, who were standing by the rough picket
fence of the pasture land. Braithwaite's back was to Benjamin; he held
the girl's hand in his and was talking earnestly. Mary Stella was
looking up at him, her delicate face thrown back a little. There was
a look in her eyes that Benjamin had never seen there before--but he
knew what it meant.

His face grew pale and rigid; he clenched his hands and a whirlpool of
agony and bitterness surged up in his heart. All the great blossoms of
the hope that had shed beauty and fragrance over his rough life seemed
suddenly to shrivel up into black unsightliness.

He turned and went swiftly and noiselessly down the road to his boat.
The murmur of the sea sounded very far off. Mosey Louis was busy
counting out the mackerel, Xavier was dipping up buckets of water and
pouring it over the silvery fish. The sun was setting in a bank of
purple cloud, and the