TINKER AND THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE Dorothy sat gazing over that charming gulf, charming alike for its scenery and its oysters, the Gulf of Arcachon.

She gazed on it without seeing it; her beautiful face was clouded, and her brow was puckered in a wondering perplexity.
Tinker sat on the ground near her, his chin on his knees, observing her with a sympathetic understanding which would have disquieted her not a little, had she not been too busy with her thoughts to notice it.
They were still and silent for a long while, until she sighed; then he said, with unfeigned sadness, "I'm beginning to think he never will." "Who never will what ?" said Dorothy, awaking from her reflections, and extremely disconcerted by the exactness with which Tinker's remark echoed them.
"My father--ask you to marry him," said Tinker succinctly.
"Tinker!" cried Dorothy faintly, and she flushed a very fine red.
"It's all very well to say 'Tinker!' like that," he said, shaking his head very wisely.

"But it's much better to look at things straight, don't you know?
You often get a little forrarder that way." "You are a dreadful little boy," said Dorothy with conviction.
"Yes, yes; I'm not blind," said Tinker patiently.

"But the point is, that my father is ever so much in love with you, and he'll never ask you to marry him, because you're too rich.

I'm sure I've given you every chance," he added with a sigh.
"You have ?" said Dorothy, gasping.
"Yes; I'm always seeing that no one makes a third when you and he are together--on moonlit nights and picnics, and so on, don't you know ?" Dorothy laughed, in spite of her discomfort, at this frank discussion of her secret.