“Yes,” said the artist, “what cheerfulness those works of art will give to the little parlors up in the country, when they are set up with other shells on the what-not in the corner!  These shells always used to remind me of missionaries and the cause of the heathen; but when I see them now I shall think of Atlantic City.”

“But the representative things here,” interrupted Irene, “are the photographs, the tintypes.  To see them is just as good as staying here to see the people when they come.”

“Yes,” responded Mr. King, “I think art cannot go much further in this direction.”

If there were not miles of these show-cases of tintypes, there were at least acres of them.  Occasionally an instantaneous photograph gave a lively picture of the beach, when the water was full of bathers-men, women, children, in the most extraordinary costumes for revealing or deforming the human figure—­all tossing about in the surf.  But most of the pictures were taken on dry land, of single persons, couples, and groups in their bathing suits.  Perhaps such an extraordinary collection of humanity cannot be seen elsewhere in the world, such a uniformity of one depressing type reduced to its last analysis by the sea-toilet.  Sometimes it was a young man and a maiden, handed down to posterity in dresses that would have caused their arrest in the street, sentimentally reclining on a canvas rock.  Again it was a maiden with flowing hair, raised hands clasped, eyes upturned, on top of a crag, at the base of which the waves were breaking in foam.  Or it was the same stalwart maiden, or another as good, in a boat which stood on end, pulling through the surf with one oar, and dragging a drowning man (in a bathing suit also) into the boat with her free hand.  The legend was, “Saved.”  There never was such heroism exhibited by young women before, with such raiment, as was shown in these rare works of art.

As they walked back to the hotel through a sandy avenue lined with jig-saw architecture, Miss Benson pointed out to them some things that she said had touched her a good deal.  In the patches of sand before each house there was generally an oblong little mound set about with a rim of stones, or, when something more artistic could be afforded, with shells.  On each of these little graves was a flower, a sickly geranium, or a humble marigold, or some other floral token of affection.

Mr. Forbes said he never was at a watering-place before where they buried the summer boarders in the front yard.  Mrs. Benson didn’t like joking on such subjects, and Mr. King turned the direction of the conversation by remarking that these seeming trifles were really of much account in these days, and he took from his pocket a copy of the city newspaper, ’The Summer Sea-Song,’ and read some of the leading items:  “S., our eye is on you.”  “The Slopers have come to their cottage on Q Street, and come to stay.”  “Mr. E. P. Borum has painted his front steps.”  “Mr. Diffendorfer’s marigold is on the blow.”  And so on, and so on.  This was probably the marigold mentioned that they were looking at.