Rebecca, fancied that the girl started at Miss
Frederica's words.

"You are very fond of the violets?" he said, softly.

She looked up at him in surprise; how could he possibly know that?

"Don't you think, Miss Hartvig, that it would be better to pick the
flowers just as we are starting, so that they may keep fresher?"

"As you please," she answered, shortly.

"Let's hope she'll forget all about it by that time," said Max Lintzow
to himself, under his breath.

But Rebecca heard, and wondered what pleasure he could find in
protecting her violets, instead of picking them for that handsome girl.

After they had spent some time in admiring the limitless prospect, the
party left the Knoll and took a foot-path downward towards the beach.

On the smooth, firm sand, at the very verge of the sea, the young people
strolled along, conversing gayly. Rebecca was at first quite confused.
It seemed as though these merry towns-people spoke a language she did
not understand. Sometimes she thought they laughed at nothing; and, on
the other hand, she herself often could not help laughing at their cries
of astonishment and their questions about everything they saw.

But gradually she began to feel at her ease among these good-natured,
kindly people; the youngest Miss Hartvig even put her arm around her
waist as they walked. And then Rebecca, too, thawed; she joined in their
laughter, and said what she had to say as easily and freely as any of
the others. It never occurred to her to notice that the young men, and
especially Mr. Lintzow, were chiefly taken up with her; and the little
pointed speeches which this circumstance called forth from time to time
were as meaningless for her as much of the rest of the conversation.

They amused themselves for some time with running down the shelving
beach every time the wave receded, and then rushing up again when the
next wave came. And great was the glee when one of the young men was
overtaken, or when a larger wave than usual sent its fringe of foam
right over the slope, and forced the merry party to beat a precipitate
retreat.

"Look! Mamma's afraid that we shall be too late for the ball," cried
Miss Hartvig, suddenly; and they now discovered that the Consul and
Mrs. Hartvig and the Pastor were standing like three windmills on the
Parsonage hill, waving with pocket handkerchiefs and napkins.

They turned their faces homeward. Rebecca took them by a short cut over
the morass, not refl