ary felt to be the truth, and she finally crept into bed, still
miserable, but hopeful and determined to waken early to make a search
for the precious pin.

As soon as the sun showed its golden disc over the edge of the ocean
she was up, creeping softly around the room on her hands and knees, and
trying not to waken her sleeping cousins in the next room. At last,
after she had searched in every possible nook and cranny, she concluded
that she must have lost it on the stairs or on her way home, so, after
dressing herself, she stole downstairs, looking upon each step as she
went, then through the living-room and out on the porch.

The air was soft and sweet. The song-sparrows were singing from the
house-tops; across the ocean the sun shone gloriously, and pouring its
beams upon the dew-sprinkled grass, turned their blades into sparkling
sheaths which mocked poor Mary, searching for false diamonds. No one
was in sight but a lobsterman out in his dory. From one or two
chimneys the smoke was beginning to curl, showing that there were other
early risers. Mary stepped along anxiously, looking this side and
that, and with her hands pushing the grass aside in places. Little by
little she made her way toward the landing. She would search so far
and if it were not to be found this side the separating channel of
water she would trust to luck to take her to the island later.

But no pin was to be found that morning, hunt faithfully though she
did, and the child returned to the cottage in great distress of mind.
She was afraid to confess the loss to her aunt, and she could not make
up her mind to tell one of her cousins. "I must find it! I must!" she
exclaimed, clasping her hands as she left the last turnstile behind
her. "I hope, I do hope Aunt Ada will not ask for it first thing this
morning."

This Aunt Ada did not do, thinking, indeed, no more of the little
trinket after having pinned it into Mary's frock. No one noticed that
the little girl was very quiet at the breakfast table, for all were
talking merrily over the fun of the evening before, and no one observed
Mary's troubled little face nor the fact that she scarcely tasted her
breakfast. Her Uncle Dick, however, at last did remark that Mary had
not much to say. "I am afraid grown-up parties are too much for Mary,"
he said, after breakfast, drawing her to his side in the hammock and
cuddling her to him. "Are you sleepy, Mary, or don't you feel well?"

Mary