e shore at all. The man looked doubtful.
Fani looked like a steady little fellow. He ought to manage a boat;
still, it was best to be prudent, so he asked,--

"Are you young people in the habit of rowing yourselves?"

"Oh, yes, it is not our first trip, by any means," said Emma. "We can
take care of ourselves"; and Fani was no less confident.

The fisherman said it was too late to go that day; he should need the
boat himself, and there was some mending to be done to it before it
could be used. If they wanted it the next day, he would have it ready;
they could take it themselves, if he was not there. They ought not to go
far from shore, and the young gentleman could use the pole where the
oars wouldn't serve; he would understand. Emma promised to be careful,
and they promised to pay on their return; and these arrangements being
completed to their immense satisfaction, the children walked happily
back to Rosemount, eagerly discussing their plans on the way. At the
same time Elsli came silent and alone along the little foot-path by the
river. All three came from the same place, but they knew nothing of each
other, for Elsli had not come out of the house till after the others had
reached the road. In the garden they met, and asked each other whether
the supper-bell had rung. As they spoke they heard it; and, running up
the stone steps, they sat down to supper without farther questions, and
each was glad that the others asked none.

CHAPTER VI.

ANXIETY AT ROSEMOUNT.

The only really quiet part of the day at Rosemount was during the
morning hours, when the children were busy writing letters home and
learning their lessons. To-day, however, a certain restlessness seemed
to have taken possession of them all. Emma and Fani could not keep still
a minute. The latter tossed his papers about as if he couldn't make up
his mind which one he wanted. The former made all sorts of signs to him
across the table, and, in the midst of studying her French verbs, she
seemed to be suddenly seized with a desire for lead-pencils, for she
began to sharpen all that she could get together, one after the other.
Oscar was writing out his speech. Any one would have thought that he was
composing a drama and acting it out as he went along; he kept throwing
up his head, and gazing enthusiastically first at one inkstand and then
at another, as if he were summoning them all to great heroic deeds.

Aunt Clarissa, who generally sat in the room