eeks, and her ripe lips quiver a little. She
loves Claude with all her heart, and thinks him the king of boys; but,
for all that, she won't let him be unjust if she can help it.

Claude tramps on over sand, and pebbles, and seaweed, with lips firmly
compressed and eyes gazing steadily before him. Bee, as she glances at
him, knows quite well what Claude feels when he looks as if his features
had got frozen into marble. And she knows, too, that he will be
painfully, frigidly, exasperatingly polite to her all the evening.

Matters cannot go on like this, she says to herself in desperation.
Claude arrived only yesterday, and here they are beginning his holiday
with a dreadful disagreement. She has been counting the days that must
pass before she sees him; writing him little letters full of sweet
child-love and longing; wearing a pinafore over her newest frock, that
it may be kept fresh and pretty for his critical eyes. And now he is
here, walking by her side; and she has offended him.

Is it Heaven or the instincts of her own innocent little heart that
teach this girl tact and wisdom? She doesn't proceed to inspire Claude
with a maddening desire to punch Tim's head, by recounting a long
catalogue of Mr. Crooke's perfections, as a more experienced person
would probably have done. But she draws a shade closer to her companion,
and presently he finds a tiny brown hand upon his white flannel sleeve.

"You dear old Empey," she says lovingly, "I've been wanting you for, oh,
_such_ a long time!"

The frozen face thaws; the dark grey eyes shine softly. "Empey" is her
pet name for him, an abbreviation of "Emperor;" and he likes to hear her
say it.

"And I've wanted you, old chap," he answers, putting his arm round the
brown-holland waist.

"Empey, we always do get on well together, don't we?"

"Of course we do,"--with a squeeze.

"Then, just to please me, won't you be a little kind to poor Tim? He's
not a splendid fellow like you, and he knows he never will be. I do so
want you to forget that he's a nobody. We are all so much more
comfortable when we don't remember things of that sort. You're not
angry, Empey?"

"Angry; no, you silly old thing!"

And then she knows, without any more words, that he will grant her
request.

The little boat that Claude has hired is waiting for them at the
landing-place, and Bee steps into it with the lightest of hearts. Aunt
Hetty and the rest will follow in a larger boat; but Mr. Molyne