s of the last word struck pleasantly on
the girl's ear, and seemed to answer an unspoken longing. She looked up
at him with a searching glance, appeared to find some 'assurance given
by looks,' and as a smile broke over her face she offered her hand as if
obeying a sudden impulse, and said, half to him, half to herself--

"I think I have found the friend already."

CHAPTER III.

AFLOAT.

Sylvia sat sewing in the sunshine with an expression on her face half
mirthful, half melancholy, as she looked backward to the girlhood just
ended, and forward to the womanhood just beginning, for on that
midsummer day, she was eighteen. Voices roused her from her reverie,
and, looking up, she saw her brother approaching with two friends, their
neighbor Geoffrey Moor and his guest Adam Warwick. Her first impulse was
to throw down her work and run to meet them, her second to remember her
new dignity and sit still, awaiting them with well-bred composure, quite
unconscious that the white figure among the vines added a picturesque
finish to the quiet summer scene.

They came up warm and merry, with a brisk row across the bay, and Sylvia
met them with a countenance that gave a heartier welcome than her words,
as she greeted the neighbor cordially, the stranger courteously, and
began to gather up her work when they seated themselves in the bamboo
chairs scattered about the wide piazza.

"You need not disturb yourself," said Mark, "we are only making this a
way-station, _en route_ for the studio. Can you tell me where my
knapsack is to be found? after one of Prue's stowages, nothing short of
a divining-rod will discover it, I'm afraid."

"I know where it is. Are you going away again so soon, Mark?"

"Only a two days' trip up the river with these mates of mine. No,
Sylvia, it can't be done."

"I did not say anything."

"Not in words, but you looked a whole volley of 'Can't I goes?' and I
answered it. No girl but you would dream of such a thing; you hate
picnics, and as this will be a long and rough one, don't you see how
absurd it would be for you to try it?"

"I don't quite see it, Mark, for this would not be an ordinary picnic;
it would be like a little romance to me, and I had rather have it than
any birthday present you could give me. We used to have such happy times
together before we were grown up, I don't like to be so separated now.
But if it is not best, I'm sorry that I even looked a wish."

Sylvia tried to keep