of the occasion, soon reappeared, the
splendors of her recent costume as completely vanished as were
Cinderella's at the stroke of twelve.

Her dark calico clung around her slim little body, and the white string
that tied her braid was in evidence.

"Put on your sweater, Minty, and run up and git Miss Lacey's jacket for
her. It's real fresh," said her mother.

The sun had ceased casting sparkles across the sea when they went out
of doors, and the shadows were lengthening. The loveliness of the
increasing rose-light in the west caused Sylvia to forget all annoying
doubts as to where to pour the water from the half-empty glasses, and
all objections to the remains of lobster.

"What a pretty place you live in, Minty!" she exclaimed, as they walked
back of the house through an orchard of small apple trees, gnarly and
stunted enough from their struggle with the elements through the
winter, but with all bumps and twists veiled now in rose-tinted clouds
of white bloom.

"Yes, 'tis. I like it a whole lot better'n Hawk Island."

"Where is that?"

"Oh, off there." Minty pointed a vague finger behind them seaward. "We
lived there when father went fishin' afore he was drownded. I was real
small, and I didn't have no cow. Daisy was born the year we come here,
and Thinkright gave her to me."

"Oh, she's a pet, then; so I needn't be afraid of her."

"No-o, she wouldn't hook nobody! Beside, didn't you know if you're
skeered o' things they're likely to happen?"

"Oh, are they? Well, luckily I'm not scared of many things."

"Where do you live?" asked Minty, renewing her grave stare at the
admired guest.

"I,"--Sylvia's mind flew back over a panorama of abiding places. "A--I
think I shall have to say nowhere," she replied after a pause. "I'm a
tramp, Minty."

The child regarded her, unsatisfied and skeptical. "Why, where's yer
mother and father?" she drawled.

"I,"--again the mutability and doubtfulness of all things were brought
home to Sylvia. "I don't know," she replied. "They are dead."

"There ain't any such thing," returned Minty. "When folks seem to be
dead they're goin' on livin' jest the same. Thinkright says so."

"Does my cousin Thinkright know everything?" inquired Sylvia smiling.

"Of course he does." There was a brief pause, and then the catechism
continued.

"How old be you?"

"Guess?"

"I don't know. You've got on long dresses and yer tall, but yer hair's
shorter'n mine."

"Yes, I've been very