n Sylvia's eyes fell upon
him.

"I wish ye'd let me carry the bag up fer ye," he said.

"No, I'm going to punish myself for not being ready in time for you to
sail into the Basin. I ought to know by this time that it's no use
arguing with the tide."

"Always seems more sot here than anywhars," agreed the boy.

"Besides, I want you to have time to telephone for that carriage. Don't
let them make any mistake. I must catch the one o'clock train."

"Yes. When are ye comin' fer good, Miss Edna?"

"Oh, in just a few weeks. June, some time. It'll be pulling me, pulling
me, from now on, Benny."

She smiled, and Sylvia could see her face. Black hair that shone with a
fine silken lustre grew thickly about a white forehead. Brows that lay
like smooth touches of satin swept in two fine lines above gay, kind
brown eyes. Her smile merited the adjective "sweet" more than any
Sylvia had ever seen; but the boatman's next words startled the
listener.

"Miss Lacey comin', too, I s'pose?"

"Of course. What a question to ask a lone, lorn girl?"

"She didn't stop long last season."

"No; for I was in Switzerland. Why should she? But I can't spare her
now, and she's written me that she'll come just as usual, so Anemone
Cottage will be itself again."

"Well"--the boy hesitated for words to express his pleasure--"we can
stand it if you can," he finished.

"All right, Benny," she laughed. "Get to Gull Point as quick as you
can. I've just one idea now, and that's the telephone. Good-by." She
waved her hand as he set the sail and took his oars to pull into the
wind.

Sylvia saw him nod and smile back. Then that happened on which she had
counted. The stranger came up into the path, and without seeing the
watcher, walked swiftly away.

Sylvia had seen no home in the vicinity beside the farmhouse, and the
familiar mention of Miss Lacey made it doubly certain that this
low-voiced stranger, this girl whose broad _a_'s and lack of _r_'s
sounded oddly upon Sylvia's Western ears, was going fast as her trim
feet could carry her to Thinkright's home. A strange feeling beset
Sylvia. The newcomer's perfect costume, the assurance and refinement of
her manner, even the unconscious adoration in Benny's sea-blue eyes,
all pointed to a superiority which made Sylvia vaguely resentful of
her.

What Miss Lacey had she been talking about? Aunt Martha, of course.
Hadn't Cap'n Lem spoken of her also? What was she to this girl,--this
raven-haired,