Anyway, they came bunched, and that was some comfort. Eh? Well, first off there was the lovers, then there was Harold; and it was only the combination that saved me from developin' an ingrowin' grouch.

You can guess who it was accumulated the lovers. Why, when Sadie comes back from Bar Harbor and begins tellin' me about 'em, you'd thought she'd been left something in a will, she's so pleased.

Seems there was these two young ladies, friends of some friends of hers, that was bein' just as miserable as they could be up there. One was visitin' the other, and, as I made out from Sadie's description, they must have been havin' an awful time, livin' in one of them eighteen-room cottages built on a point juttin' a mile or so out into the ocean, with nothin' but yachts and motor boats and saddle horses and tennis courts and so on to amuse themselves with.

I inspected some of them places when I was up that way not long ago,--joints where they get their only information about hot waves by readin' the papers,--and I can just imagine how I could suffer puttin' in a summer there. Say, some folks don't know when they're well off, do they?

And what do you suppose the trouble with 'em was? Why, Bobbie and Charlie was missin'. Honest, that's all the place lacked to make it a suburb of Paradise. But that was enough for the young ladies; for each of 'em was sportin' a diamond ring on the proper finger, and, as they confides to Sadie, what was the use of havin' summer at all, if one's fiance couldn't be there?

Bobbie and Charlie, it appears, was slavin' away in the city; one tryin'

to convince Papa that he'd be a real addition to Wall Street, and the other trainin' with Uncle for a job as vice president of a life insurance company. So what did Helen and Marjorie care about sea breezes and picture postal scenery? Once a day they climbed out to separate perches on the rocks to read letters from Bobbie and Charlie; and the rest of the time they put in comparin' notes and helpin' each other be miserable.

"Ah, quit it, Sadie!" says I, interruptin' the sad tale. "Do you want to make me cry?"

"Well, they were wretched, even if you don't believe it," says she; "so I just told them to come right down here for the rest of the season."

"Wha-a-at!" says I. "Not here?"

"Why not?" says Sadie. "The boys can run up every afternoon and have dinner with us and stay over Sunday, and--and it will be just lovely. You know how much I like to have young people around. So do you, too."

"Yes, that's all right," says I; "but----"

"Oh, I know," says she. "This isn't matchmaking, though. They're already engaged, and it will be just delightful to have them with us. Now won't it?"

"Maybe it will," says I. "We ain't ever done this wholesale before; so I ain't sure."

Someway, I had a hunch that two pair of lovers knockin' around the premises at once might be most too much of a good thing; but, as long as I couldn't quote any authorities, I didn't feel like keepin' on with the debate.

I couldn't object any to the style of the young ladies when they showed up; for they was both in the queen class, tall and willowy and sweet faced. One could tease opera airs out of the piano in great shape, and the other had quite some of a voice; so the prospects were for a few weeks of lively and entertainin' evenin's at the McCabe mansion. I had the programme all framed up too,--me out on the veranda with my heels on the rail, the windows open, and inside the young folks strikin' up the melodies and makin' merry gen'rally.

Bobbie and Charles made more or less of a hit with me too when they first called,--good, husky, clean built young gents that passed out the cordial grip and remarked real hearty how much they appreciated our great kindness askin' 'em up.

"Don't mention it," says I. "It's a fad of mine."

Anyway, it looked like a good game to be in on, seein' there wa'n't any objections from any of the fam'lies. Made me feel bright and chirky, just to see 'em there, so that night at dinner I cut loose with some real cute joshes for the benefit of the young people. You know how easy it is to be humorous on them occasions. Honest, I must have come across with some of the snappiest I had in stock, and I was watchin' for the girls to pink up and accuse me of bein' an awful kidder, when all of a sudden I tumbles to the fact that I ain't holdin' my audience.

Say, they'd started up a couple of conversations on their own hook--kind of side issue, soft pedal dialogues--and they wa'n't takin' the slightest notice of my brilliant efforts. At the other end of the table Sadie is havin' more or less the same experience; for every time she tries to cut in with some cheerful observation she finds she's addressin' either Marjorie's left shoulder or Bobbie's right.

"Eh, Sadie?" says I across the centerpiece. "What was that last of yours?"

"It doesn't matter," says she. "Shall we have coffee in the library, girls, or outside! I say, Helen, shall we have---- I beg pardon, Helen, but would you prefer----"

"What we seem to need most, Sadie," says I as she gives it up, "is a table megaphone."

Nobody hears this suggestion, though, not even Sadie. I was lookin' for the fun to begin after dinner,--the duets and the solos and the quartets,--but the first thing Sadie and I know we are occupyin' the libr'y all by ourselves, with nothing doing in the merry music line.

"Of course," says she, "they want a little time by themselves."

"Sure!" says I. "Half-hour out for the reunion."

It lasts some longer, though. At the end of an hour I thinks I'll put in the rest of the wait watchin' the moon come up out of Long Island Sound from my fav'rite corner of the veranda; but when I gets there I finds it's occupied.

"Excuse me," says I, and beats it around to the other side, where there's a double rocker that I can gen'rally be comfortable in. Hanged if I didn't come near sittin' slam down on the second pair, that was snuggled up close there in the dark!

"Aha!" says I in my best comic vein. "So here's where you are, eh? Fine night, ain't it?"

There's a snicker from the young lady, a grunt from the young gent; but nothing else happens in the way of a glad response. So I chases back into the house.

"It's lovely out, isn't it?" says Sadie.

"Yes," says I; "but more or less mushy in spots."

With that we starts in to sit up for 'em. Sadie says we got to because we're doin' the chaperon act. And, say, I've seen more excitin' games. I read three evenin' papers clear through from the weather forecast to the bond quotations, and I finished by goin' sound asleep in my chair. I don't know whether Bobbie and Charlie caught the milk train back to town or not; but they got away sometime before breakfast.

"Oh, well," says Sadie, chokin' off a yawn as she pours the coffee, "this was their first evening together, you know. I suppose they had a lot to say to each other."

"Must have had," says I. "I shouldn't think they'd have to repeat that performance for a month."

Next night, though, it's the same thing, and the next, and the next.

"Poor things!" thinks I. "I expect they're afraid of being guyed." So, just to show how sociable and friendly I could be, I tries buttin' in on these lonely teeter-tates. First I'd hunt up one couple and submit some samples of my best chatter--gettin' about as much reply as if I was ringin' Central with the wire down. Then I locates the other pair, drags a rocker over near 'em, and tries to make the dialogue three handed. They stands it for a minute or so before decidin' to move to another spot.

Honest, I never expected to feel lonesome right at home entertainin'

guests! but I was gettin' acquainted with the sensation. There's no musical doings, no happy groups and gay laughter about the house; nothing but now and then a whisper from dark corners, or the creak of the porch swings.

"Gee! but they're takin' their spoonin' serious, ain't they?" says I to Sadie. "And how popular we are with 'em! Makes me feel almost like I ought to put on a gag and sit down cellar in the coalbin."

"Pooh!" says Sadie, makin' a bluff she didn't mind. "Do let them enjoy themselves in their own way."

"Sure I will," says I. "Only this chaperon business is gettin' on my nerves. I don't feel like a host here; I feel more like a second story man dodgin' the night watchman."

There wa'n't any signs of a change, either. When they had to be around where we was they had hardly a word to say and acted bored to death; and it must have taxed their brains, workin' up all them cute little schemes for leavin' us on a siding so they could pair off. Course, I've seen engaged couples before; but I never met any that had the disease quite so hard. And this bein' shunned like I had somethin' catchin' was new to me.

I begun to feel like I was about ninety years old and in the way.

Sunday forenoon was the limit, though. Sadie had planned to take 'em all for a motor trip; but they declines with thanks. Would they rather go out on the water? No, they didn't care for that, either. All they seems to want to do is wander round, two by two, where we ain't. And at that Sadie loses some of her enthusiasm for havin' bunches of lovers around.

"Humph!" I hears her remark as she watches Bobbie and Marjorie sidestep her and go meanderin' off down a path to the rocks.

A little while later I happens to stroll down to the summerhouse with the Sunday paper, and as I steps in one door Charlie and Helen slip out by the other. They'd seen me first.

"Well, well!" says I. "I never knew before how unentertainin' I could be."

And I was just wonderin' how I could relieve my feelin's without eatin' a fuzzy worm, like the small boy that nobody loved, when I hears footsteps approachin' through the shrubb'ry. I looks up, to find myself bein'

inspected by a weedy, long legged youth. He's an odd lookin' kid, with dull reddish hair, so many freckles that his face looks rusty, and a pair of big purple black eyes that gazes at me serious.

"Well, son," says I, "where did you drop from?"

"My name is Harold Burbank Fitzmorris," says he, "and I am visiting with my mother on the adjoining estate."