"Oh, pretty so-so," returned her father-in-law aggravatingly.

"Then they'll be up here in a few minutes," said Mrs. Lem, her black eyes snapping. "Get in out o' the wind, Minty, or you won't have no Boston left." She smoothed the limp roll into which Minty's front hair had been coaxed, and pushed her inside the open door, where the child lingered.

"You might tell who she is, grandpa," she called.

"Why, then,--come now, I will. It's mean to tease ye. It's Miss Lacey."

"Oh--!" A long-drawn sound of disappointment escaped from both his hearers. "Why couldn't Thinkright have said so!" exclaimed Mrs. Lem.

"Miss Lacey'd jest as lieves have seen us in our every-day things."

"I don't care," said Minty, hopeful still. "Miss Lacey nearly always brings me somethin'."

"Take that pink ribbon right off your braid," commanded her mother, reentering the house.

"Oh, no, ma, it goes so good with this dress," pleaded Minty, looking down affectionately at the red plaid.

"Let her keep 'em on," said Cap'n Lem. "They ain't no time to change.

They're a-comin' right up. Thinkright asked me to tell ye they'd be here for supper. They hain't had nothin' but trash on the road, I guess. Miss Lacey looks kind o' peak-ed;" and so saying, the old man drove on to the barn, his eyes closed tight as he slapped his knee in enjoyment of this second witticism, possibly even better than the first.

Minty skipped around helping her mother with the tea things, but her round eyes were first to discern the pair who came in sight on the hillside.

"There they be," she exclaimed, running to the window; "and ma," in deep excitement, "they're hookin' arms!"

"What are you talkin' about?" exclaimed her mother, whose pompadour fairly heaved in the jerk with which its wearer rose from the oven at this significant information.

"They are," repeated Minty, secure in her tremendous discovery; "come and look. Do you s'pose," in a hushed tone, "do you spose they're beaux, ma?"

"Hold your tongue, Minty Foster; you're too young to say such things,"

returned her mother; but the pompadour continued in a state of violent unrest as Mrs. Lem gazed at the new-comers and rapidly reviewed the situation and its possibilities. "I can't say it wouldn't be fittin',"

she murmured, as she stood behind her daughter.

The approaching pair seemed absorbed in close conversation as they sauntered slowly, the lady's face downcast and her companion's eyes upon her.

"I'll never stay here with her, though, never in this world,"--went on Mrs. Lem, "and probably she wouldn't want me to."

"Oh, ma, then we'll have to go back to Hawk Island. I don't want to,"

wailed Minty.

"Hush!" commanded her mother, giving the child's shoulder a nervous shake. "Don't you dare to cry, Minty Foster. I guess you lived at Hawk Island a good while, and you can do it again."

"Yes, but then pa wasn't drownded; and here we've got"--

"As comfortable as I've made Thinkright, too. I'd call it downright ungrateful if 't was anybody but him," went on Mrs. Lem, paying no further attention to her offspring than to give the small shoulder another warning shake. "I s'pose he thinks age is goin' to steal on him before long, and he'd better be provided with some sure caretaker, and I can't deny 't would be a fine thing for Miss Marthy. I can just see them sharp eyes o' hers lookin' around here and takin' 'count o' stock.

I always thought she was terrible curious about how things went on here."

"P'raps they're married a'ready," hazarded Minty dismally.

The pompadour wavered almost to its fall in the start Mrs. Lem gave.

"Araminty Foster, how could you have such a thought at your age!"

However, the housekeeper's fast-beating heart suddenly accepted the probability of the suggestion.

"Leggo my shoulder, ma." Minty wriggled out of the excited clutch. "I don't care, they walk jest the way Jim an' Kitty did when they come out o' church."

"What do you s'pose she's all in black for? Miss Marthy never had anybody to lose that ever I heard of. You don't suppose she'd go in black for one o' the Derwents, do you? It makes her look awful slim, and she walks so slow. Maybe she's been sick."

The couple were drawing very near. Thinkright evidently called his companion's attention to something in the top of the tall pine that grew near the house. Sylvia lifted her head, the chiffon veil floated backward, and she gazed long up into the tree while the watchers at the window stared.

"Why,--wha--" gasped Minty.

"Never mind!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mrs. Lem, in an altered tone. "Tell me, does my Boston look all right?" One trembling hand patted the imposing erection of shining black hair, while with the other the speaker pulled the open-mouthed Minty away from the window. "Now don't you never tell what we thought, Minty Foster, not if wild horses was to drag you.

_Remember!_"

"All--all right," gasped the child, "but"--

"They ain't no but. The cap'n 's been playin' smart again an' fooled us. Don't you let on, Minty--never, _never_."

The series of jerks which accompanied the rapid flow of words was too energetic for Minty to retain sufficient breath to let on anything. Her mother trailed the brilliantine across the room with a self-command and return of composure truly remarkable, and throwing open the door, met the grave gaze of the guest with unsmiling majesty.

"How do you do, Mrs. Lem?" said Thinkright. "This is my young cousin, Sylvia Lacey, who is going to make us a visit. And this little girl is Minty Foster, Sylvia."

"Glad to see you, I'm sure, Miss Lacey," returned Mrs. Lem, giving the offered hand a loose shake. "Won't you step in?"

Minty said no word, but stared at the new-comer fixedly. The house door opened directly into the kitchen.

"We don't use front doors much in this part of the world," observed Thinkright, as he ushered in the guest.

"Will you step into the front room, Miss Lacey?" asked Mrs. Lem, with a grand air, "or would you prefer to go directly upstairs to your chamber?"

There was an atmosphere of the world about Sylvia which Mrs. Lem recognized at once from long experience with summer people; and secure in her pompadour, the psyche knot, and the shine of her best gown, she wished to show this young girl that her sophistication was shared even in a rural district. To be sure, the extraordinary telegram from Thinkright had left the family free to believe that it was a personage whom he was bringing home with him--probably some important friend of Judge Trent; and to have their varied guesses met by the fact of a white-faced girl in mourning was disappointing. Nevertheless, to Mrs.

Lem's suspicious eyes Sylvia had a cold, proud air, which caused the housekeeper to glory in her toilet and be grateful for her knowledge of the world. It should be Greek meeting Greek.

"Oh, she'll go to her room," said Thinkright. "Cap'n Lem and I will bring her trunk and satchel right up. Supper's nearly ready, I suppose, Mrs. Lem?"

"Whenever you are," returned that lady elegantly. "I will accompany you, Miss Lacey."

Minty, though she said no word, prepared to follow, apparently not able to remove her round gaze from the visitor.

"You may make the toast, Minty," said her mother warningly, and the child took a reluctant step backward.

Sylvia followed the brilliantine up a narrow staircase.

"You're from Boston, I presume, Miss Lacey?"

"Yes, just now," returned Sylvia.

"Not your home, then?"

"No."