"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 n.o.body! 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 ill and my hair all came out. It used to be straight as yours. I went to bed with my long hair braided smoothly, and got up with these new little kinks."

"I wish I knew where I could ketch that kind o' sickness," returned Minty, regarding the bright auburn rings enviously, "but don't tell Thinkright I said so," she added, with an afterthought. "He thinks bein' sick's as wrong as lyin'."

"My cousin Thinkright has some very odd ideas," returned Sylvia.

"There's Daisy a-mooin'," exclaimed Minty, her face lighting. "She hears us talkin'."

"Well, don't forget to tell her how charming I am, will you? It gives me the shivers to think I'm walking straight up to a pair of horns and not a fence in sight."

"She won't do nawthin';" the child smiled at the comical grimace her companion made, and a turn in the path revealed a white cow at the end of her tether looking eagerly toward them. A clump of evergreens rose beyond her.

"I think I'll climb one of those trees," said Sylvia. "She looks too glad to see me."

Minty laughed aloud, and running to the white cow threw her arms around her neck.

"Now then, introduce us," said Sylvia. "This is Miss Daisy Foster, I believe. So happy not to meet you, my dear! Please don't look as if you were going to rush into my arms the minute Minty lets go."

Minty laughed delightedly.

"I guess you'd better git back of her, Miss Lacey. When I untie her she might fall foul of yer and never mean to, she's so anxious for the barn."

Sylvia skipped toward the pines with alacrity. The sea wind and the situation had brought color into her cheeks.

"Why, the cow is anch.o.r.ed!" she exclaimed; for she perceived an ancient anchor at her feet to which that end of the rope was fastened.

"Yes. Daisy can't drag _her_ anchor," returned Minty, her fingers busy with the knot at the cow's neck, "though she'd like to lots o' times.

There now, Bossy, don't act so drove. I know it's later'n common, but I had a good reason, and 'tain't thinkin' right to be impatient." With the last word the rope fell free, and as the cow gave a bound Minty clung to its horns, and was carried forward, her feet scarcely touching the gra.s.s. Sylvia's heart leaped to her throat for a moment, but Minty's delighted laugh came back to her, and the guest laughed, too, at the child's antics.

Minty, glowing with superiority, could not resist this prime opportunity to make an impression, so went on with the romp as familiar to her as a more sedate method of locomotion, and finally the cow's gyrations carried her out of sight, leaving Sylvia alone and happy under the pine trees.

"Isn't it the strangest thing in the world that I should be here?" she thought, looking about. A memory returned to her of the cheap boarding-house in Springfield where her father breathed his last; of the worries that followed his decease; of her hurried journey; of the shock dealt her in Boston; of the stranger-cousin descending, as it were, out of the clouds to bear her up from the lowlands of mortification and hurt, to where the sea winds chased dull care away.

The future troubled Sylvia very little. The thorn in the present was that Judge Trent owned this soft, gra.s.sy knoll on which she stood, owned that straight, symmetrical balsam fir yonder whose bright green tips full of the new life of spring were breathing balm on the air; owned the gambrel roof under which was her inviting chamber. Did he know she was here? She could not remember what her cousin had said about that. Mr. Dunham had sent for Thinkright. Yes, now she remembered: Judge Trent had told him to send, doubtless to ease his conscience; to get her out of sight, and yet to know that his sister's child was safe.

Well, his sister's child would show him---- At the revengeful impulse Thinkright's face suddenly rose before her with the words he had used about slapping back.

"The evening is perfect," exclaimed Sylvia aloud. The rose-light had begun to crimson the water. It drew her. She ran down the slope to the belt of birch and evergreen which surrounded the basin. Rays from the sinking sun were kissing the sightless upper windows of the Tide Mill until the weather-beaten shutters grew pink.

Sylvia entered the fragrant path she had traversed with her host that afternoon, and followed it toward the point of land beyond the mill.

Suddenly a voice clear, bright, yet low-pitched fell on her ears, and almost simultaneously she caught a glimpse of the speaker between the trees.

The girl stood on the brink of the water, talking to some one in a small boat whose sail was flapping. Sylvia could not proceed without coming into sight, so she waited in order not to disturb the adieux.

The boat had evidently just landed this pa.s.senger, who carried a bag and was dressed in a dark tailor suit.

The skipper, a sun-burned young fellow, was showing a row of strong white teeth at some sally from the lady when 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 l.u.s.tre 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."