"You can see what opinion Thinkright has of Judge Trent and me."

"Yes," returned John, harking back to his monosyllables.

"No doubt you have the same," said Miss Lacey dismally, "even though I explained to you fully"--

"Well, your mind can be at rest now," returned Dunham. "The young lady is provided for."

"Thinkright is certainly a good man," said Miss Lacey, her brow still drawn, "although he isn't exactly what folks would call a professor. No one that knows him has a particle of doubt that he means well, and I feel that his notions can't do Sylvia any real harm when he lives such a good life."

"What are his notions? Do you mean that he is a freethinker?"

"Well," responded Miss Lacey, "I don't see how anybody could be _more_ free. I should feel that I was tempting Providence to expect everything was coming my way, the way he does. I should expect a thunderbolt instead of prosperity. I told him so once, and he smiled and said then I'd probably get the thunderbolt. He says it's all a matter of what you expect and why you expect it. He asked me if the reason I expected the thunderbolt was because I believed that G.o.d was Love. He hasn't got a spark of the humility that most good folks know they must have. Why, if every Christian was like him there wouldn't be a professor left who'd call himself a poor worm or a sinner. I don't agree with Thinkright, because I'd never be so presuming with my Creator as he is, nor be certain that my Father wouldn't see fit to send me any afflictions; but I must say he has as lively a dread of sin as anybody I ever knew.

There's no mistake about his being a good soul, and that's why I don't mind his notions; and, oh, I'm so glad he's got that flighty child under his wing. She'll never get any harm from his example, however queer his talk is. Edna Derwent, now, she sympathizes with him, and thinks she gets along a lot better since she's had his ideas to work on. So," Miss Lacey looked at her caller with a sudden speculative curiosity, "so you're one of Miss Derwent's satellites, are you?"

Dunham shrugged his shoulders. "I used to be, but I've been so frozen by years of her silence that now I might better be cla.s.sed among her stalact.i.tes. She has a number. I've been trying to get Judge Trent to send me to Boston on business to-morrow and to call on her. He wishes to ask some questions about his niece."

"Does he, indeed?" Miss Martha sat up very straight and her eyes snapped. "Well, it's about time. I guess Thinkright's letter hurt _his_ pride a little, too."

"It did seem to stir him. Of course you are both pleased that this friend--this relative of yours has decided to adopt your niece."

"It sounds awfully,--just awfully, doesn't it, Mr. Dunham?" returned Miss Lacey, a nervous color mounting in her face. "_Our_ niece, and Thinkright adopting her; partly from a romantic feeling which does him the highest credit,--he adored poor Laura,--and partly from duty which I should think would be a sermon to Cal--to Judge Trent." Sudden tears sprang to the speaker's eyes, and she touched them with her handkerchief. "I've condemned myself, for, after all, while I thought I was justified, I certainly didn't stop to think enough from Sylvia's standpoint, I was so afraid I was going to be imposed upon. I'm so grateful to Thinkright, and so grateful to you, Mr. Dunham. What should we have done without you!"

"Oh, don't--don't mention it."

"But I must, I'm so grateful. I wish Judge Trent would send you on some business errand to the farm so that"--

"No, indeed," interrupted John hastily; "but he does want to send you, Miss Martha. He empowered me to request that you take the trip, permitting him to be at all expense."

"He did, did he?" retorted Miss Lacey, her eyes drying and snapping again. "Well, I should think it was about time he stopped sending folks on that errand," she continued, with a superior contempt for consistency. "It's about time he went himself. I guess he feels pretty small about the whole thing if the truth were known. Isn't that touching about Sylvia's kissing his picture? How did he feel when he read that, Mr. Dunham?"

"Impossible to tell. All he said was 'get out.'"

Miss Lacey's nostrils dilated. "Well," she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "all is I know if I'd mar--that is," she added faintly, "I'm glad Laura didn't live to see this day. He has a great deal less excuse than I have, Mr. Dunham, and I have little enough." Miss Martha finished with sincere feeling.

"You tell Judge Trent for me, Mr. Dunham, that he had better go to that farm himself."

CHAPTER XII

A LOST OAR

Mrs. Lem's awe of the new Miss Lacey was short-lived. The fact that she came out of that vague locality known as the West seemed to soothe the housekeeper's latent suspicion that the young girl might be "big feeling." Sylvia was reticent even in the presence of Edna Derwent, and this silence could not proceed from sn.o.bbishness; moreover, her spirits rose after the departure of the Boston girl, and Mrs. Lem decided that Thinkright's guest was, in spite of her slim height and the dignity of her black garments, only a shy girl who needed encouraging.

"Do you think Miss Derwent's pretty?" she asked Sylvia after Edna had made her adieux.

"Very," answered Sylvia, who was enveloped in the ap.r.o.n the guest had worn the night before, and was awkwardly wiping dishes as the housekeeper washed them. Minty had gone to school.

"I know folks most always think so," said Mrs. Lem, whose pompadour had collapsed with her theories of Sylvia's New York origin; "but I don't know," she went on judicially, "when you come to diagnose Edna's features they ain't anything so great. Her nose wouldn't ever suit me,--kind of insignificant."

Mrs. Lem's own feature was of the strong Roman variety. "They're just rollin' in gold," she went on. "It's a wonder to me Edna sets such store by Anemone Cottage when they've got such a luxuriant home in Boston."

Sylvia listened with lowered eyes intently fixed on her work. She had wakened this morning with a sensation of relaxation. Some habitual tense resistance had given way. She was subdued and conscious of relief, as if from a cessation of responsibility. She realized what caused this as her interview with Thinkright rushed back upon her thought. He saw through her. That was her mental admission. He did not admire her at all, and yet for her mother's sake he would not despise her. He had made her view herself in a totally new light.

She had promised him to try to be humble. The thought had mingled with the sea's rhythmic lullaby as it hushed her restless soul to sleep last night. He had offered her a new G.o.d who was Love,--his G.o.d. One who gave him happiness and content. Why should she resist? Was there really such a G.o.d? if so, then He had led her to this unheard-of and unsuspected cousin, the one being in the universe who granted her the right to be, her right to rest in his care and protection.

With the thought came a novel rush of grat.i.tude to the unknown G.o.d of whom she had never thought as a friend, a Father, One to count upon.

She had turned her head on the pillow last night and buried her eyes with a certain gladness and hope.

In quiet she had sat through the hurried breakfast hour this morning, in serenity had bade the guest good-by, and with a novel ambition had asked Mrs. Lem to be allowed to a.s.sist her. A wakened sense, a new outlook on the world, filled her consciousness now while the housekeeper rambled on.

Edna Derwent had everything. Very well, it was the lesson that Thinkright had set her, to be willing that Edna should have it, to put away that heat of envy which had been like a sharp tooth at her vain heart. In the exaltation that followed yielding herself to the learning of this lesson a sense of humor had little place; so she listened intently to the substance of Mrs. Lem's information with scarcely a smile at its manner.

"I tell you, though, money won't buy everything," went on the housekeeper, scalding a fresh panful of china. "Here's a fresh wiper, Miss Sylvy. Mr. Derwent's ben entirely incapacitated for business or pleasure for years. What good's his money to him? All them luxuriant carriages and high-steppin' charges,--he'd give 'em all, I guess, to be able to walk off ten miles the way Thinkright can, and him his own age."

"It must be hard for Miss Derwent," returned Sylvia, able to-day to accept this idea.

"Jest so," agreed Mrs. Lem. "The more that her mother jest loves society and fine doin's and pines after 'em, so that Edna, who loves both father and mother, is caught betwixt the upper and nether grindstone, as the old sayin' is, and has the life about squoze out of her sometimes."

Sylvia bit her lip. "It's difficult to imagine it," she replied, "when one sees her so bright and happy as she has been here."

"Yes, this is the Hawk Island Miss Derwent. I've heard the other side from Thinkright. I lived over on the island summers when she and her pa and ma used to be there together, but I never knew any of 'em. I used to see the child rampagin' around the rocks in sneakers and cotton dresses, and her ma readin' to her pa in hammocks on the piazza; but later years she's gone with 'em to waterin' places in Europe. Leastwise that's what folks _say_, though where they'll find any more water than they can here gets me. You know how some folks is. The fishin' 's always better somewheres else. Yes," continued Mrs. Lem sagely, "we don't know what we're doin' when we're envyin' folks. There's a skeleton in most family closets. Most everybody's got somethin' to contend with. I used to think," she lowered her voice, "that the Creator sent 'em for our good. Thinkright says not; so I humor him, and I hope it won't be visited on me. I apologize reg'lar in my prayers at night. It's jest as well to be on the safe side."

Sylvia's grave little mouth broke into a sudden smile, but her eyes were wistful.

"I should love to believe as my cousin does," she answered. "He said we must judge everything by the fruits, and he is so good, so good."

"Yes, Thinkright's fruits is all right," agreed Mrs. Lem, squeezing out her dishcloth. "He ain't any feeble critter either, I tell you. When Judge Trent's here and somethin' goes wrong, and he scowls under them brows o' his, I often feel like sayin' to him, 'Thinkright ain't even afraid of his Creator; and I guess he ain't goin' to care for a few scowls o' _yours_.' Judge Trent gees and haws some, but he always has to come around if Thinkright's sure he's right. There ain't only one thing that man's afraid of, and that's doin' wrong; and though you hain't seen so very much o' the world yet, you'll find out that's quite an ovation in the way o' lookin' at things."

Sylvia's brain made a vain grasp for the word Mrs. Lem was trying to use. Two days afterward when she was out on the basin in Thinkright's rowboat "innovation" came to relieve her bewilderment.

Minty's lean, strong arms had often rowed her about the little salt lake, but Sylvia was ambitious to be her own boatman; and this afternoon she was practicing by herself, catching crabs and splashing, laughing at her own awkwardness until, breathing fast, her pale cheeks pink from exertion, she pulled in her oars and floated on the blue ripples, looking at the full green of leafy boughs among the sombre richness of the evergreens, and listening to the spring gladness of the robin's songs.

It was all very lovely. The Tide Mill only refused to be cheered.

Silent, enduring, wrapped in memories, it stood gray and unapproachable.

"Poor old thing," murmured Sylvia, addressing it. "You're not thinking right." She laughed softly, and ran her hands through her thick curls.

Instantly an oar glided off the boat. She jumped for it, but it was too late. Nearly capsizing, her heart beat as the boat rocked back into safety and she tried to scull after the runaway with the remaining oar.

Her inexperience and the clumsiness of the boat baffled her. The floating oar rose and fell, gently increasing its distance, and splash as she might she could not gain upon it.

A curt voice suddenly called from the sh.o.r.e behind her, "Here, girl, girl! Stop that. Be quiet, and probably you'll float in."

She turned involuntarily, and beheld, standing on the verge, a small, elderly man wearing a silk hat and scowling while he motioned to her imperiously.

Obediently she ceased her ineffectual splashing, and the boat danced and floated sh.o.r.eward.

"Then why doesn't the oar float in, too?" she asked anxiously.