"He's number one," said Sylvia. "We're going to get some more. I 'm going to have a cabinet."

"You are? Well, I don't think a sport like that would be a safe member of any cabinet."

"Here. I'll show you the urchin I couldn't get," said Edna. "You'll reach him for us. My arm isn't long enough. See that big dark spot down in the corner? That is Sylvia's candlestick. A beautiful, lilac, embroidered candlestick."

"Who'd have thought it!" responded Dunham, rolling up his sleeves. In a minute the dripping prize was being offered to Sylvia, who clasped her hands and drew back.

"Would you mind putting him down?" she said. "He looks so big and--whiskery."

"Oh, I'm ashamed of you, Sylvia," laughed Edna. "Now you have to find another just his size, Mr. Dunham. She has to have a pair."

"She does, eh?" returned John resignedly. "I don't know what I'll draw out of this grab bag next," and he plunged his arm in again.

"No, no, you mustn't do that!" cried Edna,--"clouding up the water like that. We have to peer. Come and peer, Sylvia." They all leaned over the side of the pool. "See that little starfish? He's lost a leg already in his short career; and those pretty anemones! Why didn't I bring a pail.

I shall make an aquarium for you on the piazza, and we'll have anemones, and undistinguished urchins who will never be in a cabinet or hold candles, and starfish, and barnacles. Oh, there's a baby, John.

Quick, _there_! Oh, I can get it myself." She reached down in a flash and drew forth a tiny urchin.

"You startled me so," said John plaintively. "You said a baby, and I couldn't see even a bulrush."

"Oh, I shall educate you in time," returned Edna. "There, Sylvia, that will be the infant member of your cabinet."

"It seems pretty low down to kidnap a fellow of that size," remarked Dunham.

"But she's going to have a complete set of urchins,--from a little green pea to a personage."

"When you reach the personage cla.s.s, remember me, Miss Sylvia. I have other references than this scoffing maiden."

Sylvia smiled. "But perhaps you wouldn't care to carry candles."

"Not care to burn candles before you? Of course I should."

"He's at it again, Sylvia," sighed Edna. "It's dreadful to have a starved man on our hands."

"Starved. That reminds me. Pardon me, ladies, if I look at my watch.

Ah, half an hour's grace. I am going to ask you both to dine with me to-day. The procession moves at one sharp. If there are any signs of reluctance on the part of the hostess and her guest, I am to take one in each hand, with whatever fishy impedimenta cannot be lost, and repair with you to your cot. Miss Martha has spoken."

Edna laughed. "I'd forgotten, John, just what a shy flower you were!"

she said.

CHAPTER XXI

A SWIMMING LESSON

That afternoon Sylvia had her first swimming lesson. She had gone bathing several times with Minty Foster, but had never ventured beyond her depth. There was a flight of steps leading down to the water at the left of Edna's cottage to a little natural harbor behind the rock ma.s.ses. No sandy beach was there. One dropped into sea green depths where only the amphibious could feel at home; but Edna was amphibious, and even Miss Lacey's shade hat, firmly tied beneath the chin, was sometimes seen to ride upon the wave as its owner indulged in a stately swim from one point of rock to another. Her mouth and nose on these occasions were lifted from the waters in a scornful grimace. Twice across the pool Miss Martha swam with systematic deliberation, then, her hat and hair as dry as when she went in, she ascended upon a sunny rock, and a.s.suming a large woolen waterproof contented herself with observing Edna's gambols. This afternoon she did not go in. The shade hat topped her Sunday gown of black grenadine, which was turned up carefully about her as she sat on a rock and chaperoned her young people. A straw "pancake" softened the asperities of her granite couch.

Dunham observed her erect att.i.tude doubtfully. "Can't I get you some sofa pillows?" he asked.

"No, pancakes are what I always use," returned Miss Martha decidedly.

"That's true," said Edna, "especially on Sunday. Miss Lacey is willing to do anything on the spur of the moment except sit on it. She draws the line there; but Sunday is no day to be luxurious, is it, Miss Martha?--not for a person whose forefathers fought in the Revolution and ate leather."

"And it's not a good day to go in swimming, either," returned Miss Lacey uneasily. "I do hope, Edna, you'll come out before the islanders begin to return from church. Some of them might come along this sh.o.r.e."

"Dear Miss Martha," said Edna, "we don't have Mr. Dunham every day, to give Sylvia a swimming lesson."

"And I'm just as scared as I can be," declared Sylvia, her curly hair and big eyes emerging from the mackintosh that enveloped her. "_I_ never asked to go and see the land 'where corals lie,' and I don't think there's any bottom to that water."

The cottage had produced bathing suits for the guests, and although Miss Lacey had scruples, and sat very straight, darting glances to right and left through the trees, and held a copy of a Congregational church paper prominently before her, she was glad of this opportunity for her niece.

"You can learn, Sylvia," she said. "Benny Merritt taught me to swim in that very spot, for I was determined to learn. I pulled out some of the poor boy's hair, I remember; so be careful and don't grab Mr. Dunham by the head."

Edna ran down a few steps, and throwing her cloak on a rock clasped her hands above her, launched herself through the air in a graceful arch, and disappeared in the liquid emerald.

Sylvia lifted despairing eyes to Dunham. "She just does that to make me crazy," she said.

"We'll fool her, then," returned John. "We won't go crazy. Now lift up your arms."

"You aren't going to put that thing on me!" exclaimed Sylvia, eyeing with scorn the life-preserver he had picked up. "I thought that was something to sit on." She pinioned her elbows to her side. "Oh, I'd much rather drown than wear anything so unbecoming."

"Sylvia Lacey, lift up your arms this minute," commanded Miss Martha.

"I wore one for weeks. As it was, I pinched Benny a number of times when I thought I was going down. Poor child, I distinctly remember a black and blue spot on his cheek where I kicked him one day."

"Miss Sylvia, I'm growing awfully frightened," said John, while he buckled. "Do you inherit your aunt's warlike propensities? You don't need to pull out my hair. I'll give you a lock of it in exchange for one of your curls." He had been observing the auburn rings that escaped under the front of the little oilskin cap.

"So ignominious," said Sylvia, looking over her person with disfavor.

"After you get into the water I'll take it off the minute you say,"

returned Dunham. "Let's make a bet, Miss Lacey. How long do you think she will keep it on?"

"Mr. Dunham, this is Sunday," returned Miss Martha.

"Oh, so it is. Well, I'll go and do penance. Look your last on my manly beauty, Miss Martha. We're off. Which side of the house does your niece take after?"

"What do you mean? She's a Lacey to the backbone."

John groaned. "Then the last hope has fled. I thought that perhaps the ingratiating Trent characteristics might come to the rescue, but now, expect to see me return bald and disfigured."

"Come on, you lazy people," called Edna; "it's glorious."

"O-o-o, 'where corals lie, where corals lie,'" shuddered Sylvia, as she ran down the steps. "Just look at that mermaid. Isn't it fun? It is as poetical as those Elgar songs. She could just make up her mind to go down, and--_go_!"

"Well, shall we go too?" John offered his hand. She put hers into it.

"Are you game to jump?" he added.