She had been telling herself how glad she was that John and Edna felt free to go away without her. It was only the a.s.surance that she should not be in danger of hampering them that would make her happy in accepting Edna's invitation to prolong her stay.

How glorious the world must look to-night to Edna! This enchanting evening world with its dreaming waves, and myriad spires of fragrant firs stretching toward the luminous sky strewn thickly with pulsing stars. She shook off some thought that insinuated itself into her conscious desire. No, no. Her place was here with Aunt Martha. Her thought must dwell only on the possible artistic achievements of her future; her heart turn to no lover save the good genius she had sealed up in a bottle.

While her thoughts flowed, Miss Lacey talked. The latter was chiefly concerned with the menu for the coming week, and since Sylvia's descent upon the culinary department she seized upon her as a kindred spirit.

"Catering for men is very different from feeding women, I can tell you, Sylvia. They're not going to be put off with a little salad, or fruit and whipped cream, or fal-lals of that sort. We must have roasts and steaks now, besides what my father used to call Cape Cod turkey,--that's codfish, my dear. Jenny's boiled cod and egg sauce is perfectly delicious, and fish does make brains, they say. I suppose Judge Trent would like to have us feed it to Mr. Dunham."

"I hope you don't intend to tell the house party that," remarked Sylvia.

Miss Martha giggled. "Well, things are comparative. Judge Trent is so surpa.s.singly clever, and when you see this great big fellow in the office with him you can't help thinking of quality and quant.i.ty, you know; but he must have an average mind anyway, or your uncle wouldn't have any use for him. There they come now."

Two slow-moving figures appeared among the trees, and advanced to the piazza. "Welcome, wanderers," went on Miss Martha, repressing a yawn.

"I think I shall bequeath Sylvia to you now, and retire."

Her niece knew that no implication of reproach was intended in this speech, but she dreaded that the others might misunderstand.

"I don't need to be bequeathed to any one," she declared. "I'm like that poet who said he was never less alone than when alone. Fancy being lonely on this island in the company of these stars and waves and pines! Edna, when you wish to move your family away, and leave the cottage in the care of a hermit, I speak to be the hermit."

"I see you are properly captured," returned Edna.

"She's fallen in love with the cook stove now," remarked Miss Martha.

"I told her she'd had a couple of spies on her doings."

Edna glanced at her guest. Sylvia's smiling, inquiring eyes looked from her to John, who spoke:--

"Yes, there you were stirring some mysterious caldron," he answered; "there in the dark of the moon, and there was something so fiery about your countenance and att.i.tude that we didn't dare remain."

"You were wise," returned Sylvia. "I thought I felt some presence.

Didn't you hear me say,--

'By the p.r.i.c.king of my thumbs Something wicked this way comes'?"

"Well, we're expecting to benefit by your labors in time," said John.

"I wish I thought you would," returned Sylvia dreamily.

"Oh, don't be so modest. Let us judge, anyway."

"I've no doubt you would be a judge," said the girl meditatively.

"Say will be," he corrected.

Sylvia lifted her shoulders with a little gesture of dread.

"I haven't positively made up my mind that I dare try it on you," she said softly.

"Oh, you must. You'll find me the most docile dog in the pack."

Edna listened with annoyance. She had suddenly become critical of Sylvia's manner.

The girl turned to her.

"Will it be necessary to go to the Mill Farm before afternoon, to-morrow?" she asked.

"Perhaps not. Why?"

"Because there is--because I want--I should like to stay here in the morning."

"Mr. Dunham and I might go over without you," suggested Edna. "Mrs. Lem could doubtless give me what you want."

The alacrity of Sylvia's a.s.sent to this proposition puzzled the hostess still further.

"Oh, no, there'd be plenty of time if we went in the afternoon," said John. "Let's take the witch with us for luck."

Edna regarded him as he stood against a boulder pillar looking down at Sylvia. "She may not need to use her bottle," was her reflection.

"Do sing us something, Edna," said Sylvia.

"Not to-night, please. I don't feel like singing; and when I don't it is an infliction on my poor audience."

"I wish you would, Edna. I've not heard you," said Dunham.

"Just the reason why I refuse," she returned. "I'm far too vain."

"She is the spirit of music," said Sylvia, regarding her hostess affectionately.

"But the spirit isn't always willing?" asked Dunham.

"No, not always," returned Edna, rising. "This is Liberty Hall, people, so don't move till you get ready; but if you'll excuse me I'm going to bed."

Sylvia rose at once. She would like to linger on this dim piazza for hours, and to fancy that Dunham stayed too from choice and not from courtesy; but she well knew that the charm of the occasion would vanish with Edna, and even if it were not so, the Prince's companionship was not for her without the Princess.

Dunham turned to her. "It isn't sleepy time for you, too, is it?"

"Yes, I believe it is. I'm sorry to be so--so unsporty."

"It's all a bluff, too. Just as if we didn't know that as soon as the rest of us innocents are quiet and dreaming of blueberries, your window will fly open and off you'll go on a broomstick."

Sylvia smiled. "I don't believe any one of this party will dream as hard of blueberries as I shall," she declared.

"Come now, you know you're trading on a man's supposed superiority to curiosity,--only supposed, mind you."

"I never even supposed it," put in Sylvia with light scorn.

"Tell me what you were brewing on that stove to-night."

Edna's features were rigid in her impatience with John's pursuance of an uncomfortable subject. They were all in the living-room now, and she and Sylvia were standing with lighted candles in their hands.