Miss Derwent was uncomfortable, for she knew she could not be welcome, and she longed for five minutes alone with Sylvia; but Judge Trent must be considered, and she had to curb her impatience as best she might.

The judge watched the approach of the boat critically. "You go too deep, Sylvia, you go too deep," he announced as she drew near. "Minty, you row like a windmill. You'll have to take some lessons, too."

"Minty rows a good strong stroke," said Sylvia; "but she has always had such a heavy boat that she'll have to learn that this doesn't require the same effort." How strange it seemed that any one at this juncture could consider the form of rowing! When one's heart was beating and one's brain struggling to decide how to meet a difficult situation, as if anything mattered, except to reach the sh.o.r.e and not to forget the laws of hospitality.

"Well, well, miss," went on the judge, when he could see his niece's flushed face, "this running away is pretty business. What have you to say for yourself?"

"She needn't say anything," said Edna. "I told him you were homesick, Sylvia, and it was reason enough. You had ample reason for leaving."

The speaker made the deliberate addition significantly, and caught her friend's eye with an appeal in which Sylvia could see the flag of truce. The earnestness and sweetness of her tone and look astounded Sylvia; for had so simple an action as her coming home had power to alter such strong feeling as must goad a hostess before she can so rebuke the guest beneath her roof?

"Are you going to come ash.o.r.e and let us interrupt your sport?" went on Edna.

"Unless you and Uncle Calvin care to come out for a little row,"

returned Sylvia. "It's a wonderful boat, Uncle Calvin."

"Yes, Edna, get in," said the judge. "You take the tiller, and I'll show Sylvia how to avoid the windmill habit. Another time for you, Minty," he added, and the child jumped out obediently.

Little did the prosaic lawyer suspect the preoccupation of his pupil during the next quarter of an hour. Sylvia did her best to obey him; and Edna, intent on keeping him in the best of humor, expressed her enjoyment of a situation whose finish she antic.i.p.ated far more eagerly than did her friend; for Sylvia, although apparently intent on feathering, was planning how she could avoid being left alone for a minute with Edna.

The moment came, however, when they must land, and Judge Trent superintended the putting up of the boat. He would touch nothing, he wished Sylvia to understand and execute each detail, and gave his directions crisply. His niece welcomed this, for it kept him by her side, a position she hoped he would maintain until their departure for the island.

"What do you suppose Mrs. Lem will say to two people descending upon her for dinner?" asked Edna, when at last the three started toward the house.

"Oh, this is giving her plenty of warning," replied Sylvia. "I will tell her at once."

Edna had requested Judge Trent not to refer to his niece's sketches until she had an opportunity to speak with her alone. To this he had replied that he was a pa.s.senger, and that, as Edna had undertaken to discover a genius in his family, he would not interfere with any dramatic effect upon which she had set her heart. The two girls ascended the hill, one on each side of him, and Sylvia's heart sank as he asked Thinkright's whereabouts.

"Oh, he's off in the farm garden with Cap'n Lem," she replied; "but you're not going to leave me, are you, Uncle Calvin? I'm always being disappointed of a visit with you. Edna, you hold on to him while I go in and tell Mrs. Lem that you're here,--although Minty has probably already done so."

Far from obeying, Edna dismissed their escort the instant Sylvia had disappeared.

"This will give me a chance to have my talk with her before dinner,"

she said; "and afterward she can talk with you."

"Very well," returned the judge; "but don't get flighty, Edna.

Remember, I'm not a millionaire."

Sylvia's face, when she emerged from the house to find her friend waiting alone, was expressive; and Edna answered quite as if she had spoken.

"Yes, I sent him away. I had to see you alone. Please forgive me for yesterday, and give me ten minutes--no, five; I believe you'll ask for the next five yourself."

It was Edna's old winning smile that again beamed upon her perplexed friend. The vague change and coolness had disappeared. "Choose a place where no one will disturb us," she added.

In silence Sylvia walked to the aeolian pine tree, and they seated themselves on the rustic seat.

"How amazed you must have been at my severity yesterday," began Edna, "when you could not have had the vaguest idea at what I was hinting."

Sylvia still kept silence. She was astonished by the light-hearted, almost humorous note in her companion's voice.

"_You_ must have had an idea, I suppose," she returned noncommittally.

To her further surprise Edna actually laughed. "Yes, I had an idea, but I'm mortally ashamed of it to-day. Could you be so magnanimous, Sylvia, as not to ask me what it was?"

The girl kept silence for a moment. Surely if her offense had concerned John Dunham, nothing could have occurred since yesterday to alter facts--but stay! and not all the sun kisses that had warmed Sylvia's face could conceal that she grew suddenly pale. If Edna and John had come to a mutual discovery since yesterday, that would explain the happy excitement which seemed to have engulfed all other feeling for Edna.

"You will have to explain a little," she said, and her self-control made her voice cold.

"Oh, it's too absurd, Sylvia--honestly. Sometime when we're quite old ladies I'll tell you,--that is, if you'll forgive me without my confessing now. Of course if you won't,"--Edna's eyes besought her friend merrily,--"I shall have to; but really I want to beg off."

"You have something important to tell me," said Sylvia, "something besides that."

"Two things. I didn't sleep at all last night for two reasons: one was for happiness, the other for regret that I had hurt you."

It was, then, as Sylvia had surmised. What reason was there for feeling such shock? Had she not always been prepared for this, and been waiting for it?

"Oh, I can't bear to have you look so frozen, Sylvia." Edna suddenly took her friend's hand. "I do apologize sincerely for yesterday, and I am going to tell you what no one else knows or will know for some time, owing to the strange circ.u.mstances. The mail last evening brought my father's consent to my marrying the man I love. I'll not tell you more about it yet, except that he is an Englishman, and we had almost despaired of winning over my parents. What? Not a word, Sylvia?" For the blue eyes gazed, and the parted lips were stiffly mute. After a minute warmth began to flow back into the younger girl's face. The hand Edna held began to return its pressure.

"I am happy for you," said Sylvia, and the two smiled into each other's eyes.

"Happy enough to forgive me on trust?" asked Edna.

"Yes," answered the other slowly; but the question her heart and pride were asking must be expressed.

"Does--does Mr. Dunham know what idea it was that made you reproach me yesterday?"

"John?" Edna laughed. "Oh, dear, no."

"Well,"--Sylvia gave a long-drawn sigh,--"I will not press you, though of course I'm curious."

"You're very good; and now I'll come to the other discovery which kept me awake. We found your sketches last evening."

Edna paused.

"Yes, I forgot them." Sylvia's companion noted the light that came into her eyes. "I suppose they are only daubs to you, but I was so happy doing them!"

"And we were happy looking at them. I can't think that with all that talent you are not hoping to study."

"Of course I hope; but against hope, for who would take enough interest"--

"Your uncle. I. Every friend you have."

Sylvia's lips parted eagerly. "Did Uncle Calvin really feel it was worth while?"

"Indeed he did. You can't remain at this blessed little farm all next winter, hibernating. How should you like to come to Boston and study?"

"Oh, it is my ideal!" Sylvia clasped her hands.