"How is your head?" he asked, adding, "It must be better, I fancy,--you look so much brighter than you did yesterday."

I could feel my face getting warm; I hate to apologise to people, but I knew that I ought to do it here. "That headache made me cross, and I was homesick," I answered, speaking as fast as I could to get it all over with quickly. "I am sorry I spoke so rudely--"

But Hilliard broke in quickly,--for him. "Don't say that; please don't ever speak of it again," he said earnestly. "It's for _me_ to apologise; I must have deserved what you said, or I know you would not have said it."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "BETTY."]

Well, I _was_ taken aback! that was a new view of the case. At first I thought he might be in sarcasm; but no, he was in earnest, saying the words in his slow, deliberate way, with his eyes half shut. I couldn't help wishing that the family had been there to hear; but I decided that I would certainly tell them of it,--you see I don't often get such a compliment.

I would like to have made a polite speech to him, but what was there to say?--it still remained that he _hadn't_ taken good care of me. And while this thought was going through my brain, I heard myself say, "Did you tell your mother what I said to you?"

Now I had no more idea of asking Hilliard that--though I did want to know--than I had of flying; my mouth opened, and the words just came out without the least volition on my part,--in fact, I was perfectly astonished to hear them. More than once this has happened at home; Phil teases me about it, and Fee calls me Mrs. Malaprop, because--that's the trouble--these speeches are almost always just the things I shouldn't have said. I'm sure I don't know what I am to do to prevent it.

My face actually burnt,--it must have been as red as a beet. "I didn't mean to ask you that," I blurted out. While I was speaking, Hilliard was saying, "Why, certainly not; I simply mentioned that you had a headache," in such a surprised voice that I felt more uncomfortable than ever: but wasn't it nice of him not to tell?

I just rushed into talk about the scenery as fast as I could go. From where we stood we could see the wild, rugged coast for miles,--the huge, bare brown rocks standing like so many grim sentinels guarding the s.p.a.ces of shining white sand, which here and there sloped gently to the water's edge; the sea gulls resting, tiny white specks, against the dark rocks, or circling in flocks above them; the dark blue ocean, dotted with steamers and sailing-vessels and sparkling and dancing in the morning light, rolling up great white-crested waves that dashed on the rocks and threw up a cloud of foaming spray, and broke on the beach with a dull booming noise; and over all was the warm, glorious summer sunshine. As I looked and looked, all the disagreeableness slipped away, and it was _splendid_ just to be alive. I thought of Felix, and how much he would enjoy all this beauty. We all think so much of the scenery at the Cottage, and really it is nothing compared with this. There the beach is smooth and nice, but it hasn't a rock on it; and the water--it's the Sound, you know--just creeps up on it with a soft lapping sound very different to the roar and magnificence of the ocean.

I was so surprised and delighted that first morning that I spoke out warmly. "Oh!" I cried, "isn't it _beautiful_! oh, it is grand!

fascinating!--I could watch those waves all day!"

Hilliard's face lighted up. "I thought you would like it," he said. "You should see it in a storm,--it is magnificent! but it is terrible, too,"--he gave a little shudder. "I love the ocean, but I am afraid of it; it is treacherous."

"Afraid!" I looked at him in surprise,--the idea of a big strong boy as he is being _afraid_ of the water! I opened my mouth to exclaim, "Well, _I'm_ not afraid!" then remembered my unlucky remark of a few minutes before and said instead, and in a much milder tone, "After breakfast I'm going to explore those rocks, and get as near to the ocean as I can--"

"Don't attempt to do any climbing alone," broke in Hilliard, more positively than he usually speaks; "the rocks are very slippery, and you know nothing about the tides. People have been caught on those rocks and cut off--drowned--by the incoming tide, before they could reach the sh.o.r.e, or be rescued. I shall be very glad to go with you whenever--"

"Good-morning!" Mr. Erveng said, appearing in the doorway behind us; "will you young people come in and have some breakfast?"

Breakfast was served in a room that looked out on the garden; and everything was very nice, though quite different from our breakfasts at home. Mrs. Erveng was not down,--I found afterward that she always took her breakfast in her own room,--and Hilliard sat in his mother's place and poured the tea. I was thankful that Mr. Erveng hadn't asked me to do it; but it did look so _queer_ to see a boy doing such a thing,--so like a "Miss Nancy," as Phil would say. Mr. Erveng and Hilliard talked a good deal about things that were going on in the world, and about books, and places they had been to. I was perfectly surprised at the way Mr. Erveng asked Hilliard's opinion, and listened to his remarks,--I couldn't imagine papa's doing such a thing with any of us, not even with Felix; and when I said anything, they both acted as if it were really worth listening to,--which is another thing that never happens in our family!

And yet, on the other hand, Mr. Erveng goes off to Boston in the mornings without even saying good-bye to Mrs. Erveng or Hilliard,--they never know by what train he is coming home; and in the whole month I visited them I never once saw Hilliard and his mother kiss each other.

Now at home papa always tells some one of us when he is going out, and about when he will return; and if we children go anywhere, the whole family is sure to know of it; and quite often we kiss one another good-bye, and always at night. Nora often tells us that it isn't "good form" to do this; and sometimes, when she's in an airish mood, she calls us "a pack of kissers,"--as if that were something dreadful. Still, all the same, I'm _glad_ that we're that sort of a family; and I am more than ever glad since I've been staying with the Ervengs.

Hilliard and I were just starting for the beach that morning, when Dillon came out on the piazza with a message. "Mr. Hilliard," she said, "your mother would like to speak to you." So off he went with, "Excuse me; I'll be back in a few minutes," to me.

But instead, presently back came Dillon with another message: "Mrs.

Erveng asks, Will you please to excuse Mr. Hilliard; she would like him to do something for her for a while."

So off I went for my walk, alone. I strolled down to the beach and sat in the shade of a big rock and looked at the waves,--watching them coming in and going out, and making up all sorts of thoughts about them.

But after a while I got tired of that, and began wondering what they were all doing at home without Nannie, or Miss Marston, or papa; and then I felt so lonely and homesick that I just _had_ to get up and walk about. And then I got into trouble,--I don't know another girl that gets into sc.r.a.pes as I do!

There were lots of little coves about the beach,--the water in them was just as clear as crystal; and as I stepped from rock to rock, bending down to look into the depths, what should I do but slip,--the rocks _are_ slippery,--and land in the middle of a cove, up to my waist in water!

There was nothing to do but to scramble out,--the rocks ran too far out into the ocean to think of walking round them,--and I can a.s.sure you it was no easy thing to accomplish with my wet skirts clinging to me. I scratched my hands, and sc.r.a.ped my shoes, and got my sleeves and the whole front of my nice gingham stained with the green slimy moss that covered the rocks.

But at last I got out; then came the walk up the beach to the house,--there was no other way of getting there,--and you may imagine my feelings when, half-way up, I discovered that Mrs. Erveng was seated on the piazza in her invalid's chair. I saw her put her _lorgnette_ to her eyes; I imagined I heard her say to Hilliard, who was arranging a cushion back of her head, "Who _is_ that extraordinary looking creature coming up the beach?" and I _longed_ to just burrow in the sand and get out of her sight.

Hilliard came running to meet me. "You've fallen into the water--you are wet! I hope you're not hurt?" he exclaimed, as he reached me.

It was on the tip of my tongue to answer sharply, "I _have_ fallen into the water; did you expect me to be dry?" It was such a _silly_ speech of his! But I was afraid of Mrs. Erveng, so I just said carelessly,--as if I were in the habit of tumbling into the ocean with all my clothes on every day in the week,--"Oh, I just slipped off one of the rocks; I got my feet wet." And there I was, mind you, wet almost to my waist, and such a figure!

Any one of our boys--even Jack, and he is pretty dense sometimes--would have seen the joke, and we'd have had a hearty laugh, anyway, out of the situation; but not a smile appeared on Hilliard's face. Either he didn't see the fun at all, or else he was too deadly polite to laugh. If he had even said roughly, "Didn't I _tell_ you not to go there!" I wouldn't have minded it as much as his "How unfortunate!" and his helpless look.

I was afraid to say anything for fear I'd be rude again, so we walked up to the piazza in solemn silence.

"Good morning!" Mrs. Erveng said pleasantly, as I laboured up the steps.

"An accident? I am so glad you are not hurt! Hilliard should have warned you about those slippery rocks--oh, he did--I see. Dillon will help you change your things; ring for her, Hilliard. Too bad, Betty, to spoil that pretty frock."

Well, I changed my wet clothes, and for the rest of that day I was as meek as a lamb. I sat down, and got up, and answered, and talked to the Ervengs as nearly in Nora's manner as I could imitate. Perhaps they liked it, but I didn't; I was having the pokiest kind of a time, and I was so homesick that I cried myself to sleep again that night.

Mind you, I wouldn't have our boys and Nora know this for a kingdom!

The next few days were more agreeable; the people from the other cottages on the beach came to call on Mrs. Erveng, and while she was entertaining them, Hilliard and I went for walks or sat on the sands. As I've told you before, he isn't at all a wonderful sort of boy,--except for queerness,--and he always _will_ be a poke; but sometimes he's rather nice, and he is certainly polite. He knows the beach well,--he ought to, he's been here nearly every summer of his life, and he is eighteen years old,--and he showed me everything there was to see.

There were no more accidents under his guidance; and no wonder,--he is caution itself.

There was only one part of the beach that he did not take me, and that was where a tall pointed rock stood, that was separated from the others by a rather wide strip of sand. I thought it looked interesting; I could see what looked in the distance like the arched entrance to a cave in the side of the rock. I would like to have gone to look at it, but every time I proposed it, Hilliard turned the conversation. "Some day we'll investigate it," he said at last; "but don't ever go over there alone,--it is a dangerous place." According to him, the whole beach was dangerous; so I made up my mind that I would "investigate" for myself at the first opportunity that offered.

While we rested on the sands, Hilliard would read aloud to me,--he likes to read aloud. Neither Phil nor I care as much for books as do the others in the family; but to be polite, I did not tell Hilliard that I am not fond of being read to; to me it always seems so slow. At first I used to look at the ocean and make up thoughts about it, so that I hardly heard any of what he was reading; but after a while I began to listen, and then, really, I got quite interested.

We were sitting in the shade of the rocks one very warm afternoon,--Hilliard was reading aloud,--when there came a sudden peal of thunder, and presently a flash of lightning. "Oh, we're going to have a storm!" I exclaimed. "I am so glad! now I can see the ocean in a storm,--you said it was magnificent then. Why, what are you doing?"

"We must get in the house as quickly as possible." Hilliard rose to his feet as he spoke, and began hastily gathering up the books and cushions, and the big sun umbrella.

"But the rain hasn't come yet, and I _do_ want to watch the water,--see, it's beginning to get white-caps," I said. "We can reach the house in a few minutes."

As I spoke there was another flash of lightning and a long roll of thunder, but neither was severe. To my great astonishment Hilliard shrank back against the rock, and shielded his face with the cushion he held in his hand; I could see that he was very pale. "Oh, come, _come_!"

he begged; "oh, let us get to the house at once!"

"What!" I flashed out scornfully, "are you _afraid_ of a thunder storm?"

He didn't answer; he just stood there flattening himself against the rock, his face deadly white, his eyes almost closed, and his lips set tight together.

I got _so_ angry! I _despise_ a coward! Had Jack done that, I thought to myself, I'd have been tempted to thrash him to put some spirit and pluck into him; and here was this great big overgrown boy--! "Why don't you run away to the house?" I broke out sharply. "I can take care of myself; _I'm_ not afraid of a little thunder."

He put up his hand in a deprecating way, as if asking me to hush. Then, as a nearer peal reverberated among the rocks, and another flash lighted up the now leaden-coloured sky, he sprang forward and caught hold of my arm, with a sharp cry of "_Come! come!_" Wheeling me round suddenly, he ran toward the house, carrying me along with him with such force and swiftness--though I resisted--that in a few minutes we were on the piazza, and then in the hall, with the heavy outer door swung shut. We were barely under cover when the rain pelted down, and the thunder and lightning grew more loud and vivid.

Hilliard leaned breathlessly against the hat-rack table,--I could see that he was trembling. I stood and looked at him,--I suppose it was rude, but I couldn't help it; you see I had never met such a kind of boy before.

Mrs. Erveng had spent part of the day on the beach, and had come to the house about an hour before to take her afternoon nap. Now we heard her voice from the floor above us. "Hilliard! Hilliard, my son!" she called; there was something in her voice--a sort of tenderness--that I had never noticed before. "Come here to me; come!"

And he went, without a glance at me, lifting his feet heavily from step to step, with drooping head and a shamed, miserable expression on his pale face.

In about an hour's time the storm was all over, and that afternoon we had a gorgeous sunset; but Mr. Erveng and I were the only ones who sat on the piazza to enjoy it. Neither Mrs. Erveng nor Hilliard appeared again that day. Mr. Erveng took me for a walk along the beach, and did his best to entertain me: but I had a feeling that I was in the way--that he would rather have been upstairs with his wife and son, or that perhaps if I had not been there they would have come down.

I thought of them all at home,--Phil and Fee with their fun and merry speeches, and Jack, and the little ones, and Nora; there is always something or other going on, and I would have given almost anything to be back once more among them. I was so unhappy this afternoon that I actually deliberated whether I had the courage to do something desperate,--make faces at Mr. Erveng, or race upstairs and interview Mrs. Erveng, or call Hilliard names out loud,--_anything_, so that they would send me home.

But after a while I concluded I wouldn't try any of these desperate remedies; not that I minded what they'd say at home (teasing, I mean), but papa would want to know the whole affair,--he has got to think a good deal of Mr. Erveng,--and besides, somehow, though she's so gentle and refined, Mrs. Erveng isn't at all the sort of person that one could do those things to. So I said nothing, though I thought a great deal; and I went to bed before nine o'clock thoroughly disgusted with the Ervengs.

Hilliard was at breakfast the next morning, just as stiff and prim and proper as ever,--it almost seemed as if what had happened in the storm must be a dream. But later on, when we were on the piazza, he spoke of it to me.