she could scarcely breathe, and then, putting on a blouse of her
mother's that was still too tight to please her, she surveyed herself in
the mirror with supreme dissatisfaction.

"I look _horrible_! It's beastly for people's bodies to _show_ like
that," she cried, and, sitting down on the floor, put on the shoes and
stockings she had had for her father's funeral, that hurt her feet. She
ran down to the beach to discuss it with Wullie. Half-way there she
discovered that she could not possibly mention it to anyone. This
puzzled her. She could not understand things one could not mention.

"We're very grand the day, Marcella," he said, watching her curiously.
"Where are ye gaun?"

"I've come to see you," she said, sitting down in a shadowy corner.

"Have ye had breakfast? I saw ye, hours ago, swimming oot by the
nets. There's seed cake in yon box that Jock's wife's sent doon, and
buttermilk in the can."

Even indignation with her figure could not conquer her appetite, and she
divided the cake between them, eating her share before she spoke.

"Seed cake's the nicest thing in the world," she said at last. "I love
the wee blacks in it, don't you, Wullie? Wullie, when I'm dying I'll
come here and Bessie shall make seed cake. Then I shall never die. I
love the smell of it, too--it makes me think of the Queen of Sheba
bringing spices and gold to King Solomon."

"Ye seem to be having a fine queer lot of thoughts the day, Marcella,"