His pretty pleasure-boat--a long, light, sharp-built yawl, with a red
stripe along its black side, and two sloping masts--which he had lately
had built, lay often the whole week through moored in the bay under the
house. He was very particular about the boat, and during his absence it
was to Elizabeth's sole care that she was intrusted. There was always
something or other to be looked after; and when he came home he would
generally subject her, in a jokingly harsh tone, to an examination,
which he called holding a summary court-martial.

Sometimes on Saturdays he would come up the path waving in his hand a
letter covered with post-marks. It would be from his father to his
stepmother; and Madam Beck would generally read it by herself first, and
then it would be read aloud, Elizabeth listening with strained
attention--she was always so afraid that there might be something bad
about Salvé.

One Sunday she remarked that Carl wore in the buttonhole of his uniform
a wild flower which she had thrown away. It might have been the purest
accident; but she knew that he had seen her with it in her hand. The
same day they had wild strawberries at dinner, and there were no
strangers, and he broke out all in a moment, "Yes, I'd sooner ten
thousand times have wild strawberries than garden ones. They have quite
another taste and smell."

It was a natural remark for any one to make. But she thought he had
looked with peculiar earnestness at her as he made it, and afterwards he
had fixed his eyes upon his plate for a long while without raising them.
She felt that the remark had been meant for her, and altogether that day
there was something about him that made her uneasy--he gazed at her so
often.