"Oh, yes, she's all right. And she's just as much of a girl as anybody;
though she don't know it," Mrs. Maynard added astutely. "Why would n't
she come with us? Were you afraid to ask her?"

"She said she was n't a good sailor. Perhaps she thought we were too
young. She must be older than you."

"Yes, and you, too!" cried Mrs. Maynard, with good-natured derision.

"She doesn't look old," returned Mr. Libby.

"She's twenty-eight. How old are you?"

"I promised the census-taker not to tell till his report came out."

"What is the color of her hair?"

"Brown."

"And her eyes?"

"I don't know!"

"You had better look out, Mr. Libby!" said Mrs. Maynard, putting her foot
on the ground at last.

They walked across the beach to where his dory lay, and Grace saw him
pulling out to the sail boat before she went in from the piazza. Then she
went to her mother's room. The elderly lady was keeping indoors, upon a
theory that the dew was on, and that it was not wholesome to go out till