"What's your best price on one-sixth doz. flannel vests?"
inquired Heyl.

And, "Oh, shut up!" said Fanny, elegantly. Heyl laughed as
one who hugs a secret.

"We'll work our way down the beach," he announced, "toward
Millers. There'll be northern lights to-night; did you know
that? Want to stay and see them?"

"Do I want to! I won't go home till I have."

These were the things they did on that holiday; childish,
happy, tiring things, such as people do who love the
outdoors.

The charm of Clarence Heyl--for he had charm--is difficult
to transmit. His lovableness and appeal lay in his
simplicity. It was not so much what he said as in what he
didn't say. He was staring unwinkingly now at the sunset
that had suddenly burst upon them. His were the eyes of one
accustomed to the silent distances.

"Takes your breath away, rather, doesn't it? All that
color?" said Fanny, her face toward the blaze.

"Almost too obvious for my taste. I like 'em a little more
subdued, myself." They were atop a dune, and he stretched
himself flat on the sand, still keeping his bright brown