The solution was presently found by a sympathetic and consoling
circle--the child was homesick; she wanted her mother. Assuredly
that explained everything. The lure of sails and picnics having
failed, Dorothea's mother came to a decision with sympathetic
tears in her eyes and a glance toward her own innocent. "She
shall take the first train home if she wants to. The child
sha'n't be miserable. No, don't urge her, Bob. I was homesick
myself once, and I understand perfectly."


Dorothea reposed in the shade of the bulkhead, sand on her person
and a great peace in her heart, upon which the Monster,
departing, had left no scar. Under her head was the Godey's
Lady's Book, in which, over the picture of a brocaded pelisse,
she had recently finished a poem in which "lover" rhymed-- with
"forever." Amiel, cross-legged on the sand beside her, was
whistling gently as he industriously whittled at a bit of
driftwood, little suspecting that at the moment he was taking tea
in a bower with Lady Ursula.

Presently he drew a letter from his pocket and flipped it over to
Dorothea. "Your mother asked me to give you this," he said. "She
thought it might be from that pretty little friend of yours."

Dorothea opened the letter with some trepidation. Presently a
bland smile over- spread her countenance. The day of reckoning
that she expected to dawn upon her next meeting with her victim
melted cloud-like as she read: