The next instant, the baby came flying straight into Pharaoh's face, and Mac fled, weeping, to his mother.

"Mam-ma!"

"Yes, Mac."

"I'd be glad if I was dead."

"Why, dear?" Hope looked startled.

"'Cause peoples are happy when vey are up in ve sky."

"But you can be happy here, Mac, if you are good," Hope said gently.

"Yes; but I aren't happy; I are cross."

Hope sighed and laid away the letter she was writing to her husband.

There were days when she regretted that she had brought this restless, tempestuous child into so large a family circle, days when Mac's cherubic qualities appeared to be entirely in abeyance. Gentle as she was, her own influence over him was of the strongest; but here she felt that she had less chance to exert this influence. In spite of her efforts, Mac was running wild, this summer. The smallest child on the beach, he was petted and spoiled by every one, and Hope disliked the inevitable pertness which followed so much attention. Most of all, she disliked the constant friction with his Aunt Phebe, and she felt that the blame was by no means entirely upon the one side. Mac was no heavenly child, and it was only by dint of much tact that he could be managed at all; but tact in dealing with children was not Phebe's strong point.

The summer, then, was not proving altogether restful to Hope. To one person, however, she felt an overwhelming grat.i.tude. Of all the people on Quantuck beach, Gifford Barrett had been the only one who appeared to have either conscience or common sense in dealing with Mac's idiosyncrasies. The child never seemed to bore him, or to come into collision with him, yet there was never any question who was the master.

Again and again, Hope had wondered at the dexterity with which the young musician had led Mac away from his small iniquities, had coaxed him into giggling forgetfulness of his bad temper. She wondered yet more at the obedience which Mac readily accorded to his new friend, an obedience which she was accustomed to win only after long and persistent siege.

"My papa couldn't come here, vis summer," he had said gravely to Mr.

Barrett, one day. "Will you please be my papa while we stay here?"

And Gifford Barrett's smile was not altogether of amus.e.m.e.nt, as he accepted the adoption. Hope saw it and understood; and hereafter she ranged herself on Cicely's side when Mr. Barrett was being discussed in the family circle.

That same afternoon Gifford Barrett strolled down to the beach. The wind had been on sh.o.r.e for the past two days, and the breakers, too heavy now to allow any bathing, crashed on the sand with a dull booming that sounded far inland, while close at the water-side was heard the crash of the grinding pebbles. Under the McAlister awning, Mrs. McAlister, Hope and the Farringtons sat in a cozy group, and Mac, close by, was devoting his small energies to burying his grandfather. The young man stopped to speak to them for a minute; then he moved away towards the spot where Phebe sat alone under her umbrella.

"Isn't the surf superb, Miss McAlister?"

She looked up from her book rather ungraciously.

"Yes, it's very fine."

"How does it happen you are not at the golf links?"

"There's a tournament, to-day."

"And you didn't enter?"

"No; they didn't play well enough to make it worth my while."

Deliberately he settled himself at her side.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked. "That book looked rather indigestible for an August day."

"I prefer it. I can't spend my time over novels," Phebe said.

The strong wind had ruffled her bright hair and deepened the pink in her cheeks. The young man looked at her admiringly. Up to this time, he had only seen her in her short blue suit, and he told himself that this fluffy pink muslin gown was vastly more becoming to her.

"Don't you ever do frivolous things?" he asked in some amus.e.m.e.nt.

"No. What's the use?"

"There's going to be a dance, next week."

"Is there?" Phebe's tone betrayed no interest in the tidings.

"Yes. I came down to see if I could induce you to go with me."

"I hate dancing in August," she said flatly.

"I'm sorry. Besides, one must do something down here."

"One can, if one wants to. I don't. There's no sense in coming to this kind of a place, just to put on one's best clothes and dance all night in a stuffy room."

"You might take Lear's method," he suggested;

"'And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon.'"

For one instant, Phebe relaxed her severity.

"Do you like Lear, too?" she asked.

"Of course. What sensible person doesn't?" He stretched himself out at full length, resting his head on his hand, and, for the moment, Phebe, as she looked at him, felt that he was almost handsome enough to atone for his lack of energy. "But you haven't accepted my invitation," he added persuasively.

"I know it."

"Please do."

"What for? I told you I don't like hops in August."

"But I can't hop alone."

"Ask somebody else, then."

"Don't want to. Well, I'll consider it an engagement."

"Why don't you play golf?" Phebe demanded.

"Too energetic for me. I want something more restful."

His languid tone annoyed Phebe, and she dropped her indifferent manner.

"Mr. Barrett, did it ever occur to you that you were lazy?"

He flushed.

"No; it hadn't occurred to me in that light before. Am I?"