"Did you manage to get dry?" she asked in a friendly voice. Then he seemed to come to himself. He took his hands from his pockets and got up on his stockinged feet. "Yes, I'm dry now." "Did you have any luck?" "I got fifteen--counting shell-drake, two redheads, a black duck, and some buffle-heads." "Where were you shooting?" "Off Silver Shoal." "Who was your bay-man?" "Bill Nostrand." "Why did you stop shooting so early?" "Fifteen is the local limit this year." Athalie nodded and bit into her turnover, reflectively. When she looked up, something in the boy's eye interested her. "Are you hungry?" she asked. He looked embarrassed, then laughed: "Yes, I am." "Wait; I'll get you a turnover," she said. When she returned from the kitchen with his turnover he was standing. Rather vaguely she comprehended this civility toward herself although nobody had ever before remained standing for her. Not knowing exactly what to do or say she silently presented the pastry, then drew a chair up into the red firelight. And the boy seated himself. "I suppose you came with those hunters from New York," she said. "Yes. I came with my father and three of his friends." "They are out still I suppose." "Yes. They went over to Brant Point." "I've often sailed there," remarked Athalie. "Can you sail a boat?" "No." "It is easy.... I could teach you if you are going to stay a while." "We are going back to New York to-morrow morning.... How did you learn to sail a boat?" "Why, I don't know. I've always lived here. Mr. Ledlie has a boat. Everybody here knows how to manage a cat-boat.... If you'll come down this summer I'll teach you. Will you?" "I will if I can." They were silent for a few minutes. It grew very dark in the bar-room, and the light from the stove glimmered redder and redder. The boy and girl lay back in their chairs, lingering over their peach pastry, and inspecting each other with all the frank insouciance of childhood. Athalie still wore the red hood and cloak which had represented her outer winter wardrobe for years. Her dull, thick gold hair curled crisply over the edges of the hood which framed in its oval the lovely features of a child in perfect health. The boy, dark-haired and dark-eyed, gazed fascinated and unembarrassed at this golden blond visitor hooded and cloaked in scarlet. "Does your father keep this hotel?" he asked after a pause. "Yes. I am Athalie Greensleeve. What is your name?" "C. Bailey, Junior." "What is the _C_ for?" "Clive." "Do you go to school?" "Yes, but I'm back for the holidays." "Holidays," she repeated vaguely. "Oh, that's so. Christmas will come day after to-morrow." He nodded. "I think I'm going to have a new pair of guns, some books, and a horse. What do you expect?" "Nothing," said Athalie. "What? Isn't there anything you want?" And then, too late, some glimmer of the real state of affairs illuminated his boyish brain. And he grew red with embarrassment.