sang the girl softly. “Well,” said Betsy, “when you take ’count o’ stock, what sort of a summer has it been?” “Wonderful.” “That may be,” returned Betsy, “but how about the net result. Would you like to live it over again?” “Yes, indeed!” was the fervent reply. “_No_, Betsy! What am I talking about! No, I wouldn’t. I might not do so well again.” “How do you mean?” asked the other, beginning to make a lattice-work across the vacant toe of a man’s sock. “Do you mean professionally?” “Not altogether,” answered the girl slowly. “Oh, you mean socially too, eh?” “Yes.” Silence, while the breakers struck and burst on the rock at the left of the cottage. “Whom have you over here?” Rosalie rose and moved to the dresser where a flexible leather case stood in a semi-circle. “Captain Salter?” She picked up the case. “Irving!” she added in a different tone, and studied the six pictures with down-drooped face. “See the envelope standin’ there against the glass? You can open it. It came with my silver.” Rosalie obeyed. “Oh!” she said softly. Presently Betsy spoke again: “I’ve heard a lot about how popular you’ve been all summer. Says I to myself, there’s safety in numbers, says I.” “Yes,” agreed Rosalie, “there’s safety in numbers.” She returned the card to its envelope. “Take the pictures over to the window if you’d like to,” said Betsy, mending busily. “No, thank you,” returned the girl; and placing the case as she had found it, she came back to her seat. “The Nixon party got off all right, I s’pose,” said Betsy. “Mr. Nixon came over to say good-by. Did you know Mr. Derwent took supper with the cap’n and me one night?” “Yes. He is greatly taken with Captain Salter.” “We had a real good time,” said Betsy, “and he praised the supper.” “There are no suppers as good as yours. Nixie and I had made him hungry telling him about the dinner we had with you that day.” “And my boy never broke bread with me once,” said Betsy sadly. “I couldn’t ask him away from Mrs. Bruce.” “Betsy,” asked Rosalie wistfully, “whatever did happen?” Betsy shook her head. “Nothin’ you need worry about, child.” “But that’s just what troubles me. I’ve always believed it was about me.” “Rosalie,”—Betsy lifted her eyes from her work for a minute,—“do you know it says in the Bible that God makes the wrath o’ man to praise him? or somethin’ like that? I’ve thought of it often since I’ve been livin’ here. There had to be some kind of an explosion for Hiram to get his rights. I see now he’s only got his rights.” “But one thing is very strange,” said Rosalie. “The few times I’ve spoken with Mrs. Bruce this summer, she has been quite polite to me. Do you know about this cousin who is with her, this cunning little Miss Frost, more like a canary-bird than any one I ever saw? Well, she adores Mrs. Bruce, and do you know it has seemed to me that Mrs. Bruce is trying to live up to it. Wouldn’t that be strange?” Betsy dropped her work and regarded the speaker.