“No,” admitted Barlow. Then he said, in indirect defence of the kitchen, “I think you hadn’t ought to be out in the night air,—well, not a _great_ deal.” “Well, I don’t suppose it _does_ do me _much_ good,” Mrs. Maynard said, turning her eyes seaward. Barlow let his hand drop from the piazza post, and slouched in-doors; but he came out again as if pricked by conscience to return. “After all, you know, it didn’t cure him.” “What cure him?” asked Mrs. Maynard. “The whiskey with the white-pine chips in it.” “Cure who?” “My brother.” “_Oh!_ Oh, _yes!_ But mine’s only bronchial. I think it might do me good. I shall tell Grace about it.” Barlow looked troubled, as if his success in the suggestion of this remedy were not finally a pleasure; but as Mrs. Maynard kept her eyes persistently turned from him, and was evidently tired, he had nothing for it but to go in-doors again. He met Grace, and made way for her on the threshold to pass out. As she joined Mrs. Maynard, “Well, Grace,” said the latter, “I do believe you are right. I _have_ taken some more cold. But that shows that it doesn’t get worse of itself, and I think we ought to be encouraged by that. I’m going to be more careful of the night air after this.” “I don’t think the night air was the worst thing about it, Louise,” said Grace bluntly. “You mean the damp from the sand? I put on my rubbers.” “I don’t mean the damp sand,” said Grace, beginning to pull over some sewing which she had in her lap, and looking down at it. Mrs. Maynard watched her a while in expectation that she would say more, but she did not speak. “Oh _well!_” she was forced to continue herself, “if you’re going to go on with _that!_” “The question is,” said Grace, getting the thread she wanted, “whether _you_ are going on with it.” “Why, I can’t see any possible harm in it,” protested Mrs. Maynard. “I suppose you don’t exactly like my going with Mr. Libby, and I know that under some circumstances it _wouldn’t_ be quite the thing. But didn’t I tell you last night how he lived with us in Europe? And when we were all coming over on the steamer together Mr. Libby and Mr. Maynard were together the whole time, smoking and telling stories. They were the greatest _friends!_ Why, it isn’t as if he was a _stranger_, or an _enemy_ of Mr. Maynard’s.” Grace dropped her sewing into her lap. “Really, Louise, you’re incredible!” She looked sternly at the invalid; but broke into a laugh, on which Mrs. Maynard waited with a puzzled face. As Grace said nothing more, she helplessly resumed:— “We didn’t expect to go down the cliff when he first called in the evening. But he said he would help me up again, and—he did, nicely. I wasn’t exhausted a bit; and how I took more cold I can’t understand; I was wrapped up warmly. _I_ think I took the cold when I was sitting there after our game of croquet, with my shawl off. Don’t you think so?” she wheedled. “Perhaps,” said Grace.