“Oh, yes, _she’s_ all right. And she’s just as much of a girl as anybody; though she don’t know it,” Mrs. Maynard added astutely. “Why wouldn’t she come with us? Were you afraid to ask her?” “She said she wasn’t a good sailor. Perhaps she thought we were too young. She must be older than you.” “Yes, and you, _too!_” cried Mrs. Maynard, with good-natured derision. “She doesn’t look old,” returned Mr. Libby. “She’s twenty-eight. How old are you?” “I promised the census-taker not to tell till his report came out.” “What is the color of her hair?” “Brown.” “And her eyes?” “I don’t know!” “You had better look out, Mr. Libby!” said Mrs. Maynard, putting her foot on the ground at last. They walked across the beach to where his dory lay, and Grace saw him pulling out to the sail boat before she went in from the piazza. Then she went to her mother’s room. The elderly lady was keeping indoors, upon a theory that the dew was on, and that it was not wholesome to go out till it was off. She asked, according to her habit when she met her daughter alone, “Where is Mrs. Maynard?” “Why do you always ask that, mother?” retorted Grace, with her growing irritation in regard to her patient intensified by the recent interview. “I can’t be with her the whole time.” “I wish you could,” said Mrs. Breen, with noncommittal suggestion. Grace could not keep herself from demanding, “Why?” as her mother expected, though she knew why too well. “Because she wouldn’t be in mischief then,” returned Mrs. Breen. “She’s in mischief now!” cried the girl vehemently; “and it’s my fault! I did it. I sent her off to sail with that ridiculous Mr. Libby!” “Why?” asked Mrs. Breen, in her turn, with unbroken tranquillity. “Because I am a fool, and I couldn’t help him lie out of his engagement with her.” “Didn’t he want to go?” “I don’t know. Yes. They both wanted me to go with them. Simpletons! And while she had gone up-stairs for her wraps I managed to make him understand that I didn’t wish her to go, either; and he ran down to his boat, and came back with a story about its going to be rough, and looked at me perfectly delighted, as if I should be pleased. Of course, then, I _made_ him take her.” “And isn’t it going to be rough?” asked Mrs. Breen. “Why, mother, the sea’s like glass.” Mrs. Breen turned the subject. “You would have done better, Grace, to begin as you had planned. Your going to Fall River, and beginning practice there among those factory children, was the only thing that I ever entirely liked in your taking up medicine. There was sense in that. You had studied specially for it. You could have done good there.” “Oh, yes,” sighed the girl, “I know. But what was I to do, when she came to us, sick and poor? I couldn’t turn my back on her, especially after always befriending her, as I used to, at school, and getting her to depend on me.” “I don’t see how you ever liked her,” said Mrs. Breen.