Mrs. Breen had not been pleased to have her daughter in charge of Mrs. Maynard’s case, but she had not liked her giving it up. She had said more than once that she had no faith in Dr. Mulbridge. She willingly consented to Grace’s prayer, and went down into Mrs. Maynard’s room, and insinuated misgivings in which the sick woman found so much reason that they began for the first time to recognize each other’s good qualities. They decided that the treatment was not sufficiently active, and that she should either have something that would be more loosening to the cough, or some application—like mustard plasters—to her feet, so as to take away that stuffed feeling about the head. At that hour of the afternoon, when most of the ladies were lying down in their rooms, Grace met no one on the beach but Miss Gleason and Mrs. Alger, who rose from their beds of sand under the cliff at her passage with Mr. Libby to his dory. “Don’t you want to go to Leyden?” he asked jocosely over his shoulder. “You don’t mean to say _you’re_ going?” Miss Gleason demanded of Grace. “Yes, certainly. Why not?” “Well, you _are_ brave!” She shut her novel upon her thumb, that she might have nothing to do but admire Grace’s courage, as the girl walked away. “It will do her good, poor thing,” said the elder woman. “She looks wretchedly.” “I can understand just why she does it,” murmured Miss Gleason in adoring rapture. “I hope she does it for pleasure,” said Mrs. Alger. “It isn’t that,” returned Miss Gleason mysteriously. “At any rate, Mr. Libby seemed pleased.” “Oh, she would never marry _him!_” said Miss Gleason. The other laughed, and at that moment Grace also laughed. The strong current of her purpose, the sense of escape from the bitter servitude of the past week, and the wild hope of final expiation through the chances she was tempting gave her a buoyancy long unfelt. She laughed in gayety of heart as she helped the young man draw his dory down the sand, and then took her place at one end while he gave it the last push and then leaped in at the other. He pulled out to where the boat lay tilting at anchor, and held the dory alongside by the gunwale that she might step aboard. But after rising she faltered, looking intently at the boat as if she missed something there. “I thought you had a man to sail your boat” “I had. But I let him go last week. Perhaps I ought to have told you,” he said, looking up at her aslant. “Are you afraid to trust my seamanship? Adams was a mere form. He behaved like a fool that day.”