“Why do you draw twelve and thirteen with their heads down?” asked Mae, after a moment. “Because they read so much; everything they can get hold of, including, possibly, a very revised edition of ‘Arabian Nights’?” “Yes,” laughed Mae, “and my first novel, ‘Villette.’” “You go to a play for the first time now,” suggested Norman. “How you clasp your hands and wink your eyes and bite your lips! And next day, in front of your mother’s pier-glass, how you scream ‘O, my love,’ and gasp and tumble over in a heap in your brown calico, as the grand lady did the night before, in her pink silk.” “Brown calico, indeed! I never condescended to die in my own clothes, let me assure you. The garret was overhauled, and had been since I was a mere baby, for effective, sweeping garments. Let us hurry along over fourteen and fifteen. I was sentimental and tried to be so young-ladyish then. I used to read history with Albert, and always put on both my gloves when I started out, and had great horror of girls who talked loud in the street. I learned to make bread, and shirt bosoms, and such things.” “Well, here you are in a long dress, Miss Sweet Sixteen. I remember you home from boarding school on a vacation.” “What did you think of me?” asked Mae, “didn’t we have a nice time that summer? O, how silly I was!” She hurried on, because the eyes had given her that peculiar look again, which put her heart in a tremble. “I did have a beautiful time at boarding school,” she continued, “the darlingest principal and such girls.” “Then I suppose you wrote a salutatory in forlorn rhyme to end off with,” laughed Norman, “and read it, all arrayed in white, in a trembling voice, and everybody applauded, and even old Judge Seymour admired it, while you were reading, with your pink cheeks and trembling hands and quivering voice.” “Abominable! I didn’t have the salutatory, and the girl who did, read a superb one, as strong and masculine--” “Then the Judge went to sleep, I’m sure,” declared Norman. “Well,” said Mae, “you are leaving out two years,” for Norman had leaned back against the rock with his arms folded. “By and by,” said Norman, “we all come off to Europe, and some of us go through the heart-ache, don’t we?” “Yes,” replied Mae, softly. “But come out ahead one day at Sorrento, perhaps?” asked Norman. To which Mae made no direct reply. “All the Mae Maddens have faded away,” she said, looking down at the sand again. “The tide is rising.” And she walked forward to the ripples of water, and then came slowly back and stood before Norman seriously. He laughed. “Why, Mr. Mann,” said Mae, “I have been so very, very wicked.” The dreadful Mr. Mann only laughed again. “You act as if it were all a joke. I never saw you so merry before.” “I have never been as happy before in my life.” “Why?” asked Mae, in a low voice.