Mrs. Dore shook her head. “I wouldn’t like to have you do that, Maida,” she said. “Your father has given us everything that he thinks necessary for this household.” She added gratefully, “And more than any of us had ever had in our lives before. I should certainly not like you to ask a single thing more of him.” Again gloom descended on the Big Six. And then hope showed her bright face again. “Ah’ll tell you what Ah’ll do,” Floribel, who was waiting on table, broke in. “Zeke and Ah’ve wanted fo’ a long time to see the big ocean. Now eff yo’ll let the lil’ children go on dat pic-a-nic, Mis’ Dore, Zeke and Ah’ll go with them and tak’ the best of care of them.” “Oh _would_ you, Floribel?” Rosie asked. “Well, in that case,” Mrs. Dore decided thoughtfully, “I don’t see why you shouldn’t all go.” Madness at once broke out in both Sixes, Little and Big. Laura, Maida and Rosie leaped to their feet and danced about the room. The little children beat on the table with their spoons and the three boys indulged in ear-splitting whistles. The next Thursday, Floribel, Zeke, the Little Six and the lunch, packed somehow into the machine, the Big Six on their bicycles, streaming ahead like couriers, started off for the beach. “Thank goodness we’ve remembered the salt this time,” Rosie said to Arthur as they mounted their wheels, “I took care of that myself.” It was a beautiful day, cool as it was sunny, brisk as it was warm. The winding road led through South Satuit and then over a long stretch of scrub-pine country, straight to the beach. Just as they emerged from the Westabrook estate into South Satuit, Maida’s bicycle made a sudden swerve. “Why I just saw Silva Burle!” she called in a whisper to Rosie. “She was walking along the trail towards the Little House. I wonder what she is doing there?” “Well you may be very sure she isn’t calling on _us_,” Rosie declared, “and if she is I’m delighted to think that Granny will say, ‘Not at home!’” “Still,” Maida said thoughtfully, “that trail leads directly to the Little House. She must be going there for some reason.” “Probably,” Laura remarked scornfully, “she’s hoping she’ll meet some of us, so’s she can make faces at us.” The automobile arrived at the beach first and the cyclists came straggling in one after another. Crescent Moon Beach was like a deeply cut silver crescent, furred at each tip of the crescent with a tight grove of scrub-pines which grew down to the very water’s edge. Beyond it, except for a single island, stretched unbroken the vast heaving blue of the Atlantic. Under the lee of the southern tip of the crescent was a line of half-a-dozen bath houses. “What a wonderful, wonderful beach!” Laura commented. “And there’s that island,” Dicky said, “that we see from the Tree House--Spectacles Island, didn’t you say--oh no, I remember, Tom Tiddler’s Ground. How I wish I could swim out to it. I have never been on an island in my life. Could you swim as far as that, Arthur?”