Annie could not help laughing,--a little, quiet, Sunday morning sort of a laugh,--but she was beginning to think her brother's friend was not a bad specimen of a Long Island "country boy." Ford, indeed, had come home, the previous evening, from a long conference with Dab, brimful of the proposed yachting cruise, and his father had freely given his consent, much against the will of Mrs. Foster. "My dear," said the lawyer, "I feel sure a woman of Mrs. Kinzer's good sense would not permit her son to go out in that way if she did not feel safe about him. He's been brought up to it, you know, and so has the colored boy who is to go with them." "Yes, mother," argued Ford, "there isn't half the danger there is in driving around New York in a carriage." "There might be a storm." "The horses might run away." "Or you might upset." "So might a carriage." But the end of it all was that Ford was to go, and Annie was more than half sorry she could not go with him. She said so to Dabney, as soon as her little laugh was ended, that Sunday morning. "Some time or other, I'd be glad to have you," replied Dab, "but not this trip." "Why not?" "We mean to go right across the bay and try some fishing." "Couldn't I fish?" "Well, no. I don't think you could." "Why couldn't I?" "Because,--well, because you'd most likely be too sea-sick by the time we got there." Just then a low, clear voice, behind Dabney, quietly remarked: "How smooth his hair is!" And Dab's face turned red again. Annie Foster heard it as distinctly as he did, and she walked right away with her mother, for fear she should laugh again. "It's my own hair, Jenny Walters," said Dab, almost savagely. "I should hope it was." "I should like to know what you go to church for, anyhow?" "To hear people talk about sailing and fishing. How much do you s'pose a young lady like Miss Foster cares about small boys?" "Or little girls either? Not much; but Annie and I mean to have a good sail before long." "Annie and I!" Jenny's pert little nose seemed to turn up more than ever as she walked away, for she had not beaten her old playfellow quite as badly as usual. There were several sharp things on the very tip of her tongue, but she was too much put out and vexed to try to say them just then. As for Dabney, a "sail" was not so wonderful a thing for him, and that Sunday was therefore a good deal like all others; but Ford Foster's mind was in a sort of turmoil all day. In fact, just after tea, that evening, his father asked him: "What book is that you are reading, Ford?" "Captain Cook's 'Voyages.'" "And the other in your lap?" "'Robinson Crusoe.'" "Well, you might have worse books than they are, even for Sunday, that's a fact, though you ought to have better; but which of them do you and Dabney Kinzer mean to imitate to-morrow?" "Crusoe," promptly responded Ford. "I see. And so you've got Dick Lee to go along as your Man-Friday." "He's Dab's man, not mine."