“Then you've seen your favorite Gardens of Maolis! What in the world _are_ they like?” “Well; we didn't see the Gardens of Maolis; the Nahant boat was so crowded that we couldn't think of going on her, and so we decided we'd drive over to the Liverpool Wharf and go down to Nantasket Beach.” “That was nice. I'm so glad on Aunt Melissa's account. It's much better to see the ocean from a long beach than from those Nahant rocks.” “That's what _I_ said. But, you know, when we got to the wharf the boat had just left.” “You _don't_ mean it! Well, then, what under the canopy _did_ you do?” “Why, we sat down in the wharf-house, and waited from nine o'clock till half-past two for the next boat.” “Well, I'm glad you didn't back out, at any rate. You did show pluck, you poor things! I hope you enjoyed the beach after you _did_ get there.” “Why,” says Frank, looking down, “we never got there.” “Never got there!” gasps Mrs. Sallie. “Didn't you go down on the afternoon boat?” “Yes.” “Why didn't you get to the beach, then?” “We didn't go ashore.” “Well, that's _like_ you, Frank.” “It's a great deal more like Aunt Melissa,” answers Frank. “The air felt so raw and chilly by the time we reached the pier, that she declared the baby would perish if it was taken to the beach. Besides, nothing would persuade her that Nantasket Beach was at all different from Liverpool Wharf.” “Never mind, never mind!” says Mrs. Sallie. “I don't wish to hear anything more. That's your idea of a day's pleasure, is it? I call it a day's disgrace, a day's miserable giving-up. There, go in, go in; I'm ashamed of you all. Don't let the neighbors see you, for pity's sake.--We keep him in the kitchen,” she continues, recurring to Frank's long-unanswered question concerning the lost child, “because he prefers it as being the room nearest to the closet where the cookies are. He's taken advantage of our sympathies to refuse everything but cookies.” “I suppose that's one of the rights of lost childhood,” comments Frank, languidly; “there's no law that can compel him to touch even cracker.” “Well, you'd better go down and see what _you_ can make of him. He's driven _us_ all wild.” So Frank descends to the region now redolent of the preparing tea, and finds upon a chair, in the middle of the kitchen floor, a very forlorn little figure of a boy, mutely munching a sweet-cake, while now and then a tear steals down his cheeks and moistens the grimy traces of former tears. He and baby are, in the mean time regarding each other with a steadfast glare, the cook and the nurse supporting baby in this rite of hospitality. “Well, my little man,” says his host, “how did you get here?” The little man, perhaps because he is heartily sick of the question, is somewhat slow to answer that there was a fire; and that he ran after the steamer; and a girl found him and brought him up here.