“As a success my entertainment has been a failure,” said Mitchell to Jack as they walked up and down the deck after breakfast; “but into each life some rain must fall, and I offer myself as a sacrificial background to Aunt Mary’s glowing, living pictures of New York.” “I wish you hadn’t, though,” said Jack; “she’ll never want a yacht of her own now. And how under Scorpion are we ever going to land her?” “In a sheet, my able-bodied young friend, in a sheet,” said Mitchell clapping him on the back. “Don’t you know the ‘Weigh the Baby’ game? It may double her up a bit, but the redoubtable Janice will straighten her out again. Here’s to the sheet, be it a wet sheet, a main sheet, or a sheet with your Aunt Mary tied up in it.” Mitchell was as good as his word and they landed Aunt Mary in a sheet. The very harbor-tugs stopped puffing and stood open-mouthed to stare at the performance, but it was an unalloyed success, and Aunt Mary was gotten onto dry land at last. “I don’t want to do nothin’ for a day or two,” she said, as they drove to the house. Janice had the bed open, and a hot-water bottle down where Aunt Mary’s feet might be expected, and all sorts of comfort ready to hand. “I’m so glad to see you safe back,” she said, almost weeping. “I don’t believe it’s broke,” said Aunt Mary, “but you might look and see. Oh, Granite—I—” she stopped and looked an unutterable meaning. “It stormed, didn’t it?” said the maid. “Stormed!” said Aunt Mary. “I guess it did storm. I guess it hurricaned. I know it did. I’m sure of it.” “But you’re safe now,” said the girl, tucking her up as snugly as if she had been an infant in arms. “Yes, I’m safe now,” said Aunt Mary, “but—” she looked very earnest—“but, oh, my Granite, how I did need that white fuzzy stuff to drink this morning. I never wanted nothin’ so bad in all my life afore.” Janice stood by the bed, her face full of regret that Aunt Mary had known any aching void. Aunt Mary grew yet more earnest. “Granite,” she said, “you mind what I tell you. That ought to be advertised. I sh’d think you could patent it. Folks ought to know about it.” Then she laid herself out in bed. “My heavens alive!” she sighed sweetly, “there’s nothin’ like home. Not anywhere—not nowhere!” Chapter Sixteen A Reposeful Interval The next date upon the little gold and ivory memorandum card which hung beside Aunt Mary’s watch was that set for Burnett’s picnic, but its dawning found both host and guest too much attached to their beds to desire any fêtes champêtre just then. Burnett was in that very weak state which follows in the immediate wake of only too many yachts,—and Aunt Mary was sleeping one of her long drawn out and utterly restorative sleeps. Jack went in and looked at her. “It did storm awfully,” he said to Janice, who was sitting by the window. The maid just smiled, nodded, and laid her finger on her lip. She never encouraged conversation when her charge was reposing.