“That is my launch there,” I replied, pointing. “The little white one? You built it yourself, I think Father said.” “He was mistaken, if he said that. I am not clever enough to build a boat, Miss Colton. I bought the Comfort, second-hand.” I don't know why I added the “second-hand.” Probably because I had not yet freed my mind from the bitterness--yes, and envy--which the sight of this girl and her people always brought with it. It is comparatively easy to be free from envy if one is what George Taylor termed a “never-was”; for a “has been” it is harder. The boat's name was the only portion of my remark which attracted her attention. “The Comfort?” she repeated. “That is a jolly name for a pleasure boat.” “It is my mother's name,” I answered. “Is it? Why, I remember now. Miss Dean told me. I beg your pardon, Mr. Paine. It is a pretty name, at all events.” “Thank you.” “I must have misunderstood Father. I was sure he said that boat building was your business.” “No. He saw me overhauling the engine, and perhaps that gave him the impression that I was a builder. I told him I was not, but no doubt he forgot. I have no business, Miss Colton.” I think she was surprised. She glanced at me curiously and her lips opened as if to ask another question. She did not ask it however, and, except for a casual remark or two about the view and the blueness of the water in the bay, she said nothing more. I rather expected she would refer to her intention of calling on Mother, but she did not mention the subject. I inferred that she had thought better of her whim. On the other occasions when we met she merely bowed. “Big Jim” nodded carelessly. Mrs. Colton, from her seat in the auto, nodded also, though her majestic bow could scarcely be termed a nod. It was more like the acknowledgment, by a queen in her chariot, of the applauding citizen on the sidewalk. She saw me, and she deigned to let me know that I was seen, that was all. But when I inferred that her daughter had forgotten, or had decided not to make the call at our house, I misjudged the young lady. I returned, one afternoon, from a cruise up and down the bay in the Comfort, to find our small establishment--the Rogers portion of it, at least--in a high state of excitement. Lute and Dorinda were in the kitchen and before I reached the back door, which was open, I heard their voices in animated discussion. “Why wouldn't I say it, Dorinda?” pleaded Lute. “You can't blame me none. There I was, with my sleeves rolled up and just settin' in the chair, restin' my arms a jiffy and thinkin' which window I'd wash next, when there come that knock at the door. Thinks I, 'It's Asa Peters' daughter's young-one peddlin' clams.' That's what come to my mind fust. That idee popped right into my head, it did.” “Found plenty of room when it got there, I cal'late,” snapped Dorinda. “Must have felt lonesome.”