comfortable wicker chairs were scattered here and there, and on the low round table in the center there was always a motley collection of books, writing materials, and work-baskets. Through occasional openings in the vines were revealed pretty vistas of lawn and flowering rosebeds, beyond which stretched the blue waters of the sound, sparkling in the sunshine as if strewn with a thousand jewels. It was, indeed, an Arcadian spot.

Within doors everything was equally old-fashioned and comfortable. Opening on to the broad hall, which ran through the middle of the house, were four large airy rooms, simply but substantially furnished, and with an unmistakable air of being lived in. Upstairs, in addition to the rooms occupied by the family, each one of which was bright and cheery, and clearly revealed the individuality of its occupant, were several guest chambers, with heavy four-post bedsteads and quaint mahogany dressing-tables, and during the summer season these were rarely untenanted, for the Lawrences' hospitality was as old-fashioned as their home.

Quiet Hetherford was almost unknown as a summer resort, but the few people who had once found their way there came again and again, and with them all the Lawrences were on intimate and friendly terms. It was not strange that young men came but rarely to this out-of-the-way little village, but a colony of girls thrived and were happy there; happier, perhaps, for this very lack of the masculine element. The girls often laughed merrily over it, and no one of them seemed to take it very much to heart, save pretty little dark-eyed Emily Varian, who spent her summers with her uncle, Dr. Evelyn Birdsall, the Presbyterian minister.

"It is deplorable," she sighed, "and if the girls were not selfishly lazy they could quite easily get some men to come out here. Certainly town is not so far off as to make us quite out of the world. It is nothing but stupid nonsense and vanity on the girls' part. They think it is something fine and independent never to see anything of men. For my part, I should think they would be ashamed of it."

There was one girl who always laughed good-humoredly at Emily's grumbling, and she was none other than charming Eleanor Hill. However, she had less cause to complain, for while Emily went from her winter home in one little country town to sleepier Hetherford for the summer months, Miss Hill for more than half of every year led the gayest of lives in New York. When June came with its warm sunshine and long days, she and her mother gladly turned their face toward pretty, dreamy Hetherford; to them the dearest spot in the world.

Mollie Andrews said that, for her part, she didn't care. Taking it all in all, she did not see but that they had a pretty good time. The Andrews had been coming to Hetherford for years, and were all deeply attached to the place; Mollie's handsome, scatterbrained brother Dick had set the seal of his approval on their choice of a summer resort, and thenceforth Mollie would have deemed it nothing short of heresy to call the place stupid. To be sure, Dick rarely turned up oftener than once a week, but then her cousin Clifford Archer, nicknamed "the fatal beauty," was wont to put in an appearance for a few days, frequently with his great chum Wendell Churchill, whose yacht was quite a familiar object in Hetherford Harbor.

"It is perfectly absurd of Emily," Mollie would end, with a toss of her head.

Emily always looked scornful, and Nan Birdsall, happy-go-lucky Nan, who rarely went away from Hetherford, would laugh gleefully.

"Poor Em," she exclaimed one evening, after one of her cousin's tirades, "you are man-crazy. Never mind, dear; you wait. I know a thing or two, and by and by when my ship comes in," looking around at the girls, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, "you will be surprised. Perhaps we will have more men here than we have bargained for."

"What do you mean, Nan?" they cried in chorus; but not a bit of satisfaction would Nan give them.

The parsonage adjoined the manor, and an opening in the hedge made intercourse between the two families an easy matter. Just across the road was the inn, where all the summer visitors stayed, and a quainter retreat could not be imagined. They formed only a small circle of people, but many were the happy times they had together.

CHAPTER II.

NAN'S SHIP ARRIVES.

"I wonder why we couldn't have a swim this morning, Jean?" Nathalie stood before her mirror, arranging her pretty brown tresses which, in spite of vigorous efforts with brush and comb, would curl, and refuse to be orderly. "Of course, Aunt Helen will say it is too early in the season."

"Well, I think that is absurd. It is warm enough. 'Afric's sunny clime' is not a circumstance to it. Look out, Jean, at the sunlight on the lawn. When it has that pinkish tinge, you may be sure it's hot."

Jean peeped through the half-open shutters.

"Oh! what a sweet day. Yes, it is going to be hot, and, unless Aunt Helen objects seriously, we will surely go in."

She crossed the room and, opening the wardrobe door, took out a pretty striped cotton gown. "Warm enough for this, isn't it?"

Nathalie nodded.

In a few minutes more the girls were both in the dining room. Helen and the children were already at breakfast.

"How late you are," cried Helen, looking up from an open letter. "I wish you——"

"Never mind, dear," interrupted Nathalie. "It will all be the same a hundred years hence."

"Oh, yes, I suppose so," sighed Helen. "Gladys, don't beat on the table with your spoon. The noise is distracting."

"And although your tones are dulcet, my love, suppose you give us that little song after breakfast," and Jean slipped into her place at her little sister's side.

Gladys turned and threw her arms around her.

"I didn't see you come in, Jeanie."

"That is because you have not eyes in the back of your head, pet."

"Of course I haven't. Nobody has, 'cept fairies and princesses, I s'pose," and Gladys straightened herself up, and, in so doing, overturned her glass of milk into her lap.

"Gladys," cried Helen sharply, "look at your nice, clean frock. It is a shame."

The little girl's lips trembled, and her bright blue eye overflowed with tears.

"You don't s'pose I did it a-purpose—for nothing."

"No, no, dear. Of course not. Don't cry. I didn't mean to scold you. There, get down and run up to Mary, like a good little girl, and have your frock changed," for the sight of tears always put an end to Helen's best efforts at severity.

But Gladys' feelings had been hurt, and now that she was mistress of the situation, she had no intention of drying her eyes.

"I think you were unkind, Helen," she began plaintively.

"Don't be a baby, Gladys," interposed Nathalie irritably. "I declare, I think it a perfect nuisance to have our breakfast spoiled in this way. If you can't behave, you had better have yours in the nursery."

The child's tears were about to begin afresh when a pleasant voice was heard at the door.

"Good-morning. Can I come in?" And without awaiting permission Miss Hill crossed the room. In her pretty flannel gown and garden hat she made a very pleasing picture. "How are you, puss?" And she stooped and kissed little Gladys' tear-stained cheek, smiling meanwhile at the girls, as she divined the situation.

"All right," said the little girl, her face brightening perceptibly, for she dearly loved Miss Hill.

"Helen, here is a rose," said Eleanor, "and when you smell it you will realize that June is here."

Helen smiled her thanks.

"Well, Eleanor,