don't feel at all like that. I've had a feast of fish and enjoyed it. But if I were to express a preference it would be for the hard-shelled suitors. Do select one of those for a husband, Marcia," begged she, whimsically. "The others are all very well. Indeed, that blue-fish swain was magnificent in his way, but me for the crustaceans."

"Sylvia! You absurd child!"

"Just consider the clam character for a moment—so silent, so close-mouthed; never stirring up trouble or wanting to be out nights. In my opinion, he would be an ideal helpmate. Not sensitive, either; nor jealous. Marcia, do marry one of the clams!

"I'm not so sure," went on the girl reflectively, "whether he would be affectionate. He seems somewhat undemonstrative. Still, contrast him with the lobster. Oh, I realize the lobster has more style, originality, and is more pretentious in every way. However, say what you will, he is grasping by nature and has a much less gentle disposition. Besides, he is restless and always eager to be on the move.

"Yes, all things taken together, I lean strongly toward a nice, peaceable clam husband for you, Marcia. He'd be twice as domestic in his tastes. I acknowledge the blue-fish has more back-bone, but you do not need that. You have plenty yourself. Most women, I suppose, would be carried away by his dash, his daring, his persistence. He has a certain sporty quality that appeals; but he is so outrageously stubborn! He never gives in until he has to. He'd be dreadful to live with."

"Sylvia, you are ridiculous!" Marcia protested. "You forget I am your aunt."

"My mistake. I did forget it, I'll confess; and what's more I probably always shall. To me you are just a girl I'd be head-over-heels in love with if I were a man. I don't blame all the clams, lobsters, and flounders for flocking over here to make love to you."

"Stop talking nonsense."

"But it isn't nonsense. It's the truth. Isn't that precisely what they're doing? You certainly are not deluding yourself into thinking these men come gallivanting out here over the flats with the mere philanthropic purpose of seeing you don't starve to death, do you?" Sylvia demanded.

"Perhaps they come to see you," hedged Marcia feebly.

"Me! Now Marcia, pray do not resort to deceit and attempt to poke this legion of mermen off on me. As a relative, I insist on having a truthful, respectable aunt. Consider my youth. Isn't it your Christian duty to set me a good example? Whether you wed any of these nautical worshippers or not is your own affair. But at least honesty compels you to acknowledge they're your property."

A shadow, fleet as the rift in a summer cloud, passed over Marcia's face, but transient as it was Sylvia, sensitively attuned and alert to changes of mood in others, noticed it.

"What a little beast I am, Marcia," she cried, throwing her arm impulsively about the other woman. "Forgive my thoughtlessness. I wouldn't have hurt you for the world. You know I never saw Uncle Jason. He left home when I was a child and is no reality to me. Even mother remembered him only as he was when a boy. She kept a little picture of him on her bureau, and on his birthdays always placed flowers beside it. She was fond of him, because he was only six when Grandmother died. After that, Mother took care of him and brought him up. She worried a good deal about him, I'm afraid, for it was a great responsibility and she herself was nothing but a girl. However, she did the best she could."

Sylvia stole a look at Marcia who had stiffened and now stood with eyes fixed on the misty world outside.

"Mother felt sorry, hurt, that Uncle Jason should have left home as he did, and never came back to see her. He was an impulsive, hot-headed boy and she said he resented her watchfulness and authority. But even though he ran away in a moment of anger, one would think years of absence would have smoothed away his resentment.

"For a little while he wrote to her; then gradually even his letters stopped. She never knew what sort of a man he became. Once she told me she supposed there must be lots of mothers in the world who merely sowed and never reaped—never saw the results of their care and sacrifice."

"Jason—Jason loved your mother," Marcia murmured in a voice scarcely audible. "I am sure of that."

"But if he loved her, why didn't he come to see her? I know it was a long journey, but if he could only have come once—just once. It would have meant so much!"

"Men are selfish—unfeeling. They forget," replied Marcia, bitterly. "You give your life to them and they toss aside your love and devotion as if it were so much rubbish."

The outburst, sharp with pain, burst from her involuntarily, awing Sylvia into silence.

What did she know of Jason, that dim heritage of her childhood? Of Marcia? Of their life together, she suddenly asked herself.

Dismayed, she stole a glance at her companion.

It was as if idly treading a flower-strewn path she had without warning come upon the unplumbed depths of a volcano's crater.

To cover the awkwardness of the moment, she bent to caress Prince Hal who had risen and stood, alert and listening beside her.

Only an instant passed before Marcia spoke again—this time with visible effort to recapture her customary manner.

"Suppose we have lobster Newburg this noon," suggested she. "I'll get the chafing-dish. What's the matter, Hal, old man? You look worried. Don't tell me you hear more fish swimming our way?"