Archibald Lyndsay went down to the beach again, where Carington, not very happy, sat waiting on the stern of his canoe. He rose as his host came near.

“This way,” said Lyndsay. “And now”—as they walked to and fro on the upper shingles—“may I ask you to let me understand it all?”

Carington quietly related the scene on the shore, omitting nothing. When he had ended, Lyndsay said:

“I have probably to thank you for a life which is very dear to me. I have no words in which to say what I feel. We are very deep in your debt.”

“Oh, any one would—”

“No—I understand. You are a little like myself, I fancy. To have too much obliged another has its embarrassments. I won’t ask you now to let my wife say her own thankfulness; but come and breakfast to-morrow, and bring Mr. Ellett.”

“With pleasure.”

“By the way—and you will pardon me—what was all that about Fairfield and a bowman?”

“Simply, Mr. Lyndsay, that I am still, in my holiday .pn +1 times, a bit of a foolish boy, and when Polycarp came up for a man and could get none, I supposed it was for you, and just as a frolic induced him to let me play bowman. I had, of course, not the remotest idea that it was for Miss Lyndsay. May I ask you to accept for her my most humble apologies?”

“I see,” said Lyndsay, laughing. “It has its amusing side.”

“Yes, but— Well, it ceased to be amusing when I realized the annoyance it might bring to Miss Lyndsay.”

“I dare say you will be able to make your peace,” said his host, as Carington took his hand. At the boat, to which he walked with the elder man, he paused:

“May I say a word to that boy of yours?”

“To Ned? Yes, certainly.” He called, “Ned! Halloa! Come here!” for the lad had gone up to the cabin with Rose.

“Coming,” cried Ned, from the porch, where, with Anne, he was trying to make a good case for Jack.

Meanwhile, as Lyndsay was ordering a boat up to Jack, Ned came down to the strand.

“Mr. Carington wished to see you,” said Lyndsay. “Good-by, and breakfast at half-past eight to-morrow”; and so, with ready tact, he went up the cliff, leaving Ned with Carington.

“I wanted to see you a moment, Ned, while the matter is fresh. I want to say that I saw the whole affair on the shore. I was but thirty yards away. Perhaps you won’t think it a liberty, my lad, if I say you behaved admirably, and kept your wits, too. 197You showed both good sense and courage.” He spoke as if he were addressing an equal.

Ned flushed with pleasure. “Oh, thank you!”

“That’s all. I think you and I shall be friends after this. You must come up and see me; we might kill a salmon. Good-by.” And he pushed off.

Ned stood a moment, in his thoughtful way, and then went back up the steps to Miss Anne, who was now at ease as to Rose, and well pleased with her dearest nephew.

“What was it?” she inquired.

“Oh, not much—nothing.”

“I think I know.”

“No!”

“Yes; he wanted to say you had behaved well.”

“Oh, bother, Aunt Anne! What’s the use of your asking, if you know? You always do know.”

Then Ned went away, and Archibald Lyndsay came out and strode uneasily up and down the porch.

“Archie,” said Anne. “Brother.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Are you troubled?”

“Yes, of course. How should I be other than troubled?”

“But why?”

“Why? Jack has behaved like a selfish, thoughtless—”

“No; he is not at bottom selfish. Thoughtless—yes; and he has the vices of his virtues. He is so bold, and so resolute in action—so enjoys the peril he creates. Can’t you see what such a character wants? 198You may rest assured, my dear Archie, that he is quite enough punished.”

“He is incidentally punished.”

“But—”

“I don’t want to hear any more, Anne. He has behaved like a blackguard.”

“No.”

“Confound the women!” he said, and walked away; but in an hour was at the shore to meet Jack, who landed a little dismayed, his grunting cub still expostulating in the only language known to juvenile bears.

“Well, sir! I have heard this agreeable story!”

“But, father—”

“I should think you might be fatigued!”

Now, a good kicking would have been preferred by any of these boys to the father’s sarcasm.

“Go up to the house, undress, and go to bed. I don’t want to see you for a day. No words, sir, or I shall lose my temper. Off with you—you are not fit to associate with gentlemen.”

Without a word more, Jack went up the steps and did as he was told; in consequence of which Margaret wept a little, and Anne, who thought on the whole that Jack had gotten off better than she expected, betook herself to her books, with a full determination to have it out with the boy in her own way, and at a later date.

It was well into the afternoon when Carington reached his camp, and found Ellett still away on the river.

199“I shall catch it!” said Fred, with a grin at the prospect. He made use of the interval to change his clothes and get rid of the stained garments, after which he ordered a smudge, pulled open the tent-flaps, and cast himself on the camp mattress, for the first time realizing that he was tired, or, at least, had that sense of languor which follows upon intense excitement. The tent-fly was up—the triangular space thus open to view framed prettily the beach, the men and canoes, the river, and the hills beyond. The smoke of the cedar-smudge at times dimmed the picture. At last, being absolutely comfortable, the cushions just right, the midge and black fly routed, he carefully filled and lit his pipe, reflecting, as he did so, on the varied value of tobacco, which he had never misused. Next he sought in one pocket after another, until he came upon a worn note-book. Among its scraps of verse and memoranda he found the well-known apostrophe of El Din Attar to the pipe. He read it with a smile.

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