Berty and her grandmother were having a quiet little picnic together. They had gone away up the river to Cloverdale, and, landing among the green meadows, had followed a path leading to a small hill crowned by a grove of elm-trees.

Here Berty had established her grandmother on a rug with cushions, magazines, and a new book, and the ever-present knitting.

Thinking that the little old lady wished to have a nap, Berty left her, and, accompanied by a mongrel dog who had come from River Street with them, roamed somewhat disconsolately along the river bank.

This proceeding on her part just suited the occupant of a second boat, who, unknown to Berty, had watched her pink and white one all the way from the city.

With strong, steady strokes he pulled near the[176] bank where the girl stood knee-deep in the high meadow-grass, then, with a hypocritical start, pretended to recognize her for the first time, just as he was rowing by.

“How de do, Berty—what are you doing here?”

“Grandma and I are having a picnic,” she said, in a lugubrious voice.

“A picnic,” he repeated, incredulously, “you mean a funeral.”

“I mean what I say,” she replied, crossly.

“Might a fellow land?” he asked, his eyes dancing mischievously.

“A fellow can land, or move on, or swim, or fly, for aught I care,” she responded, ungraciously.

He jumped up, sprang out of his boat, and fastened it to the same stake where Berty’s was moored.

“You’ve been looking cross-eyed at the sun,” he said, taking off his hat and fanning himself.

“Take care that you don’t do the same thing,” said Berty.

He looked at her sharply. She was cross, pure and simple, and with a satisfied smile he went on, “Might a fellow sit down on this grass? It looks uncommonly comfortable.”

“Oh, yes,” said Berty, seating herself near him. “One might as well sit as stand.”

“‘YOU’RE DYING TO TEASE ME’”

[177]

“This is pleasant,” said Tom, happily, leaning on one elbow with his hat over his eyes, and gazing dreamily at the river.

“It is the prettiest river in the world,” remarked Berty, decidedly.

“Come now—how many rivers have you seen?” inquired Tom.

“Lots of them.”

“And you have never been out of your native State.”

“I have been to Boston, and New York, and New Orleans. How strange that you should forget it,” replied Berty, wrathfully.

“What’s made you mad, Berty?” inquired Tom, with a brotherly air.

“You know,” she said, sulkily, “you’re dying to tease me.”

“Poor little girl,” murmured Tom, under his breath. Then he said, aloud, “Peter Jimson is in our house morning, noon, and night now.”

“Don’t I know it!” exclaimed Berty, indignantly, “and you are encouraging him, and you can’t bear him.”

“Come now, Berty,” said Tom, protestingly. “‘Can’t bear’ is a strong expression. I never thought much about him till he began sending business[178] my way. I tell you that makes a lot of difference. It isn’t in human nature to look critically at a man who gives you a helping hand in the struggle for existence. Unless he’s a monster, which Jimson isn’t.”

“And he has helped you?” asked Berty, curiously.

“Lots—he has a big influence in the city. Don’t you know about it?”

“About his influence?”

“No—about his favouring me.”

“He tells me nothing now,” and her tone was bitter.

“You’ve been a good friend to him, Berty. He is never tired of singing your praises.”

“To whom does he sing? To Selina?”

“I don’t know. I’m not with them much.”

“Then he sings them to you?”

“Yes, just as soon as I pitch him the tune.”

“I should think you’d know enough of me,” said Berty, peevishly. “I’m sure you’re one of the earliest objects I remember seeing in life.”

“Come now, Berty,” he replied, good-naturedly, “you needn’t be flinging my age up to me. I’m only six years older than you, anyway.”

“Well, that is an age.”

[179]

“How did you and Jimson fall out?” asked Tom, curiously. “I’d give considerable to know.”

“You’ll never know, now that I see you want to,” replied Berty, vigorously.

Tom meditatively chewed a piece of meadow-grass, then said, easily, “I spoke in the language of exaggeration. We all do it. Of course, I guess that you had a quarrel. Jimson was dancing about you morning, noon, and night, till he took a fancy to Selina. Then you were jealous.”

“It wasn’t that at all,” said Berty, unguardedly. “I wouldn’t be so silly. He broke his word about a package of silk.”

“Oh,” replied Tom, coolly, “that was the silk Selina was so delighted to get. He sent a boy to Boston for it.”

“Yes, and the arrangement, the very last arrangement, was for me to present it when it came. Several days went by; and I thought it queer I didn’t hear from him. Then I met him in the street. ‘Couldn’t the boy match the silk?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘he brought it fast enough.’

“‘And where is it?’ I asked.

“‘Miss Everest has it.’

“‘Miss Everest?’ I said. ‘How did she get it?’

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘when it came, I just couldn’t[180] resist. I caught it from the boy. I took a carriage to her house—she was just at breakfast, but she came out, and I gave it to her.’

“‘And what did she say?’ I asked. Now this is where I blame him, Tom. Just think, after all my kindness to him, and coaching him as to the ways of women, he just said, coolly, ‘I can’t tell you.’

“‘Can’t tell me?’ I repeated. ‘You’ve got to. I’m more interested in this affair than you are.’

“‘I—I can’t,’ he stammered. ‘I’ve seen Miss Everest several times since, and she says you’re only a child—not to tell everything to you.’

“‘Only a child!’ I said. ‘Very well!’ and I stalked away. He sent me a bouquet of carnations and maidenhair that evening, but of course flowers had no effect on me.”

“Selina is jealous of you,” said Tom, promptly.

“I’m not jealous of her,” returned Berty, sweetly. “I wish her every happiness, but I do think the Mayor might have been more open.”

“If he’s got to dance after Selina, his work’s cut out,” said Tom.

“Do you think she will marry him?” asked Berty, eagerly.

“Marry him—of course she will. I never saw[181] her so pleased over anything as she was over that silk affair. Jimson is a good-hearted fellow, Berty.”

“Good-hearted, yes, but he doesn’t keep his promises. He hasn’t got those pigeon-boxes up yet.”

“What pigeon-boxes?”

“He promised to have some nailed on the shed for me. The boxes are all made, but not put up.”

“I’ll do it,” said Tom, generously. “I’ll come to-morrow.”

“To-morrow will be Sunday.”

“Monday, then. Monday afternoon as soon as the office closes.”

“Very well,” said Berty, with a sigh, “but you’ll pr............