DOWN TO BEAVER TAIL.
SUNDAY morning brought the fresh, lovely stillness which Sundays in
early summer seem always to possess in Newport. Later in the season the
roll of wheels and the jingle of plated harnesses come to mar this
peacefulness; but till the very end of June it endures, and is one of
the sweet things of the place.
The Joys were at breakfast. It was one of the points in which Mrs. Joy
took most pride, that this meal was served in a special apartment known
as the breakfast-room, and not, as with most families, in the room where
they dined. The breakfast-room was not large, but sumptuous in all its
appointments. A critical taste might have objected that the plush
curtains which shaded the windows were too heavy for summer; that the
begilded wallpaper "swore" a little at its own dado and frieze, as well
as deadened the effect of the pictures which hung against it; and that
the drapery of lace and velvet which veiled the fireplace made a fire
inconvenient and almost impossible, however cold the weather might be.
But a critical taste might have found the same faults with the whole
house. The general effect was of costliness and magnificence; but the
details were at variance, and comfort and homelikeness had been
sacrificed in the effort to make everything fine. There was a library,
with almost no books in it; a ball-room, which was used only for balls,
and looked bare and shut up on ordinary days; a huge drawing-room, full
of costly toys,--tables loaded with Sevres cups, other tables with
processions of pug-dogs in precious china, snuff-boxes, patch-boxes;
chimney-piece crowded with porcelain figures and bits of old Dresden
ware; there was a great deal of carving and _or-moulu_,--but it all had
the air of being created and kept for company use, and deserted the
moment company went away. Mrs. Joy had only got so far in her art
education as this, that she bought everything which cost a great deal of
money and which her neighbors bought, and she never stopped to reason
about such minor points as taste, fitness, convenience, or the
adaptation of an article to her own particular needs.
Mrs. Joy was the very image of a prosperous woman, as she sat behind her
heavy silver coffee-pots and cream-jugs, reading the Sunday paper, to
get which her groom had ridden a couple of miles before breakfast. Her
very black hair was trained into a line of formal rings across her
forehead, which as yet scarcely showed a wrinkle. Her tightly laced
figure was almost as slender as her daughter's; and the hand sparkling
with diamonds, which held the paper, was white and youthful. Handsome
she certainly was; and people called her agreeable, for she talked a
great deal, in a noisy, lively way, and had a caressing manner for all
persons whom she thought it worth her while to caress. But her face was
hard; and when the society smile died out of it, it was neither
intelligent nor kindly. Mrs. Joy had been extremely pretty in her youth.
Berenice was like her; but Tom Joy the son resembled his father, who had
died three or four years before the opening of this little story.
Berry and her friend Ethel Curtis were talking about a sailing party
which they had planned for the next day.
"The Grays and the Halletts, and Julia Prime, that makes seven; mamma
for matron, eight; then there's Tom and George Rivington, and the two
Fosters. I can't think where we are to get the other three men."
"It isn't like a dinner party. The numbers need not be exactly equal,"
suggested Ethel.
"That's true, but it's a great deal better fun to have them equal. Men
hate to talk to two girls at once, and the girls who haven't any men to
talk to feel left out. Carrol Benton is coming up the end of the week; I
wish he were here now."
"I guess you'd better look up some other matron, and let me off," said
Mrs. Joy, laying down her newspaper. "I don't care much for sailing. I'm
so apt to feel a little sick, and that spoils all the pleasure of it.
Ask Mrs. Freddy Allen; she is young, and likes to go everywhere, and
Freddy will go along and make another gentleman."
"That will do nicely if you really don't want to go, mamma. We'll invite
them all as we come out of church, and save the bother of writing notes.
It's easier to explain when you see people than to write down
everything."
"Yes, that's one of the conveniences of going to church," remarked Mrs.
Joy, calmly. "I've often had as many as three or four invitations,
coming out of Trinity on a Sunday morning in the season. These muffins
are horrid. James, tell the cook she ought to be ashamed of herself to
send up such things. They're as tough as leather, and burned besides--as
black as my shoe, I do declare."
"Yes, 'm."
And James departed to incense the cook with the unsoftened message. The
cook declared that when ladies came down an hour late for breakfast,
they must expect tough muffins; and for her part she didn't care whether
they were good or not; she didn't think much of the place anyway, and
didn't mean to stay on. There'd be plenty of people coming in a week or
two, and plenty of places to pick and choose from. Mrs. Joy was always
having little difficulties with her servants.
Trinity Church looked cool and shady, as the party entered it from the
dazzle of the outer sunshine. Berenice Joy was perfectly well-trained in
the outward forms of devotion. She called herself "High Church;" and
nothing could be more graceful than the manner in which she glided up
the aisle, bowed to the chancel, and sank on her knees, for what was
supposed to be a short interval of silent prayer. But her eyes went
straight to the Grays' pew the moment she rose, and from thence to the
Halletts', and she whispered to Ethel, "They're all here. That's nice."
Then she indulged in a long stare at Candace, who had come to church
with her cousins, and who, in her new cream-and-brown foulard, with the
daisy-trimmed hat, and a pair of the birthday gloves on her slender
hands, looked quite differently from the ill-dressed little passenger of
the "Eolus" the Monday before.
"Do look! That's the very girl we saw on the boat," went on Berenice, in
the same low whisper. "Did you ever! Hasn't Mrs. Gray done her over
nicely? I wonder where she got that hat?"
"I wonder what she has done with the old one?"
"Given it to the cook, or sold it to the rag-and-bottle man," retorted
Berry. Then came a suppressed giggle, which ended in sudden, forced
gravity as the opening words of the service fell on their ears, and they
rose with the rest of the congregation.
Candace was not conscious that she was being looked at. She had only
once or twice in her life been in an Episcopal church, and never before
in an old one. Trinity seemed to her as wonderful and picturesque as
some of the churches she had read about in books. She looked at the
square pews where people sat sideways, instead of fronting the chancel
as in ordinary churches. She noted the tall wands with gilded tops,
which marked the places of the junior and senior wardens; the quaint,
swinging chandeliers of old brass; the tablets on the walls, two or
three bearing inscriptions in honor of dead rectors or other departed
worthies, one to the memory of a young girl, with a beautiful flying
figure in bas-relief, carved in white marble. She gazed with amazement
at the pulpit,--one of the ancient "three-decker" pattern, which is
rarely seen now-a-days, with a clerk's desk below, a reading-desk
above, above that a lofty pulpit for the clergyman, to which a narrow
flight of stairs gave access, and suspended over all an enormous
extinguisher-shaped sounding-board. It looked large and heavy enough to
crush any clergyman who should be caught by its fall while in act of
preaching; and Candace watched its slight oscillations with an
apprehensive fascination, till she recollected that it must have hung
there for a hundred years at least, so there was no reason to suppose
that it would drop on this particular Sunday.
By turning her head a very little she could get a glimpse of the
organ-loft, with its quaint little organ bearing two gilded mitres and a
royal crown on top, and below, the inscription, "The Gift of George
Berkeley, late Lord Bishop of Cloyne." She wondered who George Berkeley
could have been, and resolved to ask Cousin Kate as they went home if
there was any story about him.
There was no whispering or giggling in Mrs. Gray's pew. The girls were
too well trained for such irreverence; and except that Georgie
interchanged one little smile with Berry Joy as she came in, not one of
them looked away from the clergyman till the sermon was over and the
benediction pronounced. It had been an impressive service to Candace,
who was used to the barer forms of the Congregational church; and she
was surprised to perceive how little solemnizing effect it seemed to
have on the congregation in general.
The moment people rose from their knees, a low buzz of conversation
began. Berry Joy seized on Georgie and Gertrude, and began to unfold the
sailing plan as they walked down the aisle. Mrs. Joy took possession of
Cousin Kate. Everybody seemed to have something to say to somebody.
Candace caught scraps of half-a-dozen different conversations before she
reached the door, and not one of them related in any way to the sermon
or to anything religious. She overheard one invitation to dinner,
another to drive, an inquiry about a dressmaker, a bit of gossip about a
new engagement, a request for a recipe for mayonnaise. She supposed it
must be the right thing to chatter thus, since all these
delightful-looking people did it; still it seemed to her country notions
rather queer.
The carriage was waiting in Spring Street, a little farther up the hill.
She did not like to get in till the others were ready, so she stepped
aside among the gravestones, and looked up to where the white, slender
spire of the old church towered against the blue. She was trying to make
out the Episcopal mitre surmounted by the gilded weather-vane, when Mrs.
Gray saw and beckoned to her.
She was still talking with Mrs. Joy, and that lady was saying, "I may
possibly not be able to go myself, but if I am prevented I will see that
the young folks have a proper matron. And then, my dear, there's Captain
Davis, you know. I never let Berry sail with any one else. He's so safe
and so careful, and the weather promises to be perfect."
"It certainly is perfect to-day," said Mrs. Gray. "Candace dear, I want
to introduce you to Mrs. Joy. My cousin, Miss Arden, Mrs. Joy; or rather
my niece, for her mother was like my own sister. She has come to spend
the summer with me. Cannie, Mrs. Joy is the mother of the young lady who
came down with you in the 'Eolus.'"
"Ah, indeed, the girls did not tell me about that," said Mrs. Joy.
"Well, my dear,"--Mrs. Joy would have said "my dear" to Queen Victoria
or the Empress of China, if she had ever had the chance of an interview
with those potentates,--"you've come to a charming place and to charming
relatives, I'm sure, and you can't fail to enjoy your summer. You must
come with your cousins to-morrow to this sailing-party which my young
folks are getting up. They'll be delighted, I'm sure."
"Thank you," said Candace, timidly, glancing at Mrs. Gray.
"That will be very nice," said her cousin. "Cannie has not been on the
water yet. It is a new pleasure for her. At four o'clock, you said, Mrs.
Joy?"
"Yes, dear, at four. And don't trouble to send down for the girls. It's
impossible to tell exactly when they will get in, as it depends on the
wind, and Berry will have the beach-wagon, and can bring them all up as
well as not. Good-by, dear." And Mrs. Joy sailed toward her carriage,
where the two girls were already seated.
"I've asked that Miss Arden who's staying with the Grays to go out
sailing with you to-morrow," she said, as she took her seat. "You'll
want another gentleman, Berry."
"Oh, mamma, what _did_ you do that for? She's the pokiest little thing.
We didn't want her at all."
"Well, Mrs. Gray introduced her, and said she was almost her niece, and
I thought it seemed to be expected. Mrs. Gray is always polite to our
visitors, you know, and I don't like to seem to slight any of hers.
What's the matter with the girl?"
"Oh, nothing's the matter, only she's poky, and doesn't seem to fit in
somehow. You would understand if you had seen her the day she came. Mrs.
Gray has dressed her up, as you might be sure she would; but then she
looked like the backwoods, didn't she, Ethel?"
"She seemed nice-appearing enough to-day. You'll have to make the best
you can of it, I guess; for Mrs. Gray accepted for her."
"It doesn't really signify," said Berry, discontentedly; "only it throws
the party all out of shape. And she's younger than any of the rest, only
just seventeen, Georgie says. She'd a great deal better stay at home
with Marian."
It was fortunate that Candace did not guess how unwelcome her company
was to the getters-up of the party, for the idea of the sail was most
delightful to her. She had never been out in a boat in her life, not
even on the smallest pond; and she had just discovered the strong
fascination of the sea. She longed to get nearer to it, to know it
better; and in her innocent little heart she thought, "How very kind it
was in Mrs. Joy to invite me."
Sunday was always a particularly pleasant day at the Grays'. Mrs. Gray
was wont to declare that though she did not believe in the Jewish
Sabbath, she did with all her heart believe in the Christian day of
rest; and she took pains to make it a happy one for all under her roof.
She gave her servants as much liberty as she could, simplified their
work, and provided a plenty of good reading for such of them as stayed
at home. Her own time was much more at the service of her family than it
could be on ordinary days. She always took a walk with the girls in the
cool of the afternoon, if the day were pleasant, and kept some book of a
thoughtful kind to read aloud in the evenings. This Sunday it happened
to be that wonderful little prose poem of Mrs. Oliphant's, "A
Beleaguered City." Cannie found it absorbingly interesting, and even Mr.
Gray laid aside his newspaper and listened to the very end.
The reading done, Candace found a chance to ask her question about
George Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, the donor of the organ. There was a
story about him, as it turned out, and a very interesting one. Mrs. Gray
told how, when Dean of Derry in Ireland, the project of establishing a
college in Bermuda for the education of English boys and of Indian
youths to act as missionaries to their own people, had taken possession
of his mind; and he had given up his preferment, and crossed the sea
with his family to engage in this chosen work. She described their
landing in Newport on a Sunday morning when everybody was at church, and
how the clergyman stopped in the middle of his sermon, and with all his
congregation following him, hurried down to the water-side to receive
the distinguished guest. She promised to take Candace out some day to
see Whitehall,--the house which he built on the island, and in which he
lived for some years, till the impossibility of carrying out his scheme
for Bermuda drove him back again to Ireland; and also the rocky shelf
still called "Bishop Berkeley's Rock," where he is said to have composed
the lines which begin
"Westward the course of empire takes its way."
Then she looked up a photograph from Smibert's picture of Dean Berkeley
and his family to show them, and by that time the girls had all grown
interested; and when Marian said that she, too, wanted to go to see
Whitehall, Georgie and Gertrude begged to be included also, and Mrs.
Gray promised to take them all.
"One of the Dean's little children is buried in Trinity churchyard,
Cannie," she ended; "you can look up the stone some day. It has 'Lucia
Berkeley' carved upon it."
"I should like to," said Cannie. "It has been so nice to hear about him.
How many interesting things have happened in Newport! I shall care a
great deal more about that funny little organ, next Sunday."
* * * * *
Newport Harbor shone all blue and silver in the sun, as the party
stepped on board the cat-boat "Cornelia" at sharp four on Monday
afternoon. Mrs. Fred Allen, a tall, graceful brunette, seemed as much of
a girl as any of the party which she was nominally to "matronize;" but
"she _was_ married though she didn't look it," as Berry Joy remarked,
and so was qualified to fill the place. There was a fair wind, which
sent the boat smoothly along with little or no motion as they glided
past the long sunken shoal off the end of Goat Island, and opened the
view of Brenton's Cove, with the wreck of the old slaver lying in the
deep shadow under one bank, opposite the ribs of the other stranded
bark; while from beyond in the laughing bay, white-winged boats flitted
to and fro, and seemed to beckon and make tempting signals to the poor
defeated barks who might never sail or enjoy the sea again. Candace
ventured to ask Gertrude in a whisper, "What are those?"
"Oh, only some old wrecks," replied Gertrude, carelessly; and she turned
from Candace to talk to Tom Joy, who sat next to her.
The "Cornelia" was now running on the favoring wind between Fort Adams
and the Conanicut shore. On one hand lay Newport, which looked like a
dream city in the soft shine of the afternoon; on the other was the long
hill line of the island, green with grasses, except where broken now and
then by rocky cliffs, and indented with innumerable little coves and
inlets,--some ending in strips of pebbly beach, others in stony shelves
overhung by sea-weeds. The water was beautiful in color,--here pale
flashing green, there purple in the shadow, with gleams of golden light
and a low reach of shimmering blue toward the horizon. On sped the boat
till they could almost touch the ledges. The rounded outline of the old
fortification on the upper hill towered above their heads. Then suddenly
she curved and wheeled off on the other tack, with the sharp line of
Castle Hill and the Agassiz Point full in view.
Candace gazed with delighted eyes to left and right. Her mind was full
of questions, but there seemed no one of whom she could ask them.
Georgie and Berry were perched on the extreme point of the bow, with a
young man stretched at their feet. Mrs. Fred was on the cabin roof
amidships, with quite a little court of girls and young men about her.
The couples who sat opposite and beside her seemed quite absorbed in
each other. No one had spoken to Candace since the first introductions,
and she was too shy to open a conversation with anybody.
"How I wish I knew!" she sighed to herself, half aloud.
Looking up, she met the shrewd, twinkling eyes of the Captain. Perhaps
he had caught the words, for he asked encouragingly, "Did you speak,
Miss?"
"No," said Candace, "I don't think I spoke. But I was wondering about
that--that--_thing_ up there," pointing to the Fort.
"That? That's Fort Dumpling, as folks call it. It is a kind of a queer
old place, ain't it? They don't use it now for no war purposes, but it
makes a pretty p'int in the landscape, and folks go there for picnics
and such in the summer season."
"When was it built?" asked Candace, charmed to find somebody able and
willing to satisfy her curiosity.
"Wa'al, I reckon it was about 1812, when we was a-tackling the British
for the last time. 'Tain't very much of a fort to look at; but if you
was to mount some of them powerful guns they make now on the walls,
them and the others over at Fort Adams yonder would protect the channel
pretty well. The shot'd reach clear across. Why, you hardly think it
perhaps, but not more'n four or five years ago, there was some folks who
had come on a kind of an excursion, taking their lunches up there by
Fort Dumpling, and some soldiers was firing at a long-range target over
there to Fort Adams, and one of the balls came over and hit a young
lady."
"How dreadful!" said Candace, her eyes measuring the long distance
between the two points. "And it seems so far away. I suppose the young
lady felt perfectly safe. I am sure I should have. Did it kill her?"
"Oh, no! they thought at first it had, but it didn't turn out so bad as
was expected. The soldiers, they felt mighty mean, I expect. You see,
they didn't intend a mite of harm to her or anybody; but it just shows
how far them big guns carry now-a-days. A war-ship now, unless she was
some kind of a monitor or that, would stand a fair chance of being
stove and sent to the bottom before she could get in to attack Newport."
"What a fanny little house that is close down to the water!" remarked
Candace, looking off to the opposite shore.
"That's Professor Agassiz's laboratory. Do y' see that kind of a cove
which sets in there near by the building, and a little black thing
sticking up out of it? That's the pipe of his steam-launch. He and the
rest go out in it and dredge for fish and such like, and then they
experiment on them inside."
"What do they do that for?" asked Candace.
"Wa'al, they want to find out about 'em, I reckon. I was in there once
and saw them at work, but I couldn't make nothing out of it, and there
wasn't anybody I could ask."
"Oh, what is that?" cried Candace, as the "Cornelia," tacking again,
opened one of the little bays on the south end of Conanicut, where a
small steam vessel was lying. Two boats, which seemed to belong to her,
were rowing in a parallel line with each other, and behind them
appeared a long line of bobbing points which she could not at all
understand.
"That's one of the fishing steamers, and the boats are drawing her
nets," explained the Captain. "Didn't you ever see a seine drawn before?
Wa'al, I declare! I'm mighty glad we happened just in time, for it's a
cur'us spectacle. I guess we'll kind of hang about till they get the
nets in, and then I'll take the 'Cornelia' up near enough for you to
see."
"Captain, there are the seine-boats out," called Tom Joy at the same
moment. "Let's sail up and see what they've caught."
The two boats began to near each other as they reached the limits of the
long elliptical curves which made their course; and presently a great
number of scintillating specks were seen in the space enclosed between
them. There were the leaping fish, just conscious that they were crowded
into a confined place, and desirous of escape. When they were quite
close to one another, the boats turned and began to row for the
steamer. The "Cornelia" followed; and the Captain with a twist of the
tiller threw her into the wind just beyond the great net, which by that
time was being rapidly hauled in.
It was a wonderful thing to see,--the heavy mass of floundering fishes
pouring over into the steamer's hold. Thousands and thousands of
quivering silvery shapes of all kinds, from the fat, oily-bodied
menhaden, to weird horned monsters with gaping mouths, and
strange, half-translucent blocks like jelly, which seemed to have no
mouths at all. Large and small, pinky white, black, blue,--in they
poured. Now and then some fish more lucky than his fellows would splash
over the side of the net and escape to liberty and the deep sea; now and
then a fisherman with a sudden dash of his hand would single out a
specimen choicer than the rest, a blue-fish, a chicken cod, or a
sea-bass.
The little company in the sail-boat shared all the excitement of the
catch. The young men left their flirtations for the boat's side, where
they could get a better view. A great deal of chaff went on between
Captain Davis and the captain of the menhaden steamer. Tom Joy amused
himself by bargaining for blue-fish, and actually bought three big
flapping specimens for a dollar and a quarter. They were deposited on
the bottom of the "Cornelia," where they leaped painfully up and down,
while the girls retreated for refuge to the upper deck, till Captain
Davis at last caught the fish and stowed them away in his little cabin.
It was not till the last loop of the seine was emptied, the last fish
secured, and the boats were making ready for another cast, that the
"Cornelia" finally glided away; and by that time a soft crimson glow had
gathered in the west and the sun was nearing the horizon edge. The wind
blew more freshly now, and with a zest and coolness which it had not had
earlier in the afternoon.
Captain Davis pointed out to Candace the light-ship anchored in the
offing between Point Judith and Brenton's Reef, and told her how the men
who lived on board of her did not see a face from land for weeks
together sometimes, when winds were stormy and waves rough. Candace
listened eagerly. The rest of the party had gone back to their old
places, but there was not so much chatter now. The dreamy influences of
the hour were felt by every one. Dick Foster was quoting Tennyson in a
low voice to pretty Julia Prime. Berry Joy and Georgie still kept up a
fitful conversation with their cavalier; but Gertrude had grown silent,
and Tom Joy was whistling softly to himself, with his eyes fixed on the
sunset.
The "Cornelia" sped silently seaward. Suddenly they were in the shadow
of a deep cove at the very end of Conanicut; and close by them rose out
of the sea an immense square table of rock, over which, still as it was,
the surge was constantly flinging showers of white spray. The whole top
of this rock was black with large sea-birds. Candace had never imagined
such a sight. The birds seemed crowding each other on every inch of
space. Each moment some of them would rise, wheel in air with wild cries
and screams, and then settle again to dispute for room, while the
seething foam splashed over them; and the incessant flutter of their
wings, the dashing spray, and the long wash of waves at the base of the
rock gave to their place of refuge the effect of movement, so that it
seemed to sway and float in the sea.
"Oh, what a wonderful place!" cried Candace. "Such big birds, and so
many of them,--what do you call them, Captain?"
"Wa'al, they're mostly cormorants and gulls, I reckon. That's what we
call them down to Newport. They ain't no good for eating, so they don't
get shot; and they do increase powerfully, though it seems to me I never
did see quite so many on the Kettle Bottom before as this afternoon."
"Is that the name of the rock?"
"Yes, the Kettle Bottom Rock; that's what it's called. It's a queer
place. There was a painter here last summer, and he made a picter of it,
with them birds all flying over it, which folks said was as like as
like."
The line of hotels on Narragansett Beach was now plainly in sight. They
were almost off Beaver Tail, and the sea was rougher.
"Captain, we may as well put about," said Tom Joy. "The sun's going
down, and there's rather more motion hereabouts than the ladies like."
So they put about and sped harborward, helped by the tide which was now
running swiftly in. Frank Rivington began to sing in a mellow tenor
voice little barcarolles and Venetian boat-songs, which were full of a
measured rhythmic movement like oar-strokes and the beat of waves. The
pink in the west deepened after the sun went down to a vivid orange red,
and flamed higher and higher till the zenith caught the glow; and a
little crescent moon, which was climbing up, swung like a tiny silver
boat on a crimson tide. It was all like a dream, to which the noiseless
speed of the boat offered no interruption.
"Good-night, Captain," said Candace, gently, as the "Cornelia" touched
the wharf, at the upper end of which the carriages were waiting for
them. "I'm so much obliged to you for telling me all about the things."
"You're welcome, I'm sure," replied the hearty Captain. "It's been
nothing but a pleasure so far as I'm concerned. Hope I may take you out
sailing again, Miss."
"Oh, I hope so. I think sailing is lovely."
"Good-by, Miss Arden. I hope you have enjoyed it," said Mrs. Allen, as
she was borne off by her husband. It was the sole remark addressed by
the "matron" of the party to the little stranger under her care during
that afternoon; but Candace had not felt neglected.
"Oh, yes; very much, thank you," she replied. Tom Joy, who had waked up
to the sense that "the little girl in the red hat" had not had much
attention paid her on the sail, tried to get up a conversation as the
beach-wagon climbed the hill; but Candace had but little small talk at
her command, and they did not get on very fluently.
"I've had a lovely time, Miss Joy," she said shyly, as they were set
down at home.
"I'm sure I'm glad. Good-night, Miss Arden." And that was all the notice
which Berenice Joy took of her youngest guest, beyond the necessary
good-afternoon when they first met on the wharf.
Candace was too unexacting, and too much accustomed to think of herself
as a child to whom no particular attention was due, to realize or resent
being treated with this scant courtesy. She told Cousin Kate about the
sail and the seine steamer, and all the Captain's tales and
explanations, with a glow of enjoyment which surprised Gertrude, and
perhaps pricked her conscience somewhat; for that night, at
hair-brushing time, she surprised Georgie by the observation, "After
all, Cannie is quite a sweet little thing."
"So she is, sweet enough; but what makes you think of it just now?"
"Why, we rather left her out this afternoon, I am afraid. Hardly anybody
said a word to her, except the Captain. It was rude enough of Berry, for
it was her party; but I think it was worse for us. Any other girl would
have been hurt and cross, and showed it; but Cannie never seemed to mind
a bit, and enjoyed everything, and was just as nice and pleasant as if
she had been the belle of the party."
"Well, it _was_ too bad," said Georgie, penitently. "I never thought
about it, and I sat ever so far off from her, and Arnold Foster was so
funny--in fact, I forgot Cannie. I took it for granted that she was
being entertained, somehow."
"I'm afraid both of us find it pretty easy to forget Cannie," remarked
Gertrude. "Well, I shall try to do better another time."