We ten

by Barbara Yechton

Now I had no more idea of asking Hilliard that—though I did want to know—than I had of flying; my mouth opened, and the words just came out without the least volition on my part,—in fact, I was perfectly astonished to hear them. More than once this has happened at home; Phil teases me about it, and Fee calls me Mrs. Malaprop, because—that's the trouble—these speeches are almost always just the things I shouldn't have said. I'm sure I don't know what I am to do to prevent it.

My face actually burnt,—it must have been as red as a beet. "I didn't mean to ask you that," I blurted out. While I was speaking, Hilliard was saying, "Why, certainly not; I simply mentioned that you had a headache," in such a surprised voice that I felt more uncomfortable than ever: but wasn't it nice of him not to tell?

I just rushed into talk about the scenery as fast as I could go. From where we stood we could see the wild, rugged coast for miles,—the huge, bare brown rocks standing like so many grim sentinels guarding the spaces of shining white sand, which here and there sloped gently to the water's edge; the sea gulls resting, tiny white specks, against the dark rocks, or circling in flocks above them; the dark blue ocean, dotted with steamers and sailing-vessels and sparkling and dancing in the morning light, rolling up great white-crested waves that dashed on the rocks and threw up a cloud of foaming spray, and broke on the beach with a dull booming noise; and over all was the warm, glorious summer sunshine. As I looked and looked, all the disagreeableness slipped away, and it was splendid just to be alive. I thought of Felix, and how much he would enjoy all this beauty. We all think so much of the scenery at the Cottage, and really it is nothing compared with this. There the beach is smooth and nice, but it hasn't a rock on it; and the water—it's the Sound, you know—just creeps up on it with a soft lapping sound very different to the roar and magnificence of the ocean.

I was so surprised and delighted that first morning that I spoke out warmly. "Oh!" I cried, "isn't it beautiful! oh, it is grand! fascinating!—I could watch those waves all day!"

Hilliard's face lighted up. "I thought you would like it," he said. "You should see it in a storm,—it is magnificent! but it is terrible, too,"—he gave a little shudder. "I love the ocean, but I am afraid of it; it is treacherous."

"Afraid!" I looked at him in surprise,—the idea of a big strong boy as he is being afraid of the water! I opened my mouth to exclaim, "Well, I'm not afraid!" then remembered my unlucky remark of a few minutes before and said instead, and in a much milder tone, "After breakfast I'm going to explore those rocks, and get as near to the ocean as I can—"

"Don't attempt to do any climbing alone," broke in Hilliard, more positively than he usually speaks; "the rocks are very slippery, and you know nothing about the tides. People have been caught on those rocks and cut off—drowned—by the incoming tide, before they could reach the shore, or be rescued. I shall be very glad to go with you whenever—"

"Good-morning!" Mr. Erveng said, appearing in the doorway behind us; "will you young people come in and have some breakfast?"

Breakfast was served in a room that looked out on the garden; and everything was very nice, though quite different from our breakfasts at home. Mrs. Erveng was not down,—I found afterward that she always took her breakfast in her own room,—and Hilliard sat in his mother's place and poured the tea. I was thankful that Mr. Erveng hadn't asked me to do it; but it did look so queer to see a boy doing such a thing,—so like a "Miss Nancy," as Phil would say. Mr. Erveng and Hilliard talked a good deal about things that were going on in the world, and about books, and places they had been to. I was perfectly surprised at the way Mr. Erveng asked Hilliard's opinion, and listened to his remarks,—I couldn't imagine papa's doing such a thing with any of us, not even with Felix; and when I said anything, they both acted as if it were really worth listening to,—which is another thing that never happens in our family! And yet, on the other hand, Mr. Erveng goes off to Boston in the mornings without even saying good-bye to Mrs. Erveng or Hilliard,—they never know by what train he is coming home; and in the whole month I visited them I never once saw Hilliard and his mother kiss each other.

Now at home papa always tells some one of us when he is going out, and about when he will return; and if we children go anywhere, the whole family is sure to know of it; and quite often we kiss one another good-bye, and always at night. Nora often tells us that it isn't "good form" to do this; and sometimes, when she's in an airish mood, she calls us "a pack of kissers,"—as if that were something dreadful. Still, all the same, I'm glad that we're that sort of a family; and I am more than ever glad since I've been staying with the Ervengs.