As she spoke she was digging her heels into the fine white sand, and poking her hands in, and burying her arms up to her dimpled elbows.
"Oh, Father, isn't it gee-lorious! Sit down, won't you, and let us bury you in sand, all but your nose!"
"Not now," said Mr. Maynard, laughing. "Some day you may, when I'm in a bathing suit. But I don't care for pockets full of sand. Now, I'm going back to home and Mother. You two may stay down here till luncheon time if you like."
Mr. Maynard went back to the house, and King and Marjorie continued their explorations. The beach was flat and smooth, and its white sand was full of shells, and here and there a few bits of seaweed, and farther on some driftwood, and in the distance a pier, built out far into the ocean.
"Did you ever see such a place?" cried Marjorie, in sheer delight.
"Well, I was at the seashore last year," said King, "while you were at Grandma's."
"But it wasn't as nice as this, was it? Say it wasn't!"
"No; the sand was browner. This is the nicest sand I ever saw. Say, Mops, let's build a fire."
"What for? It isn't cold."
"No, but you always build fires on the beach. It's lots of fun. And we'll roast potatoes in it."