"Bettie," cried Mrs. Crane, from the bank, "come out of that lake! You're a sick girl——"
"I'm not, either," contradicted Bettie, indignantly. "I feel just fine."
"I'm glad to hear it," returned motherly Mrs. Crane, "but I don't want you to take any risks. You've been in long enough."
"All right," agreed Bettie, regretfully. "I'll come out, just to be good, but I don't want to one bit."
"Isn't this just heaven!" breathed Jean, ecstatically, extending her arms as if she would embrace the whole beautiful universe. "Look at that water—pearl-gray, with pink and gold sparkles all spangled over the top! It's a different color every time you look at it. I love it."
"So do I," said Bettie, from the beach. "I wish I were a fish and could live in it."
"But then," objected Henrietta, "you couldn't see it—I'd rather be a sea-gull."
"She's making puns," groaned Marjory. "Hurry up with that comb, Mabel; it's my turn next."
"Hi there!" called Mr. Black; "who's setting the table for breakfast?"