"I be; and if I don't find her this afternoon you tell her that her beau has come to town, and for her not to leave the house again till he arrives."
"All right, sir," answered Blanche Aurora, her eyes nearly starting from her head with interest as the caller jumped off the piazza and swung whistling across the field.
The soft turf was springy beneath his feet.
"'A vagrant's morning, wide and blue,'" he muttered to himself.
Gulls wheeled high over his head in the landward sallies from which they sailed back above the sea, their wings glinting like the distant
"Foam of the waves,
Blown blossoms of ocean,
White flowers of the waters."
Whitcomb strode along, the picture of Linda as he last saw her in the railway station still fresh in his mind.
Miss Barry's "help" had been galvanized into interest at the mention of the girl. She had called her "grand." It sounded hopeful.
Beyond the clump of birches, in their favorite spot, the two friends were sitting against their rock with their books and work.
Talk amounts to very little. It was Emerson who said, "Don't talk! What you are thunders so loud above what you say, that I can't hear you."