"Oh, come now, an eight-year-old baby!"
"I'll be nine in five weeks, nine years old."
"Well," Mr. Evringham sighed, "that's better than nineteen."
"Why, grandpa," earnestly, "you forget; perhaps you'll like me when I'm grown up."
"It's possible," returned the broker.
How the sun shone the next morning! The foam on the great rollers that still stormed the beach showed from the farmhouse windows in ever-changing, spreading masses of white. Essex Maid and Star, after a day of ennui, were more than ready for a scamper between the rolling fields where already the goldenrod hinted that summer was passing.
Star had to stretch his pretty legs at a great rate, to keep up with the Maid this morning, though her master moderated her transports. The more like birds they flew, the more Jewel enjoyed it. She knew now how to get Star's best speed, and the pony scarcely felt her weight, so lightly did she adapt herself to his every motion.
With cheeks tingling in the fine salt air, the riders finally came to a walk in the quiet country road.
"I've been looking up that boat business, Jewel," said Mr. Evringham. "The thing is hardly worth fixing. It would take a good while, just at the time we want the boat, too."