Sylvia bit her lip. "It's difficult to imagine it," she replied, "when one sees her so bright and happy as she has been here."
"Yes, this is the Hawk Island Miss Derwent. I've heard the other side from Thinkright. I lived over on the island summers when she and her pa and ma used to be there together, but I never knew any of 'em. I used to see the child rampagin' around the rocks in sneakers and cotton dresses, and her ma readin' to her pa in hammocks on the piazza; but later years she's gone with 'em to waterin' places in Europe. Leastwise that's what folks say, though where they'll find any more water than they can here gets me. You know how some folks is. The fishin' 's always better somewheres else. Yes," continued Mrs. Lem sagely, "we don't know what we're doin' when we're envyin' folks. There's a skeleton in most family closets. Most everybody's got somethin' to contend with. I used to think," she lowered her voice, "that the Creator sent 'em for our good. Thinkright says not; so I humor him, and I hope it won't be visited on me. I apologize reg'lar in my prayers at night. It's jest as well to be on the safe side."
Sylvia's grave little mouth broke into a sudden smile, but her eyes were wistful.
"I should love to believe as my cousin does," she answered. "He said we must judge everything by the fruits, and he is so good, so good."
"Yes, Thinkright's fruits is all right," agreed Mrs. Lem, squeezing out her dishcloth. "He ain't any feeble critter either, I tell you. When Judge Trent's here and somethin' goes wrong, and he scowls under them brows o' his, I often feel like sayin' to him, 'Thinkright ain't even afraid of his Creator; and I guess he ain't goin' to care for a few scowls o' yours.' Judge Trent gees and haws some, but he always has to come around if Thinkright's sure he's right. There ain't only one thing that man's afraid of, and that's doin' wrong; and though you hain't seen so very much o' the world yet, you'll find out that's quite an ovation in the way o' lookin' at things."
Sylvia's brain made a vain grasp for the word Mrs. Lem was trying to use. Two days afterward when she was out on the basin in Thinkright's rowboat "innovation" came to relieve her bewilderment.
Minty's lean, strong arms had often rowed her about the little salt lake, but Sylvia was ambitious to be her own boatman; and this afternoon she was practicing by herself, catching crabs and splashing, laughing at her own awkwardness until, breathing fast, her pale cheeks pink from exertion, she pulled in her oars and floated on the blue ripples, looking at the full green of leafy boughs among the sombre richness of the evergreens, and listening to the spring gladness of the robin's songs.
It was all very lovely. The Tide Mill only refused to be cheered. Silent, enduring, wrapped in memories, it stood gray and unapproachable.
"Poor old thing," murmured Sylvia, addressing it. "You're not thinking right." She laughed softly, and ran her hands through her thick curls.
Instantly an oar glided off the boat. She jumped for it, but it was too late. Nearly capsizing, her heart beat as the boat rocked back into safety and she tried to scull after the runaway with the remaining oar. Her inexperience and the clumsiness of the boat baffled her. The floating oar rose and fell, gently increasing its distance, and splash as she might she could not gain upon it.