Thinkright was satisfied, and contented himself with building a small boathouse on the waterside for Sylvia's new possession. She was his constant companion during the work, and sat beside him on the grass while he sawed and hammered, waiting upon him whenever opportunity offered.
He missed an eagerness of enthusiasm which he would have expected in the girl regarding the handsome boat. He could not know how fervently she wished that Uncle Calvin had given her instead the money it had cost. She could not express this thought to her cousin for obvious reasons; but as she sat beside him on an old log she built air castles that grew faster than the little boathouse.
"There isn't anything too good to be true, is there, Thinkright?" she said to him during a pause one day.
He came over and took a seat beside her, wiping his lined brow with his handkerchief.
She looked at him wistfully. "I'm expecting something very good to happen to me," she added.
"That's right; and something has. How about The Rosy Cloud?"
She sighed, and leaned her head against her companion's blue cotton shoulder.
"It's beautiful. I shall have all sorts of fine times with it. Think of throwing a lot of cushions inside, and taking a good story, then rowing out into the middle of the basin to float and read. All the trees would be leaning forward and beckoning, and I shouldn't know which The Rosy Cloud would favor."
Thinkright clasped his knee. "The Tide Mill would do its share of beckoning, remember. Look out for the current."
"The poor old thing!" remarked Sylvia. "Sometimes the mill looks so dignified and pathetic that I sympathize with it, and then again it seems just sulky and obstinate."