"Nonsense," laughed Edna. "Where is your loyalty to the Mill Farm? Good-by," and she disappeared.
It was not the reply she would have made yesterday. Sylvia was certain of it, and it was a grave maiden who stepped sedately by Dunham's side as they struck across the field toward the dock. It never occurred to her that if something had happened to offend Edna the matter could concern anybody or anything but Dunham.
Oh, how lovely the day was! How happy her morning had been! How wondrous would be this world of fragrant land and sparkling water if only Edna would have kissed her good-by! And to be going sailing amid this paradise with John Dunham! It was cruel that the very crown of all the blessed situation must be put from her as a joy, and accepted only as a utilitarian measure. For had she not already in some way stepped outside her rightful place?
Benny Merritt's stolid countenance grew still graver as the two drew near the floating dock.
"Where's Miss Edna?" he asked.
"Not coming," replied Dunham. "Yes, I know it's an outrage, Benny, but she has the carpenters. It seems to be an island ailment as bad as the measles for confining people to the house; but cheer up, you have Miss Sylvia and me."
"Got a real good chance to-day," grumbled Benny; "Miss Edna'd like it."
"Oh, don't say any more about it," exclaimed Sylvia. "I'm wretched because she couldn't come."
Dunham looked at the speaker in surprise at the acute tone. He could have sworn that a sudden mist veiled her eyes.
"Oh, go on," he said. "Trample on my feelings as much as you like," and as he arranged Sylvia's cushions he gave a second sharp glance at her face. What had become of the sparkle and effervescence of the morning?