"Will you pay Benny, please, Thinkright? I hadn't any money with me."
The boy took the silver and gave up the bag, casting a furtive glance at Sylvia.
"Ye don't want me to come back for yer to-morrer?" he said.
"No, thank you, Benny. Good-by." She gave him an April smile, and he returned to the boat muttering to himself, his fist clenched and restless.
The girl met Thinkright's kind, questioning look.
"I've shown the white feather after all," she said; "but would you mind not asking me anything,—just for to-day?"
"Certainly I won't, little one. Don't tell me until you wish to."
Sylvia rested her hand on his shoulder as they walked up the hill. "I shall tell the others, if they ask, that I was homesick. Never was a truer word spoken. People have died of homesickness, haven't they, Thinkright? I thought I might die of it if I had to stay there one more night."
Her companion did not smile at this extravagance. He was wise, and knew that a wound which is resisted and thrown off by experienced and case-hardened maturity does often crush the thin skin of youth.
"Well, we shall all be thoroughly glad to get you back again, dear," he replied. "There's been a yawning hole in the house ever since you left, and Minty actually shed tears last evening in her disappointment that you didn't stay."