Sylvia caught her lip between her teeth, and her heart swelled.
The next morning nature, as always after a gloomy season, seemed trying to cause forgetfulness of its sulks and tears by bringing the whole battery of its charms to bear upon sea and land.
After breakfast Thinkright produced a key from his pocket. "There, my girl," he said, "is the key to the boathouse. I know you can scarcely wait."
"That's true," replied Sylvia. "Come on, Minty."
The child's round eyes were fixed solemnly on some point beyond Sylvia's shoulder.
"I don't know as I care 'bout goin' boatin' this mornin'," she replied decorously.
"What?" returned Sylvia, astonished. She remembered now how remarkably quiet the child had been throughout breakfast. "Why, how do you feel, Minty?"
"Smart," returned the child, still with her gaze on the uncertain point in space.
Thinkright's eyes had a humorous twinkle. "I want Minty to help me a little while this morning," he said. "She'll see you later."
Sylvia turned to him, demurring. "She has been looking forward to it so much," she said.