Sylvia's face fell. "When does he come?" she asked.
"Oh, he comes and goes all summer. He don't make no long stay except in August."
Here the two men with Sylvia's trunk and bag came noisily up the narrow stairs. It was a very moderate-sized trunk as those of summer people go, and the visitor lost some social prestige in Mrs. Lem's eyes as the latter observed it. Moreover, Boston was not the girl's home. Nevertheless, there was that unmistakable air of the world. Possibly she was from wicked, fashionable, reckless New York, and being in mourning had come here with but few possessions to recuperate.
"Wall, how are ye likin'?" asked Cap'n Lem, when they had deposited the trunk.
He set his arms akimbo and smiled toothlessly upon the visitor. "I said 'twas Miss Lacey, didn't I?" he added to Mrs. Lem, with a delighted wink.
"Yes, and you said somethin' else, too," retorted Mrs. Lem. "You say a lot o' things beside your prayers."
Upon this Cap'n Lem's cackling laugh burst forth. "She don't look it, does she?" he responded. "So ye're likin' all right, air ye, Miss Sylvy?"
"I could sit by these windows twenty-four hours," returned the girl.
"Might git a little hungry, mebbe?"
"Yes, Mrs. Lem," put in Thinkright. "Sylvia and I have had only sandwiches and sponge cake since this morning. We're all ready as soon as she has washed her face."