"I am Mrs. Ethridge, and this is my daughter, Clare. We are really your nearest neighbors," and she pointed to the large house across the road, about which Martine had often wondered. "A young girl, your assistant, I think she calls herself, came over to our house on the evening of the Fourth. Her fire balloon had gone astray." And Mrs. Ethridge smiled at the recollection. "She told us you were lonely, but we could not quite understand. Surely you are Martine Stratford, of whom we have heard so much from Elinor Naylor; you must have many friends at York; there are so many Philadelphians and Chicagoans here. Elinor mentioned you in the letter we had a day or two ago, and we recognized your name as the one your assistant had given us. In any case we ought to have called earlier, but we have had a house full of visitors, and—"
"No apologies are necessary," responded Martine, with dignity. "We expected to be quiet this summer, although my mother will be most happy to see you." And leading them to Mrs. Stratford's corner, introductions were quickly made. Hardly had they seated themselves when Clare Ethridge exclaimed, "Why, there's Peggy Pratt," and Martine looking up, recognized the girl who was hurrying across the lawn, and a second later, Peggy was shaking hands with Martine most effusively.
"What a queer girl you are, Martine Stratford; why didn't you let me know you were in York? Elinor Naylor wrote that you were coming, and I certainly thought you'd tell me where you were. Of course, I've asked everybody, but no one had seen you or heard a thing about you. I couldn't imagine your being hidden in a corner like this; so I supposed you hadn't yet arrived. I'm sure I didn't know what to do," and she looked around with an air of injured innocence, as if some one had been unjustly blaming her.
"You might have inquired at the postoffice," said Mrs. Ethridge smiling, "you can generally get information about people there."
"Oh, I dare say; but I just concluded she wasn't here."
"But now that I am here and you know that I am here," responded Martine gayly, "everything is as it should be." She did not mention the little incident at the beach, for she saw that her judgment of Peggy then had been wrong, and that the eyes which had seemed to see her had really been looking at something else.
While Mrs. Ethridge and Mrs. Stratford talked by themselves, Peggy's tongue flew on reciting the attractions of York. Trips up the river, tea at the Country Club, yachting, trolley and auto excursions apparently filled her days; "really I never have a minute to myself," she said, "and to-morrow we are going to have a fish dinner at the Shoals, the whole crowd of us. We've got a special car to take us over to Portsmouth, and then we go by the steamboat; we thought it would be more fun than simply to sail over. There's a seat for you, Martine; I know your mother will let you go, and of course we shall see you too, Clare."
"Yes," said Clare, "I had already promised."
"Then it's all settled," cried Peggy; "you can bring Martine to the car, Clare. Now I must hurry on, for I have an engagement up at the Club, and I'm so glad to have seen you, Martine. Good-bye, Mrs. Stratford; good-bye, Mrs. Ethridge." And almost before they could say "good-bye" themselves, Peggy was out of sight.
"I wonder that girl doesn't wear herself out; she is always flying from one thing to another," said Mrs. Ethridge.