"The dearest land in all the world, I'm sure," sighed Rosy, sympathetically. She dug her toe at a single tuft of coarse grass in the midst of the sand, and wondered over his "after all."
"Indeed, it is. You would like it, I'm sure."
"I know I should. I shall never be happy until I've seen it."
"But think of me—four thousand miles away from it."
"I do," said Rosy, softly.
"We younger sons," sighed Paston, in a tone of great self-commiseration.
"We younger daughters," echoed Rosy, with an implication that all the drawbacks were not on one side.
The rest of the party came flocking down to the shore; the Ingleses among them—to see the others off.
"I suppose you go back as you came?" said Ingles, to Paston.
"Pretty nearly," replied Paston, in the cheery tone he usually adopted for general converse. And back he went, with this small difference: that on the return he occupied the place of William Bates.