Jermyn finally found himself so manifestly in the way that he begged Trixy, whose dolls were packed within ten minutes of the first announcement of the impending departure, to go upon the verandah with him and take a long look seaward. A friend of his had been promising to sail a yacht down from New York, and the verandah was as good as any place in the fort from which to view the offing. Besides, the Lieutenant did not care to be seen again at his quarters. He feared that a secret which several of his comrades shared with him might not be as safe as it should be, and he was in no humor to be joked about the most serious interest of his life.
In the angle of the verandah they sat, Jermyn and Trixy, the child looking seaward through her mother's opera-glass, and the officer looking into the sky, his thoughts that afternoon having a somewhat heavenly tinge.
"Oh, I believe there's the yacht—way out there! Don't you see it?"
"Where? What?" asked Jermyn, dreamily.
"Why, the yacht, of course. Don't you see that great big boat with lots of sails! That's the way yachts are, ain't it?"
"I suppose so."
"You don't look as I feel when folks is comin' to see me; though, to be sure, they don't come in yachts."
"I beg your pardon, Trixy. I fear I was thinking about something else."
"Say!" remarked Trixy, suddenly dropping the glass. "Do you know what I wish? I wish you was goin' to New York with us."
"Trixy," said Jermyn earnestly, "so do I."