"Well, then, I can go to Dublin. Cousin Evelyn will give me a corner in her cottage."
"But Cousin Evelyn sails for Norway in June."
"Dear me, I forgot! Then I'll visit some of the girls. Isabel was teasing me this morning to come to their place at Beverly Farms for August. Though—I don't know——"
Rod's serious young eyes met hers. A slow red mounted to his thatched black hair.
"I don't believe that would work, Sis. I hate to spoil your fun. But—we can't afford that sort of thing, dear."
"I suppose not. To spend a month with Isabel and her mother, in that Tudor palace of theirs, full of man-servants, and maid-servants, and regiments of guests, and flocks and herds of automobiles, would cost me more, in new clothes alone, than the whole summer at Ipswich. But, Rod, where can I stay? I'd go cheerfully and camp on my relatives, only we haven't a relative in the world, except Cousin Evelyn. Besides, I—I don't see how I can ever stand it, anyway!" Her fretted voice broke, quivering. Mindful of Rod's boyish hatred of sentiment, she gulped back the sob in her throat; but her weak hand clutched his sleeve. "There are only the two of us, Rod, and we've never been separated in all our lives. Not even for a single week. I—I can't let you go away out there and leave me behind."
Now, on nine occasions out of ten, Slow-Coach was Rod's fitting title. This was the tenth time. He stooped over Marian, his black eyes flashing. His big hand caught her trembling fingers tight.
"That will just do, Sis. Stop your forebodings, you precious old 'fraid-cat. I'm going to pack you up and take you right straight along."
"Why, Roderick Thayer Hallowell!"
Marian gasped. She stared up at her brother, wide-eyed.