"You are wrong. You have a craving heart and a craving mind. May both be fed to the full, with food convenient for them—in measures pressed down, shaken together and running over."
"Of what? Husks?" was Sarah's unspoken and bitter reply. She could not thank him, as he had done her. She only bowed, and, bending forward, took up a handful of the fine white sand that formed the shore. Slowly sifting it through her fingers, she waited for him to speak again.
Was this careless equanimity real or feigned? The judge of character, the harpist upon heart-chords, made the next move—not the candid, manly friend.
"I am going to ask a favor of you—a bold one."
"Say on."
"By the time I am ready to retrace my steps southward you will be again settled in New York. Will you think me presumptuous if I call at your father's house to continue an acquaintance which has been, to me, at once agreeable and profitable?"
The fingers were still, suddenly. A warm glow, like sunrise, swept over cheek and forehead. A smile, slight but sweet, quivered upon her lips. Drowning in the depths, she heard across the billow a hail that spoke of hope, life, happiness.
"We will all be glad to see you," she said, with affected composure.
"Not half so glad as I shall be to come. Will you now, while you think of it, give me your address?"
He handed her a card and a pencil. She wrote the required direction and received in exchange for it the now smooth bit of wood, which had afforded occupation to Philip for half an hour past. It was tendered in mock ceremony, and accepted smilingly. Upon the gray tablet was inscribed "Philip Benson, Deal Beach, July 27th, 1856." A playful or thoughtless impulse caused him to extend his hand for it, after she had read it, and to add a motto, stale as innocent in his eyes: "Pensez a moi!"