"What's the matter with you, Ned?" said Tom, as they sailed in a small yacht on the bright waters of Penobscot Bay, on one of the soft days of the Indian summer. "You are as blue as a Yankee whetstone."
"Am I? I was not aware of it," replied Edward, shaking off his moodiness for the moment.
"Yes, you are. If I stop talking for a moment, you sink away into a gloomy dream. You seem to me to be half muddled. What ails you?"
"I don't believe you. You haven't seemed at all natural since I came. I hope I'm not in the way of anything."
"Certainly not, Tom. You are never in the way."
"But, candidly and seriously, now, what ails you?"
"Nothing at all ails me, my dear fellow. If anything did, I would tell you sooner than I would my own father."
"Not in love—are you, Ned?" added Tom, straightening up, and looking full into the face of his friend. "By the way, where is the daughter of that member of Congress whom you used to be sweet upon?"
"She has gone to Cuba to spend the winter," replied Edward.