Then they went over the remaining matters, the condition of the pine timber, the repairs to the boats and blinds and stools, items for snaps, swivels, paint, cement, wire, none of which interested
Marche as much as the silent boy reading his Latin grammar by the smoky lamp interested him, or the boy's sister bending over the papers on her knee, pencil poised in her pretty, weather-roughened hand.
"I sent the shells from New York by express," he said. "Did they arrive?"
"I left two hundred in your room," said the boy, looking up.
"Oh, thank you, Jim." And, turning to his sister, who had raised her head, inquiringly, "I suppose somebody will call me at the screech of dawn, won't they?"
"Do you know the new law?" she asked.
"No. I don't like laws, anyway," he said smilingly.
She smiled, too, gathering up her papers preparatory to departure. "Nobody is allowed," she said, "to put off from shore until the sun is above the horizon line. And the wardens are very strict." Then she rose. "Will you excuse me? I have the dishes to do."
The boy laid aside his book and stood up, but his sister said:
"Stay and study, Jim. I don't need any help."