“Oh, I forgot,” said Ellen. “I haven’t read them yet.”
“Haven’t read them!” said Mrs. Kenton. Then, after reflection, she added, “You are a strange girl, Ellen,” and did not venture to say more.
“I suppose I thought I should have to answer them, and that made me careless. But I will read them.” Her mother was silent, and presently Ellen added: “I hate to think of the past. Don’t you, momma?”
“It is certainly very pleasant here,” said Mrs. Kenton, cautiously. “You’re enjoying yourself—I mean, you seem to be getting so much stronger.”
“Why, momma, why do you talk as if I had been sick?” Ellen asked.
“I mean you’re so much interested.”
“Don’t I go about everywhere, like anybody?” Ellen pursued, ignoring her explanation.
“Yes, you certainly do. Mr. Breckon seems to like going about.”
Ellen did not respond to the suggestion except to say: “We go into all sorts of places. This morning we went up on that schooner that’s drawn up on the beach, and the old man who was there was very pleasant. I thought it was a wreck, but Mr. Breckon says they are always drawing their ships that way up on the sand. The old man was patching some of the wood-work, and he told Mr. Breckon—he can speak a little Dutch—that they were going to drag her down to the water and go fishing as soon as he was done. He seemed to think we were brother and sister.” She flushed a little, and then she said: “I believe I like the dunes as well as anything. Sometimes when those curious cold breaths come in from the sea we climb up in the little hollows on the other side and sit there out of the draft. Everybody seems to do it.”
Apparently Ellen was submitting the propriety of the fact to her mother, who said: “Yes, it seems to be quite the same as it is at home. I always supposed that it was different with young people here. There is certainly no harm in it.”