had very soon earned a right to its name.  Her father sent her a horse; and near every morning her blue habit was fluttering along the roads, to the great admiration of the country people who had never seen a long skirt before.  And every afternoon, as soon as the sun hid himself behind the great western mountain, her little white boat stole out from the rocks and coasted about under the point or lay in the bay, wandering through sunshine and shade; loitering where the north wind blew softly, or resting with poised oars when the sun was sending royal messages to earth via the clouds.  On horseback or in the boat, —­ Miss Elizabeth would not take exercise in so common a way as walking, —­ she did honour to the nurture of the fresh air.  The thin cheek rounded out; and sallow and pale gave place to the clear rich colour of health.

Asahel was her general companion in the boat.  Sometimes her cousin condescended to enjoy a sail of a summer’s evening, but for the most part Asahel and Elizabeth went alone.  Miss Cadwallader would neither row nor ride, and was very apt to eschew walking, unless a party were going along.

Over her books Elizabeth luxuriated all the rest of the time.  Morning, noon, and night.  The labour of talking she left to her cousin, who took to it kindly, and speedily made herself very popular.  And there was certainly something very pleasant in her bright smile, always ready, and in her lovely face; and something pleasant too in her exceeding dainty and pretty manner of dressing.  She fascinated the children’s eyes, and if truth be told, more than the children.  She seemed to have a universal spirit of good-humour.  She never was so fast in a book but she would leave it to talk to the old or play with the young; and her politeness was unfailing.  Elizabeth gave no trouble, but she seemed to have as little notion of giving pleasure; except to herself. That she did perfectly and without stop.  For the rest, half the time she hardly seemed to know what was going on with the rest of the world.

So the summer wore on, with great comfort to most parties.  Perhaps Winthrop was an exception.  He had given comfort, if he had not found it.  He had been his mother’s secret stand-by; he had been her fishmonger, her gamekeeper, her head gardener, her man-at-need in all manner of occasions.  His own darling objects meanwhile were laid upon the shelf.  He did his best.  But after a day’s work in the harvest field, and fishing for eels off the rocks till nine o’clock at night, what time was there for Virgil or Graeca Minora?  Sometimes he must draw up his nets in the morning before he went to the field; and the fish must be cleaned after they were taken.  Sometimes a half day must be spent in going after fruit.  And whenever the farm could spare him for a longer time, he was off to the woods with his gun; to fetch home rabbits at least, if no other game was to be had.  But all the while his own ground lay waste.  To whomsoever the summer was good, he reckoned it a fruitless summer to him.