Athalie

"I will if I can."

They were silent for a few minutes. It grew very dark in the bar-room,

and the light from the stove glimmered redder and redder.

The boy and girl lay back in their chairs, lingering over their peach

pastry, and inspecting each other with all the frank insouciance of

childhood.

Athalie still wore the red hood and cloak which had represented her

outer winter wardrobe for years. Her dull, thick gold hair curled

crisply over the edges of the hood which framed in its oval the lovely

features of a child in perfect health.

The boy, dark-haired and dark-eyed, gazed fascinated and unembarrassed

at this golden blond visitor hooded and cloaked in scarlet.

"Does your father keep this hotel?" he asked after a pause.

"Yes. I am Athalie Greensleeve. What is your name?"

"C. Bailey, Junior."

"What is the C for?"

"Clive."

"Do you go to school?"

"Yes, but I'm back for the holidays."

"Holidays," she repeated vaguely. "Oh, that's so. Christmas will come

day after to-morrow."

He nodded. "I think I'm going to have a new pair of guns, some books,

and a horse. What do you expect?"

"Nothing," said Athalie.

"What? Isn't there anything you want?" And then, too late, some

glimmer of the real state of affairs illuminated his boyish brain. And

he grew red with embarrassment.

They had finished their pastry; Athalie wiped her hands on a soiled

and ragged and crumpled handkerchief, then scrubbed her scarlet mouth.

"I'd like to come down here for the summer vacation," said the boy,

awkwardly. "I don't know whether my mother would like it."

"Why? It is pleasant."

[Illustration: "'I'd like to come down here for the summer vacation,'

said the boy, awkwardly."] He glanced instinctively around him at the dark and shabby bar-room,

but offered no reason why his mother might not care for the Hotel

Greensleeve. One thing he knew; he meant to urge his mother to come,

or to let him come.

A few minutes later the outer door banged open and into the bar came

stamping four men and two bay-men, their oil-skins shining with

salt-spray, guns glistening. Thud! went the strings of dead ducks on

the floor; somebody scratched a match and lighted the ceiling lamp.

"Hello, Junior!" cried one of the men in oil-skins,--"how did you

make out on Silver Shoals?"

"All right, father," he began; but his father had caught sight of

Athalie who had risen to retreat.