The Grange House dinghy rounded the edge of the cove, and we saw Mr. Coates rowing swiftly toward the pier, with Miss Grange his only passenger. The bow of the boat disappeared as it drew within the shadow of the boathouse, though we could hear the loose phrases of the two cast up by a bit of wind. Upon the verandah, Ruth and Cynthia had recommenced their patter. After a time, the small figure of Miss Grange appeared in the door of the boathouse and we both watched her advancing toward us, coming over the grass with some difficulty, with a frailty about her I did not like to see.

“Beauty like hers is genius,” Bart remarked. I flashed up at him in surprise, but there wasn’t a trace of foolery in his expression.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes.” He shifted round and nodded. “Yes, you see, don’t you, Miss Thomas, how much of the world Miss Grange carries in her?”

He stretched wide his arms to take in the bright blue of the day against the stern beauty of the House, the chattering maidens upon the white verandah, the deep woods behind, their thick scent reaching even to where I sat upon the bench, looking up at him. “All this,” he said quietly—and the moment held.

She carries more than this world in her, I reflected, and did not reply.

Bart brought down his arms and folded them across his chest in one swift movement, calling to mind the suddenness with which a shot bird drops from flight. I was unaccountably sorry.

“Yes,” I said hastily, not wishing him to misunderstand my silence, “I think Miss Grange is very great.”

His face softened, and he smiled as he watched Miss Grange make her way toward us. “Just so,” he said. He waved to her. I held my hand up to shield my eyes and marked with a start how slowly she came.

“Though I do not think she is well,” I whispered more to myself than to Bart.

“No, she is not at all well,” he agreed, and moved forward to accompany her up the remaining part. And as I watched the two advance toward me, with Miss Grange leaning heavily upon Bart’s arm, I felt a slight foreboding suddenly, as though welded to the tip of an arrow and speeding I knew not whither.

At luncheon, Miss Grange appeared beside my chair and asked if I would come and gather mushrooms that afternoon.

But Papa rose to his feet as she entered, and before I could answer her myself, he exclaimed, “You must not tire yourself, Miss Grange. Are you certain you are well enough?”

Mama broke offmidsentence what she had been explaining to Mr. Cutting. Papa’s manner verged on becoming impolite, so personal was he.