“But I guess she didn’t have freckles,” said Laurel.

“Not then. But I think she would have had, when she grew up. She liked the sun, and out-of-doors. I’d have loved to have had her have ever so freckly a nose!”

“Do you like freckles?” Laurel exclaimed, wide-eyed, and amazed.

As easily as that, they wandered into the holy of holies of Helen Morrison’s heart, and wandered out again.

4

WHEN MRS. MORRISON had helped Laurel unpack her trunk on the first afternoon, she had been doubtful as to how her athletic young sons would get along with the little spick-and-span, bandbox girl she rather guessed Laurel to be. There were no stout boots, nor rough clothes of any sort among Laurel’s things. There was a bathing-suit, but it was an elaborate fragile affair made of black satin, trimmed with orange. Excellent for exhibition on the beach, but it didn’t look very appropriate for use in a certain deep black swimming-hole which the boys had discovered between two barnacled rocks. However, she needn’t have worried.

The first night after dinner Con had inquired of Laurel, “Do you ride?”

It seemed there was a stable back of the house.

“I ride some.”

“Can you swim?” Dane had asked.

“I swim a little.”

To Mrs. Morrison’s amazement, to the boys’ amazement, too—and to their admiration besides—Laurel’s “some” and “little” proved a great deal.

Next morning dressed in an old knickerbocker suit of Dane’s (Laurel had never needed her riding-clothes in New York before), after she had ridden four or five times around the paddock back of the stable, she had called out, “Does he jump?” and the next time around she had taken one of the hurdles with perfect ease and familiarity.

It was the same with swimming. It didn’t matter if her suit was satin, the swimming-hole didn’t daunt her. She could dive better than Con! Laurel had taken swimming-lessons ever since she could remember. She had taken riding-lessons since she was eight. She had taken lessons in every sport which her mother considered fashionable and in which instructions could be bought.

“The funny thing is,” said Con to Laurel the second day, “you don’t play tennis.”

But in games which required partners, Laurel had not had much experience. Solitaire sports were her specialty. However, she was pretty good at golf, she told Con. There had usually been a professional at the links connected with the summer hotels which her mother patronized.

“We’ll try it,” said Con, “and I’ll teach you tennis.”

He wouldn’t acknowledge that he liked Laurel. None of the boys went as far as that. “But she isn’t silly, and she isn’t afraid of things!” he told his mother.

“They get along together beautifully, Stephen,” said Helen Morrison to Laurel’s father the night he came to take Laurel away.