"Silly child," laughed her mother, half tolerantly, half
disapprovingly.

Two years later something wonderful had happened to Rachel. One
summer afternoon she had gone to the harbor with several of her
little playmates. Such a jaunt was a rare treat to the child,
for Isabella Spencer seldom allowed her to go from home with
anybody but herself. And Isabella was not an entertaining
companion. Rachel never particularly enjoyed an outing with her
mother.

The children wandered far along the shore; at last they came to a
place that Rachel had never seen before. It was a shallow cove
where the waters purred on the yellow sands. Beyond it, the sea
was laughing and flashing and preening and alluring, like a
beautiful, coquettish woman. Outside, the wind was boisterous
and rollicking; here, it was reverent and gentle. A white boat
was hauled up on the skids, and there was a queer little house
close down to the sands, like a big shell tossed up by the waves.
Rachel looked on it all with secret delight; she, too, loved the
lonely places of sea and shore, as her father had done. She
wanted to linger awhile in this dear spot and revel in it.

"I'm tired, girls," she announced. "I'm going to stay here and
rest for a spell. I don't want to go to Gull Point. You go on
yourselves; I'll wait for you here."

"All alone?" asked Carrie Bell, wonderingly.