For the next few days Mart and Lav found Sidney strangely quiet. Sidney on her part wondered if they could not tell, simply by looking at her, that her uncomfortable heart carried a great secret. Then something happened that put pirates and secrets completely out of her mind, something so amazing, so unexpected, as to turn her world on its head. Pola came!

In her zeal to get out of each day all the joy that it offered Sidney had forgotten Pola, or at least she had tucked her idol into a far-back corner of her mind where it was fast gathering dust.

One morning Mart, racing over the sand of the beach, hailed her. “Sid! Sid! They want us to pose for them! That Craig woman and the others!”

Sid gasped, unbelieving. The girls had often wished they might pose for some of the artists. Mart, having caught up with her, clutched her arm and hauled her hurriedly forward toward where little groups of artists were gathering on the beach in the shadow of one of the long wharves.

“But—but—” Sidney protested breathlessly. It would be fun to pose, of course, but not dressed as she was at that moment! Vick, in the picture that had been hung in Paris, had worn a black velvet dress which the artist had borrowed for her sitting; she could run home and don the precious cherry crÊpe de chine that she had not worn since she had come to Sunset Lane.

“Miss Craig said to get that—other—girl—” Mart was explaining as they ran. “And they’re waiting.”

Miss Craig, a pretty, earnest-eyed woman who was studying in one of the summer art classes, came forward to meet them. Her glance went over Sidney’s figure with enthusiastic approval.

“You found her! How nice. Miss Higgins will pose you—”

“Can’t I go home and change my dress? I have an awfully pretty—”

But Miss Craig cut Sidney’s appeal short.

“Gracious no! Why, that would spoil you! We want you exactly as you are this moment—both of you. You’re—you’re precious!”

Sidney resented her “precious.” She resented other remarks that came to their ears as Miss Higgins, who had charge of the little group, posed them against an old, overturned dory. “A perfect type—native—girls——freedom——wild beauty——” She resented the rotting dory. Vick had leaned against a crimson velvet chair. Why, her hair had not been combed since the morning before, her skirt was in tatters where she had torn it climbing into Top Notch; she was horribly conscious of her long legs, bare, brown, and bruised.

Sidney found that posing in the morning sun on a beach at Provincetown was not the lark Vick had declared posing for the great Stuart Gelding had been. But then Vick had flirted a little with Stuart Gelding and had always had a cup of tea with him and his wife afterward; these art students appeared to have forgotten that their models were human with legs that ached from holding a position and arms that trembled with very eagerness to move. It was not one bit of fun.

Then, after an interminable time, Miss Craig called out cheerily; “There, that’s enough for this morning,” and came down to the dory, opening a little crocheted bag. From it she took two crisp one dollar bills. “Take this, girls, and divide it. And we are ever so grateful—you were splendid types. We’ll have you again some day.”

Sidney’s hand had barely closed over her dollar bill when she spied a woman and a girl slowly walking along the wharf, watching with interest the artists who were still at work. The girl looked startlingly familiar to Sidney. She gave a little gasp and ran forward.

“Pola!” she called loudly.

The girl turned in astonishment at the sound of her name, stared for a moment, then quickly advanced laughing.

“Why, you’re the Romley girl, aren’t you? Of all the things! What are you doing here?”

“I’m visiting my aunt,” explained Sidney, suddenly conscious of her appearance and in consequence painfully ill-at-ease.

“Oh, and do they hire you to pose? What fun! I suppose that’s a sort of costume they make you wear, isn’t it?”

“Y—yes,” Sidney faltered, miserably. Pola’s manner was prettily condescending and she made no move to join Sidney on the beach.

“I’m a wreck myself,” Pola went on, airily surveying her trim and elegant person. “Mother and I are motoring. And I made her bring me down here to see my cousin. He’s an artist and lives here summers. He’ll just despise seeing us because he comes here to get rid of everything home. And the car’s broken down and goodness knows how long we’ll have to stay.”

“Pola!” Her mother called sharply.

Pola waved her hand toward her mother. “Yes, mamma!” Then, to Sidney, “Isn’t it simply rare our meeting like this? It shows how small the world is. I must run now! By-by!” She gave the slightest flip of her hand in sign of leave-taking and, turning, ran lightly up the wharf toward her mother.

Sidney’s eyes followed her, devouring her dainty clothes, the tight-fitting motoring hat, the buckled pumps. Pola—the Pola she had carried enshrined in her heart! That heart hurt now, to the core. She had dreamed of a meeting sometime, somewhere, had planned just what it would be like and what she’d say and what Pola would say. And now Pola had turned a shoulder upon it.

Mart’s laugh behind her roused her.

“Who’s Guinevere, anyway? Her ma called her just in time—we might a hurt the doll-baby!”

Sidney turned on Mart fiercely. “She’s a friend of mine,” she cried, in a voice she made rough to keep the tears from it. “And she’s not a doll-baby.”

“All right—go and play with her then—she’s crazy about you, I guess.” And with that Mart swung on her heel and stalked away, her head in the air.

Poor Sidney hurried back to Sunset Lane to hide her humiliation and her dismay. For some reason she could not understand she had offended Mart. And Pola had snubbed her. It had indeed been a cruel fate that had brought Pola out on the wharf at that precise moment!

She spent a lonely afternoon in Top Notch, too miserable to even pour out her heart to “Dorothea.” Then she helped Aunt Achsa prepare supper and after supper, which was lonely, too, for neither Lavender nor Mr. Dugald were there, she insisted upon clearing up the dishes while Aunt Achsa went down to Tillie Higgins’.

Swishing her hands in the soapy water Sidney pondered sadly the things she had longed to learn of Pola. Her name—why she hadn’t even found out her name! What had her teacher said of that theme she had written on her visit to the Romley house? Where did Pola live? Of course she might see her again—Pola had said that they’d be in Provincetown for a few days, but she did not want to see her; she did not want Pola to see Sunset Lane and the little gray cottage and Aunt Achsa and Lavender. Pola would laugh at them and she would hate her!

At that moment footsteps crunched the gravel of the path and a shadow fell across the kitchen door. Sidney turned from the table. There stood Mr. Dugald and with him—Pola.

“I’ve brought my cousin, Sidney. She blew out to the Cape with that ill-wind we felt this morning. If you know what we can do with her I’ll be your slave for life.”

Playfully pushing Dugald Allan aside Pola walked into the kitchen.

“Isn’t he horrid? You wouldn’t dream that he’s really crazy about me, would you? I told him how we’d met, even before this morning. He’d written home that Miss Green’s cousin was here but I never dreamed it was you. I’m so sorry I didn’t have a chance to introduce you to mother this morning. But mother wants me to take you back to the hotel. You can have a room right next to mine and we’ll have scads of fun—You’ll come, won’t you?” For Sidney’s face was unyielding.

Like one cornered, Sidney stood straight against the table, her hands, red from the hot dish water, clasped tightly behind her back. Though she knew that Pola was trying to make amends for her rudeness of the morning, something within her heart turned hard. The dusty idol was crumbling to bits of clay.

“She’s only inviting me because Mr. Dugald has told her to,” she reasoned inwardly. And aloud she answered in a steady voice:

“I’m sorry, but I simply can’t leave Aunt Achsa. You must come here and we’ll find lots of jolly things to do—”

“Here?” laughed Pola, glancing around the old kitchen.

“Why not here?” roared Mr. Dugald. “As long as you’ve broken into our Secret Garden we’ll introduce you to some things you’ve never done before in your life. Only Sid will have to find some suitable clothes for you, and you’d better leave your complexion on the dressing table.”

Pola accepted his banter good-naturedly. “I shall be deeply grateful, old dear, if you will introduce me to any sensations I have not experienced before. There, now, will that hold you for awhile?” She turned to Sidney. “We quarrel like this all the time, but it’s fun and I always have the last word. I make him so mad he can’t think of anything withering enough to say and I seize that strategic moment to cease firing. You see, I practice on Dug. I will come tomorrow if I may. Now, Duggie dear, lead me out of this funny lane or else I’ll never find my way back to mamma. Goodby, Miss Romley.”

Behind Pola’s back Mr. Dugald cast such a despairing, apologetic and altogether furious look toward Sidney as to make Sidney suddenly laugh. And with her laugh all her sense of dismay and humiliation vanished. She forgot her red hands and the big gingham apron and the dishes spread about her in her amusement over Pola’s pathetic attempt to be very grown-up and sophisticated. And so ill-bred! How ashamed Mr. Dugald had been of her!

Then a thought struck Sidney with such force that she sat down in the nearest chair. Why, if Mr. Dugald was Pola’s own cousin, belonged to the grandeur that was Pola’s, he would never be attracted by poor, plain Trude. Her beautiful hopes were shattered! She felt distinctly aggrieved.

However, there was Vick. Sidney hated to give Mr. Dugald to Vick, who always got everything, yet it seemed the only thing to do if any of the sisters were to have him. Almost sadly she went to her room, opened her satchel and took from it a small framed photograph of Victoria, a photograph which, while it did not flatter Victoria, paid full justice to her enticing beauty. Considering it, Sidney reflected on how lucky it was that at the last moment she had put the pictures of her sisters into her baggage. Then she carried it to the kitchen and stood it on the narrow mantel next to the clock where Mr. Dugald’s eyes must surely find it. Unlike the snapshot of Trude the picture remained there undisturbed.