The yacht yard in which Bobbie's boat was hauled up for repairs lay at the foot of the rocks to the north of Diana's house. From the north porch, therefore, one could look down on the activities which had to do with the bringing in, and putting into shape the fine craft which through the summer were anchored in the harbor. A marine railway floated the boats in and out at high tide, and at such times creaked complainingly.

It was on the north porch that Sophie and Bettina sat on the morning after Diana's departure—Sophie knitting a motor scarf for Anthony, Bettina hemstitching white frills.

Below in the yacht yard the master gave orders, and the machinery of the marine railway began its clanking chorus. Bettina glanced over the rail. "Bobbie's boat is going out," she said, "and he and Justin are on board."

Justin saw her and called, "May I come up?"

Bettina shook her head at him. "If he thinks I'm going to shriek an answer to the housetops, he's mistaken."

Again she shook her head at him, and Justin immediately offered excuses to Bobbie.

"You won't mind," he said, "if I go up there?"

Bobbie jeered. "Talk about me! You're here to-day and there to-morrow. Yesterday it was Sara, and now it's Betty Dolce."

"It was never Sara."

"That's what I said when I fell in love with Doris, but you wouldn't believe me. And I can't quite see the difference."

"I've never cared for Sara in that way."

"Then you have jolly well flirted with her."

"Don't try to be English with your 'jolly wells.'"

Bobbie turned his back on Justin. "I suppose, then, you're not going to have lunch with me?" he said over his shoulder.

"Why can't we all have lunch with you?"

"Who is—all?"

"Betty, and Mrs. Martens—and me——"

"Doesn't Doris come into it?"

"Of course, if you can get her up."

"I can always get her up. You know that. But there's nobody just now in the world for you but Betty Dolce."

Nobody but Bettina! Justin admitted it to himself triumphantly. Please God, there should never be any one but Bettina!

Perhaps something of his thought showed in his face, for Bobbie clapped him on the shoulder with a hearty, "Go in and win her, old man, and we'll have a double wedding."

"If my wedding," solemnly, "were as sure as yours, I'd burn incense to the gods."

"Well, why don't you make it sure?"

"I can't. She stands on her pedestal, and I can't reach up to her."

"Man, you're afraid of her."

"It isn't that. But I'm not in this race to fall out, Bobbie. I guess you can see that."

Bobbie nodded. "Anybody who has eyes can see it," he said.

The little yacht was in the water now, still helpless because of her furled sails.

Justin, making a bridge of the small boats tied to the floating pier, gained dry land, and continued his conversation with Bobbie across the intervening space. "Suppose we cut the luncheon out, and go for a sail this afternoon. We can land off Gloucester way and have tea at the Lobster Pot."

"Tea, meaning lobster sandwiches," said Bobbie. "Do you know, Justin, that the whole coast is blossoming with lobster sandwiches? Once upon a time one ate muffins with their tea. But now nobody takes tea. They take coffee and lobster sandwiches. And I don't like sea foods, and I don't drink coffee. Otherwise it is all right."

"We'll have muffins and jam. And you and Doris shall have a table by yourselves, and Bettina and I, and we'll ask Anthony to look after Mrs. Martens." He stopped. "No, we won't ask Anthony—he has a fashion of claiming Bettina. He's her guardian, you know."

"Look here, Justin. Did it ever occur to you that he'd like to be more—than a guardian?"

"It's Diana for Anthony, Bobbie."

"I'm not so sure. Doris says there is something queer about it all——"

"Queer?"

"Oh, about Diana having Bettina here, and then going away and leaving her——"

"Sara's been talking. Doris wouldn't think such unpleasant things, Bobbie—there isn't anything between Anthony and Betty. There can't be anything——"

But even as he said it he was stabbed by the memory of Bettina's radiant look of pride as she sat beside Anthony on the night of the yacht club dance.

"No man," said Bobbie, "is going to wait forever, and Betty Dolce is a very lovely little lady. All the boys at the club are crazy about her, and if it hadn't been for Doris there's no telling how I might have felt—but Doris is the last one, Justin."

"Good. I'll wigwag from the porch, Bobbie. Keep your eyes open for my signal."

Bettina, still hemstitching on white frills, welcomed Justin with a charming smile, but with a decided negative to his invitation.

"I'm going out with Anthony."

Justin eyed her reproachfully. "I told you once before that three was a crowd——"

"Oh, but this time it isn't three, but two—Anthony and I are going alone in his little car, and we are to have dinner at Green Gables."

All the laughter died out of his face. "Oh, I'm afraid you must think me all kinds of fool." He turned abruptly to Sophie. "Mrs. Martens, you'll go in Bobbie's boat, won't you? He's dying to ask Doris."

"Do you really want me?" Sophie asked, brightly.

"Always, dear lady."

Bettina, bending over her frills, felt a sudden sense of desolation.

"Oh, dear," she said, wistfully. "Why do all the nice things come at once?"

With that sigh, joy came back to Justin.

He dropped into a chair beside her. "What time will you get home to-night?" he asked.

"At eight. Anthony's office hours begin then."

"May I come up?"

"May he, Sophie?"

"It's my bridge night at the club, dear——"

"Oh——"

"Please," Justin pleaded.

Sophie laughed. "Well, Delia shall chaperon you. Of course you may come, Justin."

Justin, signaling Bobbie a moment later, was conscious of a wild desire to shout to the four winds of heaven the fact that for one little hour he was to have his goddess to himself.

For Justin's coming that night Bettina put on her white crÊpe tea gown with the little lace mantle. She was very tired after her ride with Anthony. There had been no reason for fatigue. He had been most kind and considerate. But Bettina's little efforts at conversation had seemed to her childishly inadequate. She had felt a sense of deadly depression. What should she do to interest him through all the years? Would he always have his mind on the things of which she knew nothing? Would she always try and never make a success of her efforts to enter into his life?

She had tried to tell him about Justin—about their compact of friendship—yet the words had died on her lips. Suppose he did not understand? Suppose he did not approve? Suppose he should forbid her to have a big brother—as he had forbidden her to fly in the "Gray Gull" with Justin?

She dared not risk such a catastrophe. She clung desperately to the thought of Justin's youth and gayety. No, Anthony might not understand, so why should she discuss it with him?

At dinner Anthony roused himself and had played the gracious host. Yet on the return trip he had relapsed into silence, and she had again felt that sense of desperate failure. Oh, what kind of wife was she going to make for this grave Anthony, this great Dr. Anthony, who loved her and whom she loved?

It was on the return trip, too, that he had spoken of their coming marriage. "Why can't it be soon, Bettina?" he had said. "Why should we wait, you and I?"

She knew that there was no good reason. That a few weeks ago she would have been radiant at the prospect.

Yet she told him, nervously, that if he didn't mind, it would be better to wait—a little. There were things to do.

And he had acquiesced, because of his masculine ignorance of the things which must really be done.

"The big house will be ready," he said, "when you are ready."

As she changed her gown on her return home, Bettina meditated soberly on the situation. Diana, when they had talked together, had pointed out that the women who married such men as Anthony must be content to make sacrifices. "He belongs to the world, dear child," she had said; "you must remember that, if you would be happy. It must be your joy to help him in his great work."

Bettina was beginning to be a little afraid of the future. It was not that she did not love Anthony—why, Anthony was the best man in the whole wide world. But everybody expected so much of her, and she was not quite sure that she should come up to the full measure of their expectations.

As she came down the stairs, Justin was waiting for her.

"Oh, you little beauty," his heart whispered; "you little white and gold beauty."

She had twisted her hair low on her neck, and her delicate lace mantle fell about her like folded gossamer wings.

"We will sit in the library," she said. "I have had a fire built. It is so damp and foggy outside. Sophie said you had to come in early from your sail on account of it."

"We came near not coming in at all," Justin told her. "Doris was terribly scared. But Mrs. Martens was as cool as possible. It's rather risky business outside on such a day. The rocks are like needle points under the water."

"I'm a terrible coward."

"You only think you are. When are you going to fly with me?"

"Never—please."

He had placed a chair for her by the fire, and stood leaning over the back of it.

"Never is a long time—little sister."

"But I should be afraid."

"Not with me."

Silence.

"Not with me." He came around so that he could look into her face. "Would you be afraid with me?"

She knew that she would not. She had not been afraid in the storm. But these things were not to be told.

She did not meet his eyes, but shook her head.

He was struck by her troubled look.

"Tired—little sister?" he asked.

Her lips quivered. "Very tired."

His heart yearned over her. She seemed such a little thing in that stately room with its high ceilings, its massive furniture, its book-lined walls. The only light came from the fire, and from a silver lamp which hung over Diana's desk. On the table near Bettina was a bowl of pink hyacinths, which filled the room with the fresh fragrance of spring.

He was conscious of these things, however, only as a setting for her beauty. And he was more than ever conscious of his desire to place himself between her and the world which might hurt her. "Let me help you," he said, earnestly. "Don't you know that my only desire is to serve you?"

She considered him, wistfully. "It's dear of you to say that."

He sat down, leaning toward her.

"It isn't dear of me. It isn't even good of me. It's simply self-preservation. Don't you know, can't you see that I have only one thought—your happiness; only one wish—to be always near you?"

There was no mistaking the significance of his flaming words.

She shrank back. "Oh, you must not say such things."

"Why not?"

"Because. Oh, you called yourself my friend."

"I am more than that," he said, steadily. "I am your lover."

"Please—oh, please."

She began to sob like a little child. "Oh, big brother," she told him, "you have spoiled everything."

He knelt beside her chair. "How have I spoiled things?"

"I wanted you for my friend."

"I am your friend, dear one."

Very still and pale she fought against the sweetness of the truth he was forcing upon her.

"Please—go away," she whispered.

He rose to his feet. "I shall not give you up."

She rose also, a frail little thing in her floating draperies, and laid her hand lightly on his arm.

"There are things which I cannot tell you. But I need a friend. If you care for me you'll let me be your—little sister; you won't trouble me by saying such things as you have said—to-night."

He tried with all the strength of his young manhood to hide his own hurt and meet her need.

"I could kill myself for making you cry. I'm going to be good now. Really and truly your good big brother."

She glanced up at him with charming shyness.

"I'll forget the things that you have said to-night—if you won't say them again."

"I shall not tie myself to an impossible promise," he repeated, "but I am going to tie you to a promise."

"Me?" She faced him.

"Yes. Oh, see here," boyishly, "I brought something for you to-night. I have noticed that you don't wear rings, but I want you to wear this." He opened his hand and showed her, lying on the palm, a little silver ring. "It's just a simple trinket that my sister wore as a child. I'd like to think that it would tie you to me always—for remembrance. I had hoped that you would let me give you another some time. But this—why, you can't object to wearing it—and it would mean a lot to me if you would——"

Her slender fingers touched it. "How sweet of you to think of it——"

"Then you'll wear it?"

"Yes—because you are—my friend."

He took her hand in his and fitting the slender band first on one finger and then on another found a place for it at last on the little finger of her left hand.

"With this ring," he said, softly, "I take you always—for my friend——"

Then he stood looking down at her. "What a lovely little thing you are," he said. "You're so tiny that I could pick you up and carry you off, yet I tremble when I touch your hand."

She drew a quick short breath.

"You aren't to say such things to me—you know."

"I'll be good."

She knelt down like a child on the hearth-rug, and held her hand forward so that the light of the fire might shine on the silver circlet.

"Why, it's engraved," she said, "with two hearts."

"Yes," he said; "your heart and mine."

As she bent forward, the thin chain which she wore about her neck swung forward from among the laces of her gown, and, "tinkle, tinkle," sounded the chime of the flashing rings which Anthony had given her.

Justin saw her catch at them, saw her look of frightened appeal as she thrust them hurriedly back into their hiding-place.

She rose slowly from the rug; slowly she took the little silver ring from her finger; slowly she handed it back to him.

"Please, I must not wear it," she said, with a break in her voice. "I must give it back to you—my friend."