  The next morning Captain Ezra asked Gene if he would like to go to the Outer Ledge and spend the day fishing, as the supply in the barrel was getting low. The lad was glad to go, and, as Muriel had baking to do, she was equally pleased to be alone. Long, silent hours these were for Gene as he sat with the captain waiting for the coming of the fish that seemed reluctant to be caught in the early morning. Long, thoughtful hours. Now and then the lad even forgot where he was until a wave, larger than the others, rocked the boat and recalled to him his whereabouts. He was living over again a chapter in his past. It had happened the summer before. His dear mother, who was perfect in every other way, had one obsession (many mothers seemed to have it, he concluded), and that was that she wanted the idol of her heart, her only son, to make a fashionable marriage. During their last vacation, with his sister Helen, he had joined his parents in Paris, where Mr. Beavers was employed as resident representative of large American interests, he himself having a controlling share. Mrs. Beavers had suggested a jaunt about the continent and had joined a small exclusive party, one of the younger members of it being just the sort of a girl she desired as a comrade for her son. Marianne Carnot, the descendant of a long line of illustrious French folk, had been educated in London and although she was a dark, sparkling beauty of the French type, she spoke excellent English with a delightful accent which but added to her charm. Gene’s mother, in her eagerness to interest her son in this girl (for Monsieur Carnot was a diplomat of fabulous wealth), had been truly discouraged, for they had neither of them cared greatly (or so it would seem) to be in each other’s company. When the pleasant journey through Italy, Switzerland and France was ended, Mrs. Beavers could not see that the two most frequently in her thoughts had been greatly impressed with each other. They had come to the parting of their ways and Gene had never again seen Marianne nor had they corresponded. But the locket! How had Marianne procured the snapshot of him? Then he recalled one day in Rome when she had told him to stand by a famous statue and look his prettiest. He had supposed that a photograph of the statue was what she had really wished to procure, but he had been mistaken, evidently. Could it have been that Marianne had liked him especially? He was sure that this was not true. He also recalled that his mother had assured Mademoiselle Carnot that she ought to spend at least one year in an American boarding school. Evidently the French girl had been voyaging across the great Atlantic when her small steamer trunk had been lost. Did that mean that Marianne had also met with disaster? He decided that he would write his sister at once and inquire if she knew aught of her friend of the summer before. When Gene reached Windy Island that night, upon one thing he had decided. He would tell Muriel the entire story. The next morning an opportunity presented itself. The girl was darning in the sunny kitchen when Gene came in from the shed on the shore where he and Captain Ezra had been cleaning fish and packing it away in the barrel which was kept very cold in a wet hole in the sand. Muriel looked up with a welcoming smile. Just such a smile was ever awaiting the coming of her grand-dad. Gene sat upon the broad arm of a chair nearby and twirled his cap. “Muriel, good friend,” he said, “I know to whom your box belongs.” The girl looked up amazed, not understanding. “Gene, how could yo’? We didn’t find a name or nothin’.” “Yes, we found something. That is, I did.” Those hazel eyes were again looking into the very soul of the boy, but he did not flinch. He had done nothing of which he was ashamed. He slid down into the chair, and leaning forward, looked directly back at her. “I didn’t tell you at once, because I wanted to think it all over. I was so surprised I couldn’t quite understand myself what it could mean, but I do now, in part at least. May I tell you the story?” The girl nodded and her hands lay idly in her lap, though still holding the sock she had been darning. Gene told her all from the beginning. He wondered what her first remark would be when he paused. It was: “I reckon yo’re mother wouldn’t wish yo’ to be friends with me, Gene Beavers. I cal’late yo’d better go back to the city soon, to the kind of folks she’d want yo’ to be associatin’ with.” “Nonsense, Muriel!” The lad had risen, and thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, he stood looking out of the window for a long time, silent, thoughtful. |
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