"York is pretty dull for you, Martine," said Mrs. Stratford a morning or two after the Fourth. "I was hoping you would run across some one you knew here. Wasn't Elinor to write to some of her friends?"

"I thought so, mamma, but either she has forgotten, or they don't think it worth while to travel up to Red Knoll."

"Of course you have many things to interest you about the house, but still it's quiet for you here, Martine."

"It might be livelier," admitted Martine, "but there's a lot of sight-seeing I can do, while waiting for something to turn up. Amy and Priscilla have quite got me into the sight-seeing habit, and it would be a strange New England town that couldn't show something to a seeker for information."

Mrs. Stratford smiled at her daughter's way of putting things. "York really has some history, and the village, as I drove through it the other day, had a pleasant, old-time aspect, though nothing looked ancient enough to take one back even a hundred years."

"Oh, then you didn't notice the little gaol on the hill; labelled sixteen hundred and something, I've forgotten just what, but I believe it's as old as it claims to be, for it looks something like Noah's Ark. If Angelina will stay with you this afternoon, I will see what is to be seen there. They told me at the postoffice that the Historical Society has it in charge and that it's full of curiosities."

While she was speaking, Martine's face had brightened perceptibly, and her enthusiasm pleased her mother. Later in the day she set off, for Angelina, whose habit it was to take the afternoons for her own amusement, willingly accepted Martine's suggestion that she should stay with Mrs. Stratford.

"At any time when you wish it, Miss Martine, I'll be happy to oblige you," said Angelina, with an air better befitting a princess than a domestic employee, the most of whose time should have been at the disposal of her employer.

"I've never really gone to jail before," cried Martine gayly, as she bade her mother good-bye, "but I'll try so to behave myself that I'll have nothing but good to report when I come back."

For a moment or two, before she entered the gaol, Martine surveyed it from the road below. Her comparison of the little building to Noah's Ark really suited it very well.

"I can't say that it's exactly my idea of a prison," she thought, "although those brick walls may be thick enough to balance the wooden ends; and even if a prisoner found it easy to jump from the upper windows to the ground, I dare say that some of the bolts and bars were strong enough to hold dangerous persons."

Once inside the little building, Martine almost forgot that it was a prison, as she walked about gazing at all kinds of odd things that have been brought together to connect the present with the past. Old china, old pictures, autographs, furniture, fans, and other articles of personal adornment, spoke eloquently of bygone days; so eloquently that Martine shortly realized that a feeling of sadness was taking possession of her. She began to picture the people to whom these things had belonged, to wonder who they were, how long they had lived, and why their homes had been broken up.

"For no one with a home," she said to herself, "would ever part with things of this kind." She looked into the old dungeon, the walls of which were eighteen or twenty inches thick, and turned away hastily when another visitor asked her if she wouldn't like to go farther inside. Then she went to the attendant seated at a table in the front room.

"How old is this building?" she asked, rather to make conversation than because she really cared to know.

"It was built in 1653," was the polite answer, "and is said to be the oldest public building in the United States; there are probably some churches and houses still standing that are a little older, but no building used for more than two hundred years continuously for public purposes. It was built by the Massachusetts people when they took possession of this part of the country in the time of Cromwell."

"Indeed!" Martine was not exactly eager for information, but to hear a little more history would help pass the time.

"Of course you know," continued the other, "that York was founded under a grant to Sir Ferdinand Gorges, and it was always strongly Royalist; it's the oldest incorporated city in the United States, and although its mayor and aldermen and other high officials existed chiefly on paper and the place was only a small village even into the eighteenth century, still we are all very proud of our history."

At this moment a voice at Martine's elbow cried, "Bless my soul," in tones that were strangely familiar, and turning about she met the surprised gaze of Mr. Gamut whom she had last seen at the exercises around the Harvard statue on Class Day.

"So it really is you, Miss Martine," said the Mr. Gamut, holding out his hand. "I had no idea that you were in this part of the world."

"We have a little cottage here this summer," responded Martine.

"Are you all together again? Surely your father—"

"Oh, no, my father isn't here; we've had only one letter since I saw you, and that wasn't encouraging."

Against her will, tears came to Martine's eyes.

"There, there, remember what I told you; things are bound to come out all right."

"Oh, I hope so. Mother says that if things were worse we should probably have had a cable."

"That's the way to look at it. Come, walk around with me for a little while. I suppose you know all about these things. My niece wouldn't come with me. She doesn't care for history. A great place this New England! They seem to have saved all their old odds and ends and have a story to fit everything."

"But York is really old and historic," protested Martine, proud of her recently acquired information. "The first settlers here were Royalists and held high positions."

"On paper," said Mr. Gamut with a laugh. "Oh, yes, I know about Sir Ferdinand Gorges and his remarkable charter. Here are some of the coats of arms of the first settlers," exclaimed Mr. Gamut. "Do you suppose they wore them tied around their necks when they first came out?"

"Not exactly," responded Martine, detecting Mr. Gamut's scepticism.

"Well, I'm only a plain western man," continued the latter, "and I rather think that coats of arms and things of that kind didn't trouble the first settlers in spite of all this foolery," and he pointed to the colors blazoned on the shield and scrolls on the walls.

"They're pretty to look at," apologized Martine.

"Oh, yes, and I suppose people of a certain name have an uncertain right to claim these heraldic ornaments, but for my own part, I prefer something more substantial. Things like this appeal to me more," and he led Martine to a little cradle in which Sir William Pepperell slept in his babyhood. "Or even this," and he pointed out a small table at which Handkerchief Moody used to eat by himself.

"Who in the world was 'Handkerchief Moody'?"

"His story is one of the few York tales that I can tell," replied Mr. Gamut, smiling. "And you ought to know it too, young lady, because Hawthorne, in his way, has immortalized it. This Moody was the son of one of the ministers of the old church; he was intended for the law, but having accidentally killed a friend while out hunting, his father persuaded him to enter the ministry. Remorse, however, so preyed on him that he spent his life in comparative solitude, and whenever he went in public, it is said, he covered his face with a handkerchief; different reasons have been given for his strange behavior, and it may be that he was always mildly insane. At least, there must be some truth in the stories told about him."

Martine, impressed by this curious story, was silent for a few minutes.

"There's one thing," she said, "that I have learned about the old people of York; they must have set what Angelina would call a very handsome table. I've seldom seen in one place so many fine old cups and saucers and drinking glasses and decanters."

"These things don't fit exactly our theories about New England plain living and high thinking. I tell you what, object lessons often teach us much more than books. But now," and Mr. Gamut looked at his watch, "I'm sorry to see that I must hurry back to the house; I am visiting a cousin for a few days and if you'll tell me where your cottage is, I shall have a great deal of pleasure in calling on you and your mother."

As accurately as she could, Martine described the location of Red Knoll, and as suddenly as he had appeared on the scene, Mr. Gamut disappeared. After he had gone, Martine mounted the steep stairs to the second story of the gaol where she examined at her leisure the hand-made quilts and quaint furnishings of an old-time bedroom, and looked with interest at the picturesque costumes giving a somewhat ghostly effect to a number of dummy figures in one of the attics. She saw the cell, or rather the room, where gentlemen prisoners were confined, and going downstairs, took a final survey of the old kitchen, well equipped with cooking utensils of Colonial days.

Her visit to the gaol had diverted her, but as she walked homeward over the dusty road, the old feeling of loneliness returned. Never before had she realized that she was dependent on young companionship; yet never before had she been so cut off from her own special friends.

Mrs. Stratford was pleased to hear that Mr. Gamut intended to visit Red Knoll.

"He probably," she said, "has friends at York, of whom we shall be likely to see something; he and your father were never intimate, but always good friends. I shall be glad to see him and I hope his niece will come with him, for there is no reason why we should live in utter seclusion."

Two or three days passed away and then a week, and still Mr. Gamut had not presented himself. Meanwhile a letter had arrived from Lucian.

"Father is still in a rather critical condition; he is not able to attend to business, though they say he is much better than before I came; it will be impossible to tell for some time how things really stand or when we can come home."

"I call that very encouraging," cried Martine, reading the letter aloud for the second time. "I'm so glad that Lucian went out there."

"He has certainly taken hold very well," responded Mrs. Stratford, "although I cannot agree with you that the letter is very encouraging."

"But it might have been so much worse," murmured Martine, turning away that her mother might not discern any lack of cheerfulness in her face. For although the letter might have been worse, Martine realized that after all it did not promise a great deal for the future. Other letters came now to Red Knoll. Priscilla wrote affectionately. She knew, she wrote, it was probably warmer at Plymouth than at York and yet, if only it could have been arranged, she believed that Martine and her mother might have enjoyed the South Shore better even than the North.

"The children talk of you constantly; no one ever made a deeper impression; so I have promised them that Thanksgiving, if not before, you will come again to visit us. Mr. Stacy asks for you whenever he sees me, and that, you know, is fairly often. He says that York is historic in its way, and he hopes that you will find a lot to interest you there, so that you can tell him all about it when you see him. He evidently thinks that York history isn't half as important as our Plymouth history, and of course he's right, because this was the earlier settlement; still if there's anything worth knowing about the place, I am sure you will find it out. For even though you made so much fun of Acadian history last summer, in the end you really knew more about it than any of the rest of us. That was because there was so much more to know about the Acadians than the English, and you may recall I tried not to remember the Acadian history that Amy talked so much about."

"Martine," said Mrs. Stratford, "I hope that Priscilla will visit you; she is the kind of girl to be quite comfortable in that little room next yours; there are some people we wouldn't care to put there."

"Oh, Priscilla would just love it, but she wrote me a while ago that she couldn't possibly be spared, at least that she oughtn't to wish to be spared; and when Priscilla says 'ought not' she generally means 'will not.'"

A day later Martine had her first letter from Amy, who was enjoying her first trip abroad; she and her mother had gone directly from Liverpool to North Wales, where Mrs. Redmond was anxious to spend a week or two sketching in the neighborhood of Snowdon.

"She was here years ago, before her marriage," wrote Amy, "and so this is a kind of sentimental journey for her; she thinks that I have made a sacrifice in postponing our visit to London; but indeed, I find it very attractive here, and perhaps it is just as well to rest for a little while before we set out on a regular sight-seeing tour."

"Martine," said Mrs. Stratford, as her daughter replaced Amy's letter in its envelope, "you haven't yet gone down to the beach?"

"No, mamma, I haven't really felt like going."

"Well, I do feel like going to-day," said Mrs. Stratford. "Let us take the next car and ride down as near as we can; people bathe about twelve and we shall be in season to see all that is going on."

"Very well, mamma;" Martine's tone implied resignation to something that she did not wholly approve. In a few moments mother and daughter were well on their way to the beach. After they were once fairly started Martine's spirits revived. She and her mother had never passed through the village together and Martine pointed out the gaol and the old white church with its high spire, fronting a little green; and the old churchyard across the road, whose inscriptions she said she would not try to decipher until she could have Priscilla with her. It was a warm morning, but the motion of the car produced a refreshing breeze, and when at last they left it to walk toward the beach, both mother and daughter were in good spirits. At the edge of the sands a gay sight met them. Two large pavilions, roofed over, but open at the sides, were filled with gayly dressed people; the tide was fairly low, and on the sand in front half-grown boys and girls were romping in their bathing-suits, and nurse-maids with little children were disporting themselves in large numbers. From the bath houses behind the pavilions, a long plank extended to the water. Here bathers were coming and going, some dripping from their plunge, others ready to go in. Martine and her mother seated themselves on the first empty seat they came to at the edge of the pavilion. Martine, impressed by the gay hats, fluttering, colored veils, and thin muslin gowns, seen on every side, glanced involuntarily at her own plain linen suit.

Mrs. Stratford, understanding her glance, spoke encouragingly. "You look very well, Martine; your dress is entirely suitable for the morning. Some of these other costumes are too elaborate."

"I had no idea it would be so gay," responded Martine; "evidently we are in York, but not of it."

Instantly she was sorry. But if Mrs. Stratford had heard her words, she made no comment. Mother and daughter sat for some time idly watching the crowd. Once or twice they recognized people they had known in Chicago, not intimate friends, but persons with whom they had a speaking acquaintance.

"There's Mrs. Brownville," exclaimed Mrs. Stratford, as an elderly woman with an elaborate hat walked down on the sands. "I will drop a line to her; probably Carlotta is here too, and they will be glad to see you."

"No, no, mamma," exclaimed Martine; "I never did like them, except at a distance, and I should hate to have them get in the habit of running to see us."

"They might not take the trouble to come at all; we are out of the way," rejoined her mother.

Martine made no further reply; her attention was fixed on a girl who was walking up from the sands past the end of the pavilion. She seemed to be looking directly at Martine, and the latter rose from her seat as if to speak to the other; but before she could make her way outside, this girl had passed on without a sign of recognition.

"That's a nice looking girl," said Mrs. Stratford.

"Yes," responded Martine. "That was Peggy Pratt."

"Peggy Pratt; isn't she a friend of yours?"

"A school friend," responded Martine bitterly. "But evidently she doesn't wish to recognize me here. I suppose she thinks that I'll be troublesome in some way."

"Perhaps she didn't really see you."

"She couldn't help it," replied Martine.

That very day an invitation from Edith Blair came to Martine. "Mother and I," wrote Edith, from the North Shore, "would both be delighted to have a visit from you, a fortnight at least, a month if you can stay as long. Your mother, we hear, is much better, and she surely does not need you all the time."

For a moment Martine was strongly tempted to show the letter to her mother, who, she knew, would certainly urge her to accept the invitation. It is true that Edith and her friends were some years older than Martine, but the latter knew that they would do their best to give her a good time. She would have a fine riding-horse, there would be trips of all kinds up and down the shore, and delightful afternoons at the Essex Country Club, pleasant evenings on the Blairs' piazza after dinners with bright and agreeable people. Under these circumstances, she could put up for a time with the patronizing manners of her mother's cousin, Mrs. Blair; for Edith was always sweet and agreeable, if a little slow. Really, it would be sensible to spend two weeks in this way. She could make herself more entertaining to her mother on her return. But here Martine drew herself up. Duty for the time being presented only one face; her place, for the present, was at Red Knoll; so without mentioning the invitation, she merely gave her mother the personal messages contained in Edith's letter.