After the Shoals excursion Martine's life was less placid than before. Peggy, as if to make amends for her apparent neglect, tried to draw her into some of the gayer doings of the younger set.

"It's very kind of Peggy, but I can't make her understand that I didn't come here wholly for fun; or rather that I find fun in things that she would consider quiet. Clare feels as I do, and we try to make Peggy see that we enjoy a morning under the trees, or a walk in the meadow, quite as well as a game of golf with tea at the Club."

"Golf is good exercise, and you used to like it."

"I know it, but I don't need it in midsummer, and besides—"

Martine did not explain that she did not care to engage in golf, or in anything that would take her away too much from Red Knoll. "Besides," she said to herself, "I won't accept invitations that I can't return, and we are not in the mood for entertaining this summer, even if we had money to waste."

Angelina thought it strange that Mrs. Stratford and Martine preferred the quiet life, and by gentle hints tried to impress on them that they were losing a great deal by declining some of the invitations that came to them. Mrs. Brownville, among others, had called. A day or two after the Shoals excursion, Mrs. Brownville and Carlotta drove up to Red Knoll. Martine at the moment was carrying on an argument with the butcher, who had drawn his cart up nearer the front door than the back. Martine was balancing a chicken in one hand and holding a large cabbage in the other, and was gently arguing with the butcher regarding his prices.

It was somewhat disconcerting to have Mrs. Brownville and Carlotta, in elaborate gowns and flower-laden hats, descend upon her while she was wearing an apron over her gingham skirt. There was no escape for Martine, and before she could decide what to do with the chicken or the cabbage, Mrs. Brownville had advanced toward her with outstretched hand. At this moment, Angelina fortunately appeared on the scene to relieve Martine of her burdens, and Mrs. Brownville politely ignored what she had seen. Martine, however, after the first greetings, broke the ice by plunging into a humorous discussion of summer housekeeping.

"It's the funniest thing," she said, "that clothes and food are so much alike."

"Yes," said Mrs. Brownville, though her expression showed that she could not grasp Martine's meaning.

"Yes," repeated Martine; "in both cases we have to pay highest for the trimmings. When I order three pounds of beef-steak and only get a pound and a half, though I pay for three, the butcher says, 'It's all on account of the trimmings' and it's so with chickens, and lamb, and almost everything except eggs; though for eggs there are three grades of fresh eggs."

"Really?" said Mrs. Brownville, not knowing what else to say. She had a small sense of humor combined with a kind heart; that is, she was always willing to do a kindness when it came directly in her way to do it. She was not quite sure whether or not Martine was making a demand on her for sympathy. Before she could decide what to say, Carlotta interposed. She suspected that Martine was laughing at them both and she wished she could escape the special errand which had brought her. A moment later Martine had led the way into the little sitting-room where her mother received the guests; and soon Carlotta made her errand known.

"I am going to have a little dance at the Club on Saturday evening and I do hope you can come," she said to Martine.

"Yes," added Mrs. Brownville, "it's going to be the most elegant dance of the season, that is for the young people."

A shade of annoyance crossed Carlotta's face; she had wished to pretend it was to be a very simple affair, so that her guests would be the more impressed in the end by all the expense lavished on it.

"Oh, thank you very much," replied Martine, "but I'm not going out at all evenings at present."

"Herbert will be so disappointed."

At this speech of her mother's Carlotta felt an annoyance that she did not show. She did not wish Martine to know that her invitation was due only to Herbert's urging.

"I know it would be delightful," said Martine, "but really I am not dancing this summer."

Carlotta for the moment felt that she would do almost anything to get Martine to take back her refusal. It was irritating that a girl living in as humble a house as Red Knoll should show so little appreciation of an invitation that should have been accepted almost with gratitude. So she rose to her feet and rather abruptly said good-bye to Mrs. Stratford and Martine.

"I must hurry on," she explained, "as I have an engagement at the Club. Mamma, I will send the carriage back for you." And with another word or two of good-bye, Carlotta made a rather hasty departure. After her daughter had gone Mrs. Brownville talked on in her usual rather rambling fashion. She admired the wall papers and the furnishings of the little room.

"Really you've made the most of everything," she said in a manner savoring of patronage that irritated Martine, though she knew Mrs. Brownville did not mean to offend her.

A little later Herbert appeared on the scene.

"Oh, do change your mind," he urged; "I told Carlotta—"

"Then it was you who asked her to come? I thought so."

Again Herbert reddened.

"Well, you see you weren't on the list when the first invitations were sent out, and I was afraid you might be offended, only I thought you were too sensible, and so—"

"There, there," interposed Martine; "I am sensible, that is, I am not offended really, because Carlotta did not think of me in the first place."

"Then you will accept?"

"Oh, no, I am not going out this summer, at least to things of that kind."

"Then I won't go either," said Herbert sulkily; "I hate summer dances and I know a lot of fellows who will stay away too."

"Now, Herbert," said Martine emphatically, "don't be a goose. You ought to try to please Carlotta once in a while, and really, if I hear that you stay away from Carlotta's party, I won't be friends with you."

Whether or not Martine influenced him she never knew, but it was a fact that Herbert and his friends went in force to Carlotta's dance, which Martine heard was really a very successful affair.

For a week or two after this Martine herself felt rather left out of things. She had few friends in the Philadelphia group. Peggy, it is true, as if to make up for her early apparent neglect, did try on more than one occasion to get Martine to join some excursion.

But Martine was firm. She saw that she could not well accept one invitation and refuse another, and she decided that she could afford neither the time nor the money that these outings required.

Mrs. Stratford watched Martine with some concern. The change from her former self was almost too great. But when her mother remonstrated with her, Martine invariably replied that she was perfectly contented—that housekeeping that involved a constant oversight of Angelina afforded excitement enough.

"Besides," she added, "there is Clare; she is livelier than Priscilla, though almost as improving. To-morrow we are going down by Spouting Rock; she, to take photographs, I, to sketch, and she knows any number of picturesque places."

"Your plan sounds improving, if not exciting," responded Mrs. Stratford, smiling.

"We think it will be more fun than going off with a crowd. Instead of riding to Bald Head Cliff with Peggy and her crowd, Clare has asked me to go to Ogunquit on Saturday. We shall drive over, and she is going to ask you too. Her cousin, Mr. Carrol, has a studio there, and we are all invited to luncheon, so please say you will go, mamma."

"Why, yes, when I am really invited," replied Mrs. Stratford, smiling; and a few moments later, when Clare appeared with her message from Mrs. Ethridge, the drive was quickly arranged.

The day at Ogunquit was one of many pleasant, quiet days that Martine spent with Clare on the shore or up the river. Almost always Mrs. Stratford and Mrs. Ethridge went with them. In a short time Martine had become an expert paddler, and she was proud enough to have her mother entrust herself to her care. One afternoon, in two canoes, the four went three or four miles up the river to have tea in a little cove on the Bans. It did not detract from Martine's pleasure, when they passed the Country Club, to hear Peggy and Carlotta shout from the piazza:

"Don't go past."

"There's a landing here."

Or rather, if they did not hear clearly they judged that this was the meaning of the words that were accompanied with signals and gestures. But without heeding the sirens, Martine and Clare paddled on and their outing was a complete success. It cannot be said that they made their passage upstream without difficulties. It was near the turn of the tide, and part of the way the current was against them. But of two evils they had to choose the less, as Clare thought it wiser to return down the river with the current wholly in their favor.

"If the York were a real river, we wouldn't have to do so much planning, but you see it's only an arm of the sea, and in its whole seven miles from the harbor, the tide has to be closely reckoned with."

"Yes, I've heard weird tales of canoeists left high and dry on the shore because they had forgotten to calculate the rise and fall of the tide," added Martine.

"It's generally worse for the parents at home than for the stranded young people. I have known mothers half-distracted while waiting to hear from missing daughters," said Mrs. Ethridge.

"Then we were wise in coming with the girls," added Mrs. Stratford.

"As if we would have come without you. The whole fun to-day is showing you the river," responded Martine, who had been up with Clare before. "There," she continued, "I forgot to give you my one piece of information—that Sewall's Bridge near the Country Club is the oldest pier bridge in the United States, and was built by the same Major Sewall who built the first bridge between Cambridge and Boston."

"Unimportant, if true," and Mrs. Stratford smiled at Martine's earnestness. "I approve, my dear, of your zeal for history, but in New England people often make too much of unimportant trifling things."

"Bridges and houses."

"Yes, and Indians and wars and—"

"Then you won't appreciate this verse that Clare recited the other day:

"Evidently the writer of those lines had a real tragedy in mind," replied Mrs. Stratford.

"Yes," interposed Clare, "it was the Indian massacre of 1792, when more than three hundred savages came into York on snow-shoes, and killed half the people of the place,—all in fact except those who had taken refuge in the old garrison house. The minister, Rev. Shubael Dummer was shot while standing at his door—and—"

"Tell her, Clare, about the little boy," said Martine.

"Oh, Jeremiah Moulton, the only person within the Indian's reach whom they spared. He was a fat little boy, and when he caught sight of the savages he waddled away as fast as his little legs would carry him. This so amused the Indians that they laughed and laughed and spared him. Though hardly more than a baby at the time the boy never forgot his fright, and years later he revenged himself on the Indians in what was known as the Harmon Massacre,—and many people have since blamed him for his cruelty."

"Probably they had never been chased by Indians," responded Martine. "He jests at scars who never felt a wound."

"We must go to the McIntire garrison house some day," continued Clare. "Though it wasn't the refuge during that particular massacre, the two houses were probably much alike, and this is one of the oldest buildings in the country—built in 1623."

"Clare," exclaimed Martine, "excuse my interrupting you, but you are tremendously like Amy when you are imparting information, though at other times I hardly notice the resemblance. I shall forget half you have told me, and I wonder how you happen to remember so much."

"If you should come here as many summers as I have come, you would unconsciously imbibe dates and scraps of information."

"But now," said Martine, "we are hungry for something more substantial than dates, and with your permission, Mrs. Ethridge, we'll open the basket."

The sandwiches prepared by Angelina's deft fingers, and the cakes and fruit brought by Clare made a supper fit for a king, as Martine phrased it, and the journey home with wind and tide in their favor brought to an end one of the pleasantest afternoons of the season.

A few days after the canoe trip Martine and Clare started out for a day at Newcastle, accompanied by Angelina. Mrs. Stratford was spending the day with Mrs. Ethridge, and Angelina was in a seventh heaven of delight as she walked along carrying the basket. Angelina had an especial interest in Clare dating from the night of the Fourth, for she considered that her fire-balloon and the tact with which she had rescued it from Mrs. Ethridge's grounds had led to the acquaintance between the Red Knoll household and the family across the road.

She did not know, since she was not a mind-reader, that Mrs. Ethridge would have called on Mrs. Stratford within a few days of the Fourth, even without her intervention. But as her own belief made her so happy, no one had pricked the bubble of Angelina's illusion.

While the girls were waiting for the car, Herbert came in sight.

"Off for the day, portfolio, camera, easel!" he exclaimed. "Then surely you will let me go with you."

"No," replied Martine firmly, "this isn't a picnic. We are just going off to work a little, and enjoy ourselves."

"I like that. As if I would interfere. Atherton will be along in a minute, and he would enjoy the excursion too."

"No," repeated Martine, with increasing firmness. "We have made our plans. We wish to go by ourselves."

Clare, who saw no good reason for Martine's attitude toward Herbert, yet thought it wiser not to interfere.

Herbert, who so seldom was out of temper, now seemed offended.

"Very well," he said abruptly, "I won't trouble you," and turning on his heel, he walked away.

"I can't help it," explained Martine in answer to Clare's look of wonder. "One boy, or two, for that matter, would be terribly in the way in a little trip like this. Here's the car, and I am glad enough to be off."

Now it happened that Carlotta and another girl who knew Martine went as far as Kittery on the same car. On their return to York they found Herbert on the links.

"You were on the same car with Martine; did she say where she was going with Grace?" he asked abruptly.

"She mentioned Newcastle," replied Carlotta. "They will cross on the ferry, and may row back across the river."

"How foolish girls are!" grumbled Herbert. "They think because they can paddle up York River that it's perfectly safe to row anywhere else. I hope they won't try it alone. There's a fearful current at the mouth of the Piscataqua."

"I don't see why you should care," responded Carlotta sharply. "Besides, Martine can generally take care of herself. Besides, I must tell you a funny thing. You know there was a young conductor on the special the day we went to the Shoals. Peggy says he watched Martine when she wasn't looking, and I know Martine asked me if he reminded me of any one I knew at home. Well, to-day he was on the regular car—and once when we waited at a turnout, Clare and Martine got off and stood by the side of the road, and in a minute he and she were talking as if they had always been acquainted. They actually stood there under the trees and talked, and Angelina stood there grinning like a Cheshire cat, the way she always does."

"Well, why not? Why shouldn't Martine talk to whom she pleases? Really, Carlotta, how silly you are!" and Herbert walked off with an expression of disdain for a foolish sister.

Now this is what had really happened. Martine and Clare had not been long on their way when the former exclaimed excitedly, "Do you remember, Clare, that boy I told you of, Balfour Airton, whom we met in Nova Scotia, who was so clever and knew everything about old Port Royal, whom I discovered to be a kind of cousin? Well, he's the conductor."

"What conductor?" asked Clare, who had not quite followed the course of Martine's thought.

"Why, our conductor on this car, and he was on the special the other day; I thought so then, but now I am quite sure. He hasn't given me a chance to speak to him, because I wasn't noticing him when you paid the fares, but as soon as I can I am going to recognize him."

A moment after this, the car reached the turnout where it had to wait for the car from Portsmouth, and then Martine had her opportunity. So Carlotta was right. Martine and Clare did spend a minute or two talking to the young conductor, who admitted that he had recognized Martine on the former occasion, though he had hesitated to reveal his identity to her.

"Your uniform was almost a disguise, though at the last moment I knew it was your voice; but of course I had no idea you were in this part of the world."

Balfour had no time to explain before the other car appeared in sight, but as he assisted the girls back to their seats Martine said cordially, "You must be sure to look us up."

It was not long before they reached the point on the Kittery shore where they were to take the little ferry for Newcastle.

"The Piscataqua is more of a river than the York," said Clare, "and there's a good deal to see along these banks. We'll have to content ourselves with Newcastle to-day, but sometime we might go farther down and touch at the other landings."

"We mustn't forget that we have come here to work to-day," replied Martine. "I am really anxious to do one sketch—and here is just the spot," she concluded, taking her position at a point from which she had a perfect view of an old house well shaded at the head of a little beach.

While Martine was sketching, Clare fluttered about, taking first one thing and then another that pleased her fancy, and often including Angelina in her views to the great delight of the latter.

"While Martine was sketching, Clare fluttered about."

"How blue the water is, and the sky! I haven't felt so thoroughly in the mood for good work since I left Acadia," exclaimed Martine.

"But the sun is terribly hot," replied Clare, "and I am hungry. Let us go inside Fort Constitution for our luncheon. There will surely be more shade there."

"Your word is law," and Martine reluctantly gathered up her belongings, and soon the three had ensconced themselves in a shady corner within the crumbling walls of the old grass-grown Fort.

"'Fort William and Mary' was the name of the first Fort near this spot," explained Clare, returning to her rÔle of guide, "and even before his ride to Concord and Lexington, Paul Revere is said to have posted up here to tell the people of Portsmouth that the British were sending one hundred men to take all the powder away.

"Accordingly four hundred men of Portsmouth marched out to Fort William and Mary, and required the Captain in command and his five men to surrender. Then they took the powder to a safer hiding-place, and later it was sent down to Boston, where it is said to have been used in the Battle of Bunker Hill. That other little tower is called the Walbach Tower, for Col. Walbach who commanded the fort in the War of 1812. There's a funny story about the building of this tower. Any one can see that it probably isn't true, although a poem has been written on the subject. The story is simply that the people of Portsmouth, alarmed by the sight of some British ships in the harbor, came over here in the night and worked like bees, men, women, and children, laying stones until this tower was built. There isn't an atom of proof that this is true."

"But it's a pretty story," said Martine.

After luncheon, Clare gave Martine the choice of two walks—to Odiorne's Point, called the "Plymouth Rock of New Hampshire," as the first settlement was made there, or to Little Harbor.

Martine promptly chose the latter, because she was anxious to see the old Wentworth house. To their disappointment, when the girls reached it, the three found the old house closed; but the grounds were open to them and the curious exterior amused Martine, reminding her, as she said, of half a dozen small houses piled and twisted together to make one large one.

"This is the house where Martha Hilton was married," explained Clare. "I am sorry we cannot go inside. The rooms with their polished floors and old-time furniture are really fascinating. Cousin Mary—I hope you will meet her some time in Portsmouth—says that Benning Wentworth, in spite of being Governor, was a plain man, and son of a plain farmer, so that his marriage with Martha Hilton was not such a tremendous mesalliance."

"Oh, I remember that poem," cried Angelina, "how the Governor married the servant maid. It's by Longfellow, and the story's something like Agnes Surriage. The minister didn't want to marry them. I can say some of it, and she recited dramatically:

"So I'm glad to see this hall," she added, after Clare and Martine had sufficiently praised her recitation,—"and there's one thing more that I'd like to see,—the island in the harbor, where they kept the Spanish prisoners two years ago. You know I used to think I must be partly Spanish myself, I had so much sympathy for Cervera and all his men. I'm sorry they didn't stay here longer. It would be so pleasant to go to the island and console them."

"Perhaps you'll be as well pleased if you can see Seavey's Island," replied Clare, smiling. "We passed the other day on our way to the Shoals; and sometime you must take the same trip."

For the time this suggestion satisfied Angelina, and she heard with evident pleasure all that Clare and Martine had to say about old Newcastle.

Intending to catch the last ferry of the afternoon, Clare and Martine cut short their stay at Little Harbor, delightful though they found the neighborhood with its suggestions of antiquity. They had a long walk before them—long at least for an August afternoon, and they did not reach the pier as quickly as they had hoped.

In spite of Clare's intention and Martine's efforts to be prompt, the little tug had left the landing a minute before they reached it. By close calculation, as they glanced at the time-table, they saw that they would be altogether too late in reaching home, if they waited for the next boat.

"Isn't it aggravating?" cried Martine, "to have to stand here and wait, when the distance across to Kittery is so little."

"There's nothing to do but wait," replied Clare.

Martine followed the direction in which she pointed, and saw an old man in a row-boat approaching the pier.

"Do you suppose he would take us over?"

"Why not? Let's ask him."

The two friends, with Angelina following close behind, stood on the end of the pier while the old man was mooring his boat.

"Will you row us over to the other side?" asked Martine.

He paid no attention to them, but continued tying a knot in his rope. The question was repeated in a slightly different form, and still the old man made no answer.

"He must be deaf," said Angelina.

"Or the wind's blowing in the wrong direction," said Clare. "We must wait till he comes up to us."

When the old man approached, by signs and words they made him understand what they wished, and he smiled pleasantly when Clare put a dollar bill in his hand.

"It's worth it," she said in an aside to Martine. "If we cross with him, we shall save two hours on our homeward journey."

So the old man untied his boat, which was ample enough for the four, and the girls quickly took their places.

"I can't say that I like a deaf boatman," said Clare, "in case of an accident we might find it awkward that he can't hear."

"An accident!" exclaimed Martine, who seldom feared any unseen things; "there certainly could be no accident in this quiet water." Before they had gone very far, however, she began to change her mind. The breeze which they had noticed while they were on the landing, now seemed to be blowing violently, and despite its heavy freight the boat rocked violently; it not only rocked, but veered from its course. Martine held her breath, while the excitable Angelina began to scream.

"Hush! hush!" said Martine, "it's nothing."

"Nothing?" cried Angelina, as a great wave broke over the end of the boat, half drenching her.

"It's only the Piscataqua current," said Clare. "But ask him if there's any danger."

The boatman ignored the question. Probably he had not heard it. A great wave slapped the boat sidewise, and this time Clare's screams were added to Angelina's. Billows rose all around them. Apparently they were no longer on the surface of a quiet river, but in the midst of a disturbed ocean and their boat was small. Martine kept her eyes on the distant shore; she saw that they were approaching it, slow though their progress was. The old man seemed to be doing his best, when suddenly one of his oars broke and they heard him mutter, "that's bad." Bad, it certainly was; even Martine's courage waned. One thing, however, led her to hope that they might escape disaster. She had noticed a little boat pushing out from the other side. How rapidly it seemed to approach! Very soon after the old man's oar snapped, she recognized one of the rowers in the approaching boat. It was Herbert Brownville.

As the boat drew nearer, they saw that Atherton was Herbert's companion. The boys rowed steadily and swiftly, and soon their boat was beside the other. Leaning over, Herbert extended an oar to the old man who accepted it with a nod of thanks; it wasn't a time for words; Angelina was in tears, Clare was barely calm, and even Martine, the courageous, looked disturbed. The old man bent to the oars, the two boats, almost side by side, went on in a straight line.

"Thank you, thank you!" cried Clare, as they got into calmer water.

"You weren't really scared, were you?" shouted Herbert.

"Just a little," replied Martine.

"You should have known of the current," added Herbert. "It was just the wrong time to cross in a small boat, especially with only one oar."

The wind continued to blow, but the rest of their short journey was so calm compared with the turbulent five minutes, that Martine was ashamed of their needless alarm; and yet she was glad enough when at last she found herself standing on the Kittery bank of the river.

"I knew you'd need a rescuer," exclaimed Herbert, after he had helped them ashore.

"But how in the world did you know where to find us?" asked Martine.

Herbert was silent; he did not really care to tell her what Carlotta had said.