; and
so has the colored boy who is to go with them."

"Yes, mother," argued Ford: "there isn't half the danger there is in
driving around New York in a carriage."

"There might be a storm," she timidly suggested.

"The horses might run away."

"Or you might get upset."

"So might a carriage."

The end of it all was, however, that Ford was to go, and Annie was more
than half sorry she could not go with them. In fact, she said so to
Dabney himself, as soon as her little laugh was ended, that Sunday
morning.

"Some time or other I'd be glad to have you," replied Dab very politely,
"but not this trip."

"Why not?"

"We mean to go right across the bay, and try some fishing."

"Couldn't I fish?"

"Well, no, I don't think you could."

"Why couldn't I?"

"Because,--well, because, most likely, you'd be too sea-sick by the time
we got there."

Just then a low, clear voice, behind Dabney, quietly remarked, "How
smooth his hair is!"

Dab's face turned red again.

Annie Foster had heard it as distinctly as he had; and she walked right
away with her mother, for fear she should laugh again.

"It's my own hair, Jenny Walters," said Dab almost savagely, as he
turned around.

"I should hope it was."

"I should like to know what you go to church for, anyhow."

"To hear people talk about sailing and fishing. How much do you s'pose a
young lady like Miss Foster cares about small boys?"

"Or little girls, either? Not much; but Annie and I mean to have a good
sail before long."

"Annie and I!"

Jenny's pert little nose seemed to turn up more than ever, as she walked
away, for she had not beaten her old playfellow quite as badly as usual.
There were several sharp things on the very tip or her tongue, but she
was too much put out and vexed to try to say them just then.

Dab made the rest of his way home without any further haps or mishaps. A
sail on the bay was nothing so new or wonderful for him to look forward
to, and so that Sunday went by a good deal like all his other Sundays.

As for Ford Foster, on the contrary, his mind was in a stew and turmoil
all day. In fact, just after tea that evening, his father asked him,--

"What book is that you are reading, Ford?"

"Captain Cook's Voyages."

"And the other, in your lap?"

"Robinson Crusoe."

"Well, you might have worse books than they are, that's a fact, even for
Sunday, though you ought to have better; but which of them do you and
Dabney Kinzer mea