your promise, dear," Jane answered thoughtfully
and with a certain relieved tone. (Sue was nearly thirty, but that did
not occur to Jane.) "But this time I wish you had not promised. I am
sorry, too, for little Ellen. She will miss her little garden and
everything she loves here; and then again, Archie will miss her, and so
will Captain Holt and Martha. You know as well as I do that a hotel is
no place for a child."

"I am glad to hear you say so. That's why I shall not take her with
me." As she spoke she shot an inquiring glance from the corner of her
eyes at the anxious face of her sister. These last lines just before
the curtain fell were the ones she had dreaded most.

Jane half rose from her seat. Her deep eyes were wide open, gazing in
astonishment at Lucy. For an instant she felt as if her heart had
stopped beating.

"And you--you--are not going to take Ellen with you!" she gasped.

"No, of course not." She saw her sister's agitation, but she did not
intend to notice it. Besides, her expectant ear had caught the sound of
Max's drag as it whirled through the gate. "I always left her with her
grandmother when she was much younger than she is now. She is very
happy here and I wouldn't be so cruel as to take her away from all her
pleasures. Then she loves old people. See how fond she is of the
Captain and Martha! No, you are right. I wouldn't think of taking her
away."

Jane was standing now, her eyes blazing, her lips quivering.

"You mean, Lucy, that you would leave your child here and spend two
months away from her?"

The wheels were crunching the gravel within a rod of the porch. Max had
already lifted his hat.

"But, sister, you don't understand--" The drag stopped and Max, with
uncovered head, sprang out and extended his hand to Jane.

Before he could offer his salutations Lucy's joyous tones rang out.

"Just in the nick of time, Max," she cried. "I've just been telling my
dear sister that I'm going to move over to Beach Haven to-morrow, bag
and baggage, and she is delighted at the news. Isn't it just like her?"

CHAPTER XVII

BREAKERS AHEAD

The summer-home of Max Feilding, Esq., of Walnut Hill, and of the
beautiful and accomplished widow of the dead Frenchman was located on a
levelled sand-dune in full view of the sea. Indeed, from beneath its
low-hooded porticos and piazzas nothing else could be seen except,
perhaps, the wide sky--gray, mottled, or intensely blue, as the weather
perm