could lay my hands
on one of those young Leighs of Burrough I'd marry him in spite of his
struggles, just to be called by that name. I believe I would."

"Sally!" I exclaimed, and glanced at the man; Sally's cheeks colored as
she followed my look. His mouth was twitching, and his eyes smouldered
with fun. But he behaved well. On some excuse of steering he turned his
back instantly and squarely toward us. But Sally's interest was
irrepressible.

"Would you mind telling me their names, Cary?" she asked. He had told us
to call him Cary. "The names of the Mr. Leighs of Burrough."

"No, Cary," I said. "I think Miss Meade doesn't notice that she is
asking you personal questions about your friends."

Cary turned on me a look full of gentleness and chivalry. "Miss Meade
doesn't ask anything that I cannot answer perfectly well," he said.
"There are two sons of the Leighs, Richard Grenville, the older, and
Amyas Francis, the younger. They keep the old names you see.
Richard--Sir Richard, I should say--is the head of the family, his
father being dead."

"Sir Richard Grenville Leigh!" said Sally, quite carried away by that
historic combination. "That's better than Amyas," she went on,
reflectively. "Is he decent? But never mind. I'll marry _him_, Cousin
Mary."

At that our sailor-man shook with laughter, and as I met his eyes
appealing for permission, I laughed as hard as he. Only Sally was
apparently quite serious.

"He would he very lucky--Miss," he said, restraining his mirth with a
respect that I thought remarkable, and turned again to his rudder.

Sally, for the first time having felt the fascination of breathing
historic air, was no longer to be held. The sweeping, free motion, the
rush of water under the bow as we cut across the waves, the wide sky and
the air that has made sailors and soldiers and heroes of Devonshire men
for centuries on end, the exhilaration of it all had gone to the girl's
head. She was as unconscious of Cary as if he had been part of his boat.
I had seen her act so when she was six, and wild with the joy of an
autumn morning, intoxicated with oxygen. We had been put for safety into
the hollow part of the boat where the seats are--I forget what they call
it--the scupper, I think. But I am apt to be wrong on the nomenclature.
At all events, there we were, standing up half the time to look at the
water, the shore, the distant sails, and because life was too intense to
sit down. But when Sally, fo