orinda, who
scarcely looked up from her floor scrubbing.

"Mother," said I, entering the darkened bedroom, "I just met the Colton
girl and what do you suppose she told me?"

"That she was very grateful to you for coming to her rescue the other
night."

"That, of course. But she told me something else. She said she was
coming to call on you. On YOU, Mother!"

I don't know what answer I expected. I flung the announcement like a
bombshell and was ready for almost any sort of explosion at all.

"Did she?" observed Mother, placidly. "I am very glad. I have no doubt I
shall like her."

My next remark had nothing to do with Miss Colton.

"Well, by George!" I exclaimed, with emphasis. "Lute IS a philosopher,
after all. I take off my hat to him."

CHAPTER XI

I met Mabel Colton several times during the following week. Once, at the
place where I had met her before, in the grove by the edge of the bluff,
and again walking up the Lane in company with her father. Once also on
the Lower Road, though that could scarcely be called a meeting, for I
was afoot and she and her father and mother were in the automobile.

Only at the meeting in the grove were words exchanged between us. She
bowed pleasantly and commented on the wonderful view.

"I am trespassing again, you see," she said. "Taking advantage of your
good-nature, Mr. Paine. This spot is the most attractive I have found in
Denboro."

I observed that the view from her verandas must be almost the same.

"Almost, but not quite," she said. "These pines shut off the inlet
below, and all the little fishing boats. One of them is yours, I
suppose. Which?"

"That is my launch there," I replied, pointing.

"The little white one? You built it yourself, I think Father said."

"He was mistaken, if he said that. I am not clever enough to build a
boat, Miss Colton. I bought the Comfort, second-hand."

I don't know why I added the "second-hand." Probably because I had not
yet freed my mind from the bitterness--yes, and envy--which the sight
of this girl and her people always brought with it. It is comparatively
easy to be free from envy if one is what George Taylor termed a
"never-was"; for a "has been" it is harder.

The boat's name was the only portion of my remark which attracted her
attention.

"The Comfort?" she repeated. "That is a jolly name for a pleasure boat."

"It is my mother's name," I answered.

"Is it? Why, I remember now. Miss Dean told me. I beg