f the house, the homely comfort,
had done Hilary good; the thought of the long simple days to come, were
not so depressing as they had seemed when thought of that morning.

"Bless me, I'd forgotten, but I've a bit of news for you," Mrs. Boyd
said, coming in, a moment or so later; "the manor's taken for the
summer."

"Really?" Pauline cried, "why it's been empty for ever and ever so
long."

The manor was an old rambling stone house, standing a little back from
a bit of sandy beach, that jutted out into the lake about a mile from
The Maples. It was a pleasant place, with a tiny grove of its own, and
good-sized garden, which, year after year, in spite of neglect, was
bright with old-fashioned hardy annuals planted long ago, when the
manor had been something more than an old neglected house, at the mercy
of a chance tenant.

"Just a father and daughter. They've got old Betsy Todd to look after
them," Mrs. Boyd went on. "The girl's about your age, Hilary. You
wasn't looking to find company of that sort so near, was you?"

Hilary looked interested. "No," she answered. "But, after all, the
manor's a mile away."

"Oh, she's back and forth every day--for milk, or one thing or another;
she's terribly interested in the farm; father's taken a great notion to
her. She'll be over after supper, you'll see; and then I'll make you
acquainted with her."

"Are they city people?" Pauline asked.

"From New York!" Mrs. Boyd told her proudly. From her air one would
have supposed she had planned the whole affair expressly for Hilary's
benefit. "Their name's Dayre."

"What is the girl's first name?" Pauline questioned.

"Shirley; it's a queer name for a girl, to my thinking."

"Is she pretty?" Pauline went on.

"Not according to my notions; father says she is. She's thin and dark,
and I never did see such a mane of hair--and it ain't always too tidy,
neither--but she has got nice eyes and a nice friendly way of talking.
Looks to me, like she hasn't been brought up by a woman."

"She sounds--interesting," Pauline said, and when Mrs. Boyd had left
them, to make a few changes in her supper arrangements, Pauline turned
eagerly to Hilary. "You're in luck, Hilary Shaw! The newest kind of
new people; even if it isn't a new place!"

"How do you know they'll, or rather, she'll, want to know me?" Hilary
asked, with one of those sudden changes of mood an invalid often shows,
"or I her? We haven't seen her yet. Paul, do you