of Boston. She was sweet and wholesome, as has
been indicated. She had all the common sense that a pretty girl should
have--and no more.

For she was pretty and, as well, owned that charm of intelligence without
which a woman is a mere doll. Her father often reflected that the man
who married Lou would be playing in great luck. He would get a _mate_.

So far as Professor Grayling knew, however (and he was as keenly
observant of his daughter and her development as he was of scientific
matters), there was as yet no such man in sight. Lou had escaped the
usual boy-and-girl entanglements which fret the lives of many young folk,
because of her association with her father in his journeys about the
world. Being a perfectly normal, well-balanced girl, black boys, brown
boys, yellow boys, or all the hues and shades of boys to be met with in
those odd corners of the earth where the white man is at a premium, did
not interest Lou Grayling in the least.

Without being ultraconservative like Aunt Euphemia, she was the sort of
girl whom one might reckon on doing the sensible--perhaps the
obvious--thing in almost any emergency. Therefore, after that single
almost awed exclamation from the professor--his sole homage to Mrs.
Grundy--he added:

"My dear, do as you like. You are old enough and wise enough to choose
for yourself--your aunt's opinion to the contrary notwithstanding. Only,
if you don't mind----"

"What is it, daddy-prof?" she asked him with a smile, yet still
reflective.

"Why, if you don't mind," repeated the professor, "I'd rather you didn't
inform me where you decide to spend your summer until I am off. I--I
don't mind knowing after I am at sea--and your aunt cannot get at me."

She laughed at him gaily. "You take it for granted that I am going to
Cape Cod," she cried accusingly.

"No--o. But I know how sorely I should be tempted myself, realizing your
aunt's trying disposition."

"Perhaps this--this half-uncle may be quite as trying."

"Impossible!" was the father's rather emphatic reply.

"What?" she cried. "Traitor to the family fame?"

"You do not know Cape Cod folk. I do," he told her rather seriously.
"Some of them are quaint and peculiar. I suppose there are just as many
down there with traits of extreme Yankee frugality as elsewhere in New
England. But your mother's people, as I knew them, were the very salt of
the earth. Our wanderings were all that kept you from knowing the old
fo