ities appeared to be entirely in abeyance. Gentle as she was, her own
influence over him was of the strongest; but here she felt that she had
less chance to exert this influence. In spite of her efforts, Mac was
running wild, this summer. The smallest child on the beach, he was petted
and spoiled by every one, and Hope disliked the inevitable pertness which
followed so much attention. Most of all, she disliked the constant
friction with his Aunt Phebe, and she felt that the blame was by no
means entirely upon the one side. Mac was no heavenly child, and it was
only by dint of much tact that he could be managed at all; but tact in
dealing with children was not Phebe's strong point.
The summer, then, was not proving altogether restful to Hope. To one
person, however, she felt an overwhelming gratitude. Of all the people on
Quantuck beach, Gifford Barrett had been the only one who appeared to
have either conscience or common sense in dealing with Mac's
idiosyncrasies. The child never seemed to bore him, or to come into
collision with him, yet there was never any question who was the master.
Again and again, Hope had wondered at the dexterity with which the young
musician had led Mac away from his small iniquities, had coaxed him into
giggling forgetfulness of his bad temper. She wondered yet more at the
obedience which Mac readily accorded to his new friend, an obedience
which she was accustomed to win only after long and persistent siege.
"My papa couldn't come here, vis summer," he had said gravely to Mr.
Barrett, one day. "Will you please be my papa while we stay here?"
And Gifford Barrett's smile was not altogether of amusement, as he
accepted the adoption. Hope saw it and understood; and hereafter she
ranged herself on Cicely's side when Mr. Barrett was being discussed in
the family circle.
That same afternoon Gifford Barrett strolled down to the beach. The wind
had been on shore for the past two days, and the breakers, too heavy now
to allow any bathing, crashed on the sand with a dull booming that
sounded far inland, while close at the water-side was heard the crash of
the grinding pebbles. Under the McAlister awning, Mrs. McAlister, Hope
and the Farringtons sat in a cozy group, and Mac, close by, was devoting
his small energies to burying his grandfather. The young man stopped to
speak to them for a minute; then he moved away towards the spot where
Phebe sat alone under her umbrella.
"Isn't the surf superb
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