The best of it for Barbara had been on the lawn, before tea.

Barbara was a magnificent croquet-player.  She and Harry Goldthwaite were on one side, and they led off their whole party, going nonchalantly through wicket after wicket, as if they could not help it; and after they had well distanced the rest, just toling each other along over the ground, till they were rovers together, and came down into the general field again with havoc to the enemy, and the whole game in their hands on their own part.

“It was a handsome thing to see, for once,” Dakie Thayne said; “but they might make much of it, for it wouldn’t do to let them play on the same side again.”

It was while they were off, apart down the slope, just croqueted away for the time, to come up again with tremendous charge presently, that Harry asked her if she knew the game of “ship-coil.”

[Illustration]

Barbara shook her head.  What was it?

“It is a pretty thing.  The officers of a Russian frigate showed it to us.  They play it with rings made of spliced rope; we had them plain enough, but you might make them as gay as you liked.  There are ten rings, and each player throws them all at each turn.  The object is to string them up over a stake, from which you stand at a certain distance.  Whatever number you make counts up for your side, and you play as many rounds as you may agree upon.”

Barbara thought a minute, and then looked up quickly.

“Have you told anybody else of that?”

“Not here.  I haven’t thought of it for a good while.”

“Would you just please, then,” said Barbara in a hurry, as somebody came down toward them in pursuit of a ball, “to hush up, and let me have it all to myself for a while?  And then,” she added, as the stray ball was driven up the lawn again, and the player went away after it, “come some day and help us get it up at Westover? it’s such a thing, you see, to get anything that’s new.”

“I see.  To be sure.  You shall have the State Right,—­isn’t that what they make over for patent concerns?  And we’ll have something famous out of it.  They’re getting tired of croquet, or thinking they ought to be, which is the same thing.”  It was Barbara’s turn now; she hit Harry Goldthwaite’s ball with one of her precise little taps, and, putting the two beside each other with her mallet, sent them up rollicking into the thick of the fight, where the final hand-to-hand struggle was taking place between the last two wickets and the stake.  Everybody was there in a bunch when she came; in a minute everybody of the opposing party was everywhere else, and she and Harry had it between them again.  She played out two balls, and then, accidentally, her own.  After one “distant, random gun,” from the discomfited foe, Harry rolled quietly up against the wand, and the game was over.

It was then and there that a frank, hearty liking and alliance was re-established between Harry Goldthwaite and Barbara, upon an old remembered basis of ten years ago, when he had gone away to school and given her half his marbles for a parting keepsake,—­“as he might have done,” we told her, “to any other boy.”