“Don’t talk that way, Luke,” answered the girl, gravely.  “Your father is waiting for you, I’m sure.”

But Luke did not believe that she was in such haste to be rid of him.

“He hasn’t gone down yet.  I’ve watched,” said he.  “He’d be willing to wait, if he knew what I was saying.  Besides, if you are in a hurry, it won’t take but a minute to say yes, Clarice.  Will you take my heart and my hand?  Here is your ring.”

Clarice took the ring and looked away; but, in looking away, her eyes fell on Luke, and she smiled.

“It’s the prettiest thing, that ring is, in the world, except you, Clarice,”—­so the smile made him speak.

“That’s new for me,” said the girl.  “Talk sense, Luke.”

“Handsome is that handsome does, say I. And if you a’n’t the best girl in the Bay, Clary, who is, then?  When are you going to say yes?” demanded the young fellow.

“Now,” replied Clarice, suddenly.

“Have you taken my heart and hand?” asked the lad as quickly, his face glowing with delight.

“Yes.”

“To keep forever, Clarice?” It seemed, after all, incredible.

“Yes, Luke.”  And so speaking, the girl meant yes, forever.

Now this promise had not really taken either of these children by surprise.  They had long understood each other.  But when they had given a mutual promise, both looked grave.  Clarice stood by the water’s edge, careless that time was passing.  Luke was in no hurry for his father.

But at length a shrill voice called the girl.  Dame Briton stood in the cabin door, and her angry tongue was laden with reproaches ready for utterance when Clarice should come within easier reach of her voice.

“I must go,” said Clarice to Luke.

“I’ll follow you, to-night.  Don’t work too hard,” he answered.  “Take care of my heart, Clarice.”

A storm broke upon Clarice when she went home to her mother.  She bore the blame of her idleness with tolerable patience, until it seemed as if the gale would never blow over.  At last some quick words escaped her:—­

“Three bushels of weed lie there on the boards ready spread, and drying.  I gathered them before another creature was stirring in Diver’s Bay.”  Then she added, more gently, “I found something besides.”

But though Dame Briton heard, she passed this last bit of information without remark.

“Idling down there on the beach to see the boys off fishing!” she could not help saying.  “You needn’t be up afore the break o’ day for work like that.”

“It was Luke Merlyn.”

“No matter.”

“I showed him what I had found.  Ask him if I’m ever too free.  He’d know as quick as anybody,—­and care as much.”

Clarice, while speaking this, had departed yet farther both in look and voice from her usual serenity.

The dame let her last words pass without taking them up.  She was by this time curious.