The bath ended, Alice rejoined Mr. Putchett and conducted him to the spot where the wonderful shells with pink and yellow spots were found.  The new shell-seeker was disgusted when the child shouted “Come along!” to several other children, and was correspondingly delighted when they said, in substance, that shells were not so attractive as once they were.

Mr. Putchett’s researches in conchology were not particularly successful, for while he manfully moved about in the uncomfortable and ungraceful position peculiar to shell-seekers, he looked rather at the healthy, honest, eager little face near him than at the beach itself.

Suddenly, however, Mr. Putchett’s opinion of shells underwent a radical change, for the child, straightening herself and taking something from her pocket, exclaimed: 

“Oh, dear, somebody’s picked up all the pretty ones.  I thought, may be, there mightn’t be any here, so I brought you one; just see what pretty pink and yellow spots there are on it.”

Mr. Putchett looked, and there came into his face the first flush of color that had been there—­except in anger—­for years.  He had occasionally received presents from business acquaintances, but he had correctly looked at them as having been forwarded as investments, so they awakened feelings of suspicion rather than of pleasure.

But at little Alice’s shell he looked long and earnestly, and when he put it into his pocket he looked for two or three moments far away, and yet at nothing in particular.

“Do you have a nice boarding-house?” asked Alice, as they sauntered along the beach, stopping occasionally to pick up pebbles and to dig wells.

“Not very,” said Mr. Putchett, the sanded barroom and his own rather dismal chamber coming to his mind.

“You ought to board where we do,” said Alice, enthusiastically.  “We have heaps of fun.  Have you got a barn?”

Mr. Putchett confessed that he did not know.

“Oh, we’ve got a splendid one!” exclaimed the child.  “There’s stalls, and a granary, and a carriage-house and two lofts in it.  We put out hay to the horses, and they eat it right out of our hands—­aren’t afraid a bit.  Then we get into the granary, and bury ourselves all up in the oats, so only our heads stick out.  The lofts are just lovely:  one’s full of hay and the other’s full of wheat, and we chew the wheat, and make gum of it.  The hay-stalks are real nice and sweet to chew, too.  They only cut the hay last week, and we all rode in on the wagon—­one, two, three, four—­seven of us.  Then we’ve got two croquet sets, and the boys make us whistles and squalks.”

“Squalks?” interrogated the broker.

“Yes; they’re split quills, and you blow in them.  They don’t make very pretty music, but it’s ever so funny.  We’ve got two big swings and a hammock, too.”

“Is the house very full?” asked Mr. Putchett.

“Not so very,” replied the child.  “If you come there to board, I’ll make Frank teach you how to make whistles.”