Critical to the tips of her trembling fingers, Aunt Euphemia sat stiffly upright in Louise’s bedroom rocking chair and uttered this harsh reflection upon her niece’s good taste.  Louise never remembered having seen her aunt so angry before.  But she was provoked herself, and her determination to go her own way and spend her summer as she chose stiffened under the lash of the lady’s criticism.

“What will our friends think of you?” demanded Mrs. Conroth.  “I am horrified to have them know you ever remained overnight in such a place.  There are the Perritons.  They were on the train with me coming down from Boston.  They are opening their house here at what they call The Beaches—­one of the most exclusive colonies on the coast, I understand.  They insisted upon my coming there at once, and I have promised to bring you with me.”

“You have promised more than you can perform.  Aunt Euphemia,” Louise replied shortly.  “I will remain here.”

“Louise!”

“I will remain here with Cap’n Amazon.  And with Uncle Abram when he returns.  They are both dear old men——­”

“That awful looking pirate!” gasped Mrs. Conroth.

“You do not know him,” returned the girl.  “You do not know how worthy and now kind he is.”

“You have only known him a week yourself,” remarked Aunt Euphemia.  “What can a young girl like you know about these awful creatures—­fishermen, sailors, and the like?  How can you judge?”

Louise laughed.  “Why, Auntie, you know I have seen much of the world and many more people than you have.  And if I have not learned to judge those I meet by this time I shall never learn, though I grow to be as old as”—­she came near saying “as you are,” but substituted instead—­“as Mrs. Methuselah.  I shall remain here.  I would not insult Cap’n Amazon or Cap’n Abe, by leaving abruptly and going with you to the Perritons’ bungalow.”

“But what shall I say to them?” wailed Aunt Euphemia.

“What have you already said?”

“I said I expected you were waiting for me at Cardhaven.  I would not come over from Paulmouth in their car, but hurried on ahead.  I wished to save you the disgrace—­yes, disgrace!—­of being found here in this—­this country store.  Ugh!” She shuddered again.

“I am determined that they shall not know your poor, dear father unfortunately married beneath him.”

“Aunt Euphemia!” exclaimed Louise, her gray eyes flashing now.  “Don’t say that.  It offends me.  Daddy-prof never considered my mother or her people beneath his own station.”

“Your father, Louise, is a fool!” was the lady’s tart reply.

“As he is your brother as well as my father,” Louise told her coldly, “I presume you feel you have a right to call him what you please.  But I assure you, Aunt Euphemia, it does not please me to hear you do so.”

“You are a very obstinate girl!”

“That attribute of my character I fancy I inherit from daddy-professor’s side of the family,” the girl returned bluntly.