Little John fell in love with the sea at first sight, and his constancy never wavered so long as he remained at Marant.  He was at his happiest when his perambulator was pushed to the edge of the water so that the waves flowed about the wheels.  In such a position he would remain perfectly content for hours, usually in silence, but at times softly soliloquizing or addressing the waves in earnest but incomprehensible baby-language.  In the mean time, Mrs. Doly, seated in a camp-chair behind, could devote an almost uninterrupted attention to her knitting, rising only at intervals to see that the carriage occupied a proper position with respect to the movements of the tide, while Ellen reclined in idleness upon the sand.  To so great an extent was her office a sinecure that once, when the water was very calm, Mrs. Doly fell asleep in the warm sun, during Ellen’s temporary absence, and awoke as the water wetted her toes to find Little John completely surrounded and pretty nearly in his element literally.  Far from being alarmed, however, he was in a state of exalted bliss, and emphatically protested against being removed to a more secure position.  But when the tide was going out he was not so content to remain in statu quo, and, partly rising to his feet, would indicate by most forcible remarks and gesticulations that he wished to be moved farther down the beach.  He manifested an ardent desire to accompany Edward on his rowing expeditions, whenever he witnessed the start; but Ellen would not consent to this, and Little John was never initiated into the charms of boating.

It was not long before Ellen’s fears were aroused that her boy might grow up with nautical tastes.

“Ought we to permit him to become so infatuated?” she asked Edward.

“Why, what can we do?” he returned.

“We can give up Marant and spend the rest of your vacation at the mountains.”

“That would be useless, dear, granting that Little John has been born with a taste for the sea.  You can’t eradicate an inborn proclivity.”

“But, Edward, you surely do not wish—­would not permit Little John to go to sea?”

“I should never attempt to prevent him from doing so if he wished to.  A born sailor can’t make a good lawyer, or a doctor, or anything else,—­at least until he has satiated himself with the sea.  All the evidence of history shows that, you know.  Of course we both hope that Little John will not develop a sailor’s taste, and I don’t think there is any reason to fear that he will:  all babies are fond of the sea.”

“Yes, Edward; but,” tremulously, “you know Dr. Kreiss said his father was in a shipping business.”

“Very true:  some sort of a broker or agent, probably.  They never go to sea; and it isn’t to be expected that the child inherits any taste for it from him. Still, we mustn’t forget, Ellen, that none of our wishes are perfectly sure to be realized.  We will do our best to further them, but, after all, you know, Dieu dispose”