“I can’t abide dimples in a boy or a man’s face,” she declared, privately, to Helen, when the latter was dwelling on Stanley’s good looks.

“But, Kit, all of the Roman emperors had dimples in their chins.”

“What if they did?  They’re a fine lot to judge by.”  Kit meditated for a moment and then added, “I don’t think I like blonde, curly hair either.”

“Well, I do,” Helen answered, placidly.  “I think he’d look wonderful in doublet and hose with a long cloak thrown around him.  I think he’s much better looking than Ralph.”

“You’d better not let Jean hear you say so,” Kit told her sagely.  “I wouldn’t be very much surprised if something mighty interesting happened here this summer.  I heard mother and Cousin Roxy talking about Ralph and Jean the other day.”

“Oh, Kit, don’t be mean.  Tell me what they said, please.  I won’t tell.”

“Impossible, child,” returned Kit, loftily.  “In fact, it was only what I might call a family rumor.  But, I can tell you this much, I know perfectly well that Ralph MacRae has asked Dad for his eldest daughter’s hand, and I don’t know a blessed thing more.”

Helen sighed happily.

“I hope she has a September wedding, all gold and purple.  It would just suit Jean.  If one could only dress her in violet velvet with a girdle of amethysts set with pearls, and braid her hair with strands of jewels, too.  Jean always has that far-away look, in her eyes that princesses should have.”

“Well, I don’t see where you get your princess pattern from,” remarked Kit.  “From all the recent pictures that I’ve seen, they’re a very ordinary, old-fashioned lot of young persons, and decidedly at the dumpling stage.  Besides, Jean herself might have something to say about it.  It will be her wedding, you know, Helen.”

They had walked down to the Peckham mill after supper to get some supplies that Danny Peckham had promised to bring up from Nantic.  Just as they came to the turn of the road there came a strange sound from the direction of the waterfall tent, deep, rich strains of music, almost as low pitched and thrilling as the sound of the water itself.  Both girls stood stock still listening, until Helen whispered: 

“It must be Mr. Ormond.  He’s playing on something, isn’t he?”

“A ’cello, child,” Kit said, drawing in a deep breath as though she could fairly inhale the sweetness of the music on the night air.  “I haven’t heard one since we left the Cove, and it’s mother’s favorite music.  I wish I knew what he’s playing.  It sounds like Solveig’s song from Peer Gynt, and I love that.”

“Then, that’s what he does.”  Helen’s tone held a touch of admiring awe as she listened.  “And we thought he might be anything from a counterfeiter to an escaped convict hiding away up here.  Oh, Kit, why do you suppose he keeps away from every one?”

“Probably got a hidden sorrow,” Kit answered.  “Still he’s got a terrible appetite.  Mrs. Gorham says she doesn’t see how he ever puts away the amount of food he does.  He buys whole roast chickens and eats them all himself.”