“Bless me, I’d forgotten, but I’ve a bit of news for you,” Mrs. Boyd said, coming in, a moment or so later; “the manor’s taken for the summer.”

“Really?” Pauline cried, “why it’s been empty for ever and ever so long.”

The manor was an old rambling stone house, standing a little back from a bit of sandy beach, that jutted out into the lake about a mile from The Maples.  It was a pleasant place, with a tiny grove of its own, and good-sized garden, which, year after year, in spite of neglect, was bright with old-fashioned hardy annuals planted long ago, when the manor had been something more than an old neglected house, at the mercy of a chance tenant.

“Just a father and daughter.  They’ve got old Betsy Todd to look after them,” Mrs. Boyd went on.  “The girl’s about your age, Hilary.  You wasn’t looking to find company of that sort so near, was you?”

Hilary looked interested.  “No,” she answered.  “But, after all, the manor’s a mile away.”

“Oh, she’s back and forth every day—­for milk, or one thing or another; she’s terribly interested in the farm; father’s taken a great notion to her.  She’ll be over after supper, you’ll see; and then I’ll make you acquainted with her.”

“Are they city people?” Pauline asked.

“From New York!” Mrs. Boyd told her proudly.  From her air one would have supposed she had planned the whole affair expressly for Hilary’s benefit.  “Their name’s Dayre.”

“What is the girl’s first name?” Pauline questioned.

“Shirley; it’s a queer name for a girl, to my thinking.”

“Is she pretty?” Pauline went on.

“Not according to my notions; father says she is.  She’s thin and dark, and I never did see such a mane of hair—­and it ain’t always too tidy, neither—­but she has got nice eyes and a nice friendly way of talking.  Looks to me, like she hasn’t been brought up by a woman.”

“She sounds—­interesting,” Pauline said, and when Mrs. Boyd had left them, to make a few changes in her supper arrangements, Pauline turned eagerly to Hilary.  “You’re in luck, Hilary Shaw!  The newest kind of new people; even if it isn’t a new place!”

“How do you know they’ll, or rather, she’ll, want to know me?” Hilary asked, with one of those sudden changes of mood an invalid often shows, “or I her?  We haven’t seen her yet.  Paul, do you suppose Mrs. Boyd would mind letting me have supper in here?”

“Oh, Hilary, she’s laid the table in the living-room!  I heard her doing it.  She’d be ever so disappointed.”

“Well,” Hilary said, “come on then.”

Out in the living-room, they found Mr. Boyd waiting for them, and so heartily glad to see them, that Hilary’s momentary impatience vanished.  To Pauline’s delight, she really brought quite an appetite to her supper.

“You should’ve come out here long ago, Hilary,” Mr. Boyd told her, and he insisted on her having a second helping of the creamed toast, prepared especially in her honor.