“The afternoon fine!” retorted Mrs. Butler.  Have we any but fine afternoons in the month of August?  I don’t feel disposed to visit to-day.  The lobster salad I ate last night disagreed with me.  I shall stay at home.”

“Well, that’s all right, Martha.  I can take your compliments to any one, of course, and just mention that you are a little indisposed.”

“You take my compliments?  No, thank you.  You’ll just have the goodness to take off your bonnet and come and sit in the drawing-room with me.  I have had enough of my own company today, and I want you to pick up some stitches in my knitting.  Come, you needn’t ogle me any more.  Go back and take off your bonnet and be quick about it.”

Very slowly Miss Peters turned and went up the stairs.  She took off her neat little chip bonnet, adorned with the sprigs of wallflower, folded up her lavender gloves, and put back her heavily-fringed old-fashioned parasol in its case.  Then she went down to the drawing-room; she sighed heavily as she did so.  Poor thing; she had no money of her own, and was absolutely dependent on Mrs. Butler, who tyrannized over her as is the usual fashion in such cases.

The day was a glorious one, and from where Miss Peters sat she could get a splendid view of the bright and sparkling harbor.  Little boats skimmed about on its surface, and Miss Peters longed to be in one of them—­anywhere away from the tyrannical sister who would not allow her to go out and disburden herself of her news.

That news, bottled up within her breast, almost drove the little woman crazy.  Suppose the baker told some one else?  He had promised not; but who can depend on bakers?  Suppose she was not the first to startle and electrify her fellow town’s people after all?  She felt so fretted and miserable that her sighs at last became audible.

“Well, Maria, you certainly are a lively companion!” exclaimed Mrs. Butler.  “Fidget, fidget sigh, sigh, and not a word out of your lips!  I’ll thank you to hand me my knitting, and then you may read me a chapter from that book of sermons on the table.  I often think it’s in fine weather we should remember our souls most.”

This remark was so startling that Miss Maria’s grievance was forgotten for a moment in her surprise.

“Why in fine weather?” she ventured to ask.

“Because, being prosperous and comfortable, they are like to sleep within us.  Now, get the sermons and read.  Turn to sermon five, page four, begin second paragraph; there’s a telling bit there, and I think the cap will fit your head.”

Miss Maria was rising meekly to comply, when happening again to glance at the blue bosom of the water, she uttered a shriek, threw down Mrs. Butler’s knitting, caught up the spy-glass, and sprang to the window.

“Good gracious!  Maria, have you gone mad?” exclaimed her sister.

“It is—­it is—­” gasped Miss Peters.  “There they are!  It’s beautiful; and it’s true!”