“Aunt Pen, don’t freeze me yet,—­don’t take away my faith in simple things, but let me be a child a little longer,—­let me play and sing and keep my spirit blithe among the dandelions and the robins while I can; for trouble comes soon enough, and all my life will be the richer and the better for a happy youth.”

Mrs. Carroll had nothing at hand to offer in reply to this appeal, and four ladies dropped their work to stare; but Frank Evan looked in from the piazza, saying, as he beckoned like a boy,—­

“I’ll play with you, Miss Dora; come and make sand pies upon the shore.  Please let her, Mrs. Carroll; we’ll be very good, and not wet our pinafores or feet.”

Without waiting for permission, Debby poured her treasures into the lap of a certain lame Freddy, and went away to a kind of play she had never known before.  Quiet as a chidden child, she walked beside her companion, who looked down at the little figure, longing to take it on his knee and call the sunshine back again.  That he dared not do; but accident, the lover’s friend, performed the work, and did him a good turn beside.  The old Frenchman was slowly approaching, when a frolicsome wind whisked off his hat and sent it skimming along the beach.  In spite of her late lecture, away went Debby, and caught the truant chapeau just as a wave was hurrying up to claim it.  This restored her cheerfulness, and when she returned, she was herself again.

“A thousand thanks; but does Mademoiselle remember the forfeit I might demand to add to the favor she has already done me?” asked the gallant old gentleman, as Debby took the hat off her own head, and presented it with a martial salute.

“Ah, I had forgotten that; but you may claim it, Sir,—­indeed, you may; I only wish I could do something more to give you pleasure”; and Debby looked up into the withered face which had grown familiar to her, with kind eyes, full of pity and respect.

Her manner touched the old man very much; he bent his gray head before her, saying, gratefully,—­

“My child, I am not good enough to salute these blooming cheeks; but I shall pray the Virgin to reward you for the compassion you bestow on the poor exile, and I shall keep your memory very green through all my life.”

He kissed her hand, as if it were a queen’s, and went on his way, thinking of the little daughter whose death left him childless in a foreign land.

Debby softly began to sing, “Oh, come unto the yellow sands!” but stopped in the middle of a line, to say,—­

“Shall I tell you why I did what Aunt Pen would call a very unladylike and improper thing, Mr. Evan?”

“If you will be so kind”; and her companion looked delighted at the confidence about to be reposed in him.

“Somewhere across this great wide sea I hope I have a brother,” Debby said, with softened voice and a wistful look into the dim horizon.  “Five years ago he left us, and we have never heard from him since, except to know that he landed safely in Australia.  People tell us he is dead; but I believe he will yet come home; and so I love to help and pity any man who needs it, rich or poor, young or old, hoping that as I do by them some tender-hearted woman far away will do by Brother Will.”