Gently enough, too, the girl sought to make Aunt Agatha comprehend the curious facts that had come to light that morning beneath the trees.  Quite in vain.  That good lady refused flatly to absorb it, grew ludicrously plaintive and aggrieved and flew off at tearful tangents into complicated segments of family history from which it was possible to extricate only the most ridiculous of facts, chief among them the reiterated assurance that her own father had been, in the bosom of his family, of a delightfully sportive nature, but nothing like the Westfalls—­dear no!—­that he had a genteel figure, my dear, for all he had developed a somewhat corpulent tendency in later years; that the corn-beef which mother procured was highly superior to those portions of salted quadruped which Johnny obtained in the village—­and facts of similar irrelevancy.

Diane had heard of the corn-beef and father’s corpulency before, but she was now somewhat gentler and less impatient and checked the old careless flashes of annoyance.  And, having supplemented the hand bag by a shopping trip to the nearest village, Aunt Agatha, to the girl’s dismay, announced one day: 

“It’s my duty to stay, Diane, and stay I will.  Mother would have stayed, I’m sure, and mother’s judgment was usually correct, though she would wear smoked glasses.”

Rowing in one morning with a string of fish, Diane was a little fluttered at the sight of a tall, broad-shouldered young man upon the shore, who waved his hat and quietly waited for her boat to come in.  His dark skin was clear and ruddy and very brown, his mouth resolute, the careless grace and impudence of his old manner replaced by something steadier, quieter and possibly a shade less assured.

The meeting was by no means easy for either, and with remorseful memories leaping wildly in the heart of each, they smiled and called cheerfully to one another until the girl’s boat glided in under the ready assistance of a masculine hand that shook a little.

“Let me moor it for you!” said Carl and busied himself with the rope for longer than the careless task would seem to warrant.  When at length he straightened up again and briskly brushed the sand from his coat sleeve to cover his emotion, he forced himself to meet his cousin’s troubled glance directly.

Instantly the careless byplay ceased.  The desperate imploring in the eyes of each keyed the situation to electric tensity.  Curiously enough, both were thinking of Philip.  Curiously enough, in this hour of reckoning Philip was an invisible arbiter urging them to generous understanding.

Diane was the first to speak.  And, in the fashion of Diane since childhood, she bravely plunged into the heart of the thing with glistening eyes.

“Carl,” she said, “I am very sorry.”

It was heartfelt apology for the old offense.

Carl’s face went wildly scarlet.  The girl’s gentleness, prepared as he was for the inevitable flash of fire, had caught him unawares.  Springing forward, he caught her hands roughly in his own.