“I thought you couldn’t eat and talk at the same time,” remarked Quincy.

“I can’t,” she replied.  “I’m through eating and I’m going to sit and listen to you.  Go right ahead, the servants won’t come in.  I won’t let them stand and look at me when I’m eating.  If I want them I ring for them.”

Quincy then briefly related the principal events that had taken place at Mason’s Corner since the nineteenth, remarking, incidentally, that he had received no word from Lindy.

“Let her alone, and she’ll come home when she gets ready,” said Aunt Ella.  “As to the best place for your young lady to go, I shall have to think a minute.  Old Orchard is my favorite, but I’m afraid it would be too noisy for her there, the hotels are so close to the railroad track.  I suppose your family, meaning your mother’s, of course, will go to Nahant, as usual.  Sarah would have society convulsions at Old Orchard.  I should like to see her promenading down in front of the candy stores, shooting for cigars in the shooting gallery, or taking a ride down to Saco Pool on the narrow-gauge; excuse me for speaking so of your mother, Quincy, but I have been acquainted with her much longer than you have.”  She went on, “Newport is too stylish for comfort.  Ah!  I have it, Quincy.  I was there three years ago, and I know what I’m talking about.  Quaint place,—­funny looking houses, with little promenades on top,—­crooked streets that lead everywhere and nowhere,—­very much like Boston,—­full of curiosities,—­hardy old mariners and peaceable old Quakers,—­plenty of nice milk and eggs and fresh fish,—­more fish than anything else,—­every breeze is a sea breeze, and it is so delightfully quiet that the flies and mosquitoes imitate the inhabitants, and sleep all day and all night.”

“Where is this modern Eden, this corner lot in Paradise?” asked Quincy; “it can’t be part of the United States.”

“Not exactly,” replied Aunt Ella; it’s off shore, I forget how many miles, but you can find it swimming around in the water just south of Cape Cod.”

“Oh! you mean Nantucket,” cried Quincy.

“That’s the place,” assented his aunt.  “Now, Quincy, I’ll tell you just what I want you to do, and I want you to promise to do it before I say another word.”

“That’s a woman’s way,” remarked Quincy, “of avoiding argument and preventing a free expression of opinion by interested parties; but I’ll consent, only be merciful.”

“What I’m going to ask you to do, Quincy Sawyer, is for your good, and you’ll own up that I’ve been more than a mother to you before I get through.”

“You always have been,” said Quincy, seriously.  “Of course, I love my mother in a way, but I’m never exactly comfortable when I’m with her.  But when I’m with you, Aunt Ella, I’m always contented and feel perfectly at home.”