“But I wanted to help him—­he has such a hard time.”

“He would have a harder time if he went to sea, Judy.  He isn’t like you, he doesn’t like the sea for its own sake.  He has read a lot of stuff about sailors and adventures, and his head is full of it.  He isn’t the kind that makes a brave man.”

“I know that,” said Judy, for the little voyage had proved Tommy and had found him wanting.

“He ought to stay at home and fight things out,” said Launcelot, “as the rest of us have to.”

Judy looked up at him, surprised.  “Are you fighting things out?” she asked.

“Oh, yes.  I want to go to college, and I can’t and that’s the end of it,” and Launcelot’s lips were set in a stern line.

“Why not?”

“Father’s too sick for me to leave—­I’ve got to run the farm,” was Launcelot’s simple statement of the bitter fact.

“I am always trying to do great things,” mourned Judy, with a sigh for the Cause of Thomas the Downtrodden, from which the romance seemed to have fled, “but they just fizzle out.”

“Don’t be discouraged.  You’ll learn to look before you leap yet, Judy,” and Launcelot laughed, his own troubles forgotten in his interest in hers.

“What are you going to take up for a life work?” asked Judy, remembering Ruskin.

“I am going to be a lawyer,” announced Launcelot, promptly, “and a good one like the Judge.  My grandfather was a Judge, too, but father chose business, and failed because he wasn’t fitted for it, and that’s why we are on the farm, now.”

“I’m going to be an artist,” announced Judy, toploftically, “and paint wonderful pictures.”

But Launcelot looked at her doubtfully.  “I’ll bet you won’t,” he said with decision.  “I’ll bet you won’t paint pictures and be an artist.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll get married, and—­”

Judy shrugged an impatient shoulder.  “I am never going to marry,” she declared.

“Why not?”

“Because I want my own way,” said wilful Judy.

“Oh,” said “bossy” Launcelot.

The waves were twinkling in the gold of the morning sun when the tired party sighted the beach below The Breakers.

Judy standing up in the boat with her dark hair blowing around her spied a little waiting group.

“There’s Anne—­dear Anne—­and, why, Launcelot, there’s a dog.”

“Is there?”

“Yes, and—­and—­a man—­”

“Yes.”  Launcelot’s voice was calm, but his hand on the tiller trembled.

She turned on him her startled eyes.  “Do you know who it is?” she demanded.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Look and see.”

The man on the beach was gazing straight out across the bay, and in the clearness of the morning air, Judy made out his features, the pale dark face, the waving hair.

She clutched Launcelot’s arm.  “Who is it?” she demanded, looking as if she had seen a spirit.  “Who is it, Launcelot?”