At Jordan Pond boats were waiting.  It is a pretty fresh-water pond between high sloping hills, and twin peaks at the north end give it even picturesqueness.  There are a good many trout in it—­at least that is the supposition, for the visitors very seldom get them out.  When the boats with their chattering passengers had pushed out into the lake and accomplished a third of the voyage, they were met by a skiff containing the faithful chaperons Mrs. Simpkins and Mr. Meigs.  They hailed, but Mr. King, who was rowing his boat, did not slacken speed.  “Are you much tired, Miss Benson?” shouted Mr. Meigs.  King didn’t like this assumption of protection.  “I’ve brought you a shawl.”

“Hang his paternal impudence!” growled King, under his breath, as he threw himself back with a jerk on the oars that nearly sent Irene over the stern of the boat.

Evidently the boat-load, of which the Ashley girls and Mr. Van Dusen were a part, had taken the sense of this little comedy, for immediately they struck up: 

     “For he is going to marry Yum-Yum—­
               Yum-Yum! 
     For he is going to marry Yum-Yum—­
               Yum-Yum!”

This pleasantry passed entirely over the head of Irene, who had not heard the “Mikado,” but King accepted it as a good omen, and forgave its impudence.  It set Mr. Meigs thinking that he had a rival.

At the landing, however, Mr. Meigs was on hand to help Irene out, and a presentation of Mr. King followed.  Mr. Meigs was polite even to cordiality, and thanked him for taking such good care of her.  Men will make such blunders sometimes.

“Oh, we are old friends,” she said carelessly.

Mr. Meigs tried to mend matters by saying that he had promised Mrs. Benson, you know, to look after her.  There was that in Irene’s manner that said she was not to be appropriated without leave.  But the consciousness that her look betrayed this softened her at once towards Mr. Meigs, and decidedly improved his chances for the evening.  The philosopher says that women are cruelest when they set out to be kind.

The supper was an ‘al fresco’ affair, the party being seated about on rocks and logs and shawls spread upon the grass near the farmer’s house.  The scene was a very pretty one, at least the artist thought so, and Miss Lamont said it was lovely, and the Ashley girls declared it was just divine.  There was no reason why King should not enjoy the chaff and merriment and the sunset light which touched the group, except that the one woman he cared to serve was enveloped in the attentions of Mr. Meigs.  The drive home in the moonlight was the best part of the excursion, or it would have been if there had not been a general change of seats ordered, altogether, as Mr. King thought, for the accommodation of the Boston man.  It nettled him that Irene let herself fall to the escort of Mr. Meigs, for women can always arrange these things if they choose, and he had only a melancholy satisfaction in the college songs and conundrums that enlivened the festive buckboard in which he was a passenger.  Not that he did not join in the hilarity, but it seemed only a poor imitation of pleasure.  Alas, that the tone of one woman’s voice, the touch of her hand, the glance of her eye, should outweigh the world!