At that hour of the afternoon, when most of the ladies were lying down in their rooms, Grace met no one on the beach but Miss Gleason and Mrs. Alger, who rose from their beds of sand under the cliff at her passage with Mr. Libby to his dory.

“Don’t you want to go to Leyden?” he asked jocosely over his shoulder.

“You don’t mean to say you’re going?” Miss Gleason demanded of Grace.

“Yes, certainly.  Why not?”

“Well, you are brave!”

She shut her novel upon her thumb, that she might have nothing to do but admire Grace’s courage, as the girl walked away.

“It will do her good, poor thing,” said the elder woman.  “She looks wretchedly.”

“I can understand just why she does it,” murmured Miss Gleason in adoring rapture.

“I hope she does it for pleasure,” said Mrs. Alger.

“It is n’t that,” returned Miss Gleason mysteriously.

“At any rate, Mr. Libby seemed pleased.”

“Oh, she would never marry him!” said Miss Gleason.

The other laughed, and at that moment Grace also laughed.  The strong current of her purpose, the sense of escape from the bitter servitude of the past week, and the wild hope of final expiation through the chances she was tempting gave her a buoyancy long unfelt.  She laughed in gayety of heart as she helped the young man draw his dory down the sand, and then took her place at one end while he gave it the last push and then leaped in at the other.  He pulled out to where the boat lay tilting at anchor, and held the dory alongside by the gunwale that she might step aboard.  But after rising she faltered, looking intently at the boat as if she missed something there.

“I thought you had a man to sail your boat”

“I had.  But I let him go last week.  Perhaps I ought to have told you,” he said, looking up at her aslant.  “Are you afraid to trust my seamanship?  Adams was a mere form.  He behaved like a fool that day.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid,” said Grace.  She stepped from the dory into the boat, and he flung out the dory’s anchor and followed.  The sail went up with a pleasant clucking of the tackle, and the light wind filled it.  Libby made the sheet fast, and, sitting down in the stern on the other side, took the tiller and headed the boat toward the town that shimmered in the distance.  The water hissed at the bow, and seethed and sparkled from the stern; the land breeze that bent their sail blew cool upon her cheek and freshened it with a tinge of color.

“This will do you good,” he said, looking into hers with his kind, gay eyes.

The color in her cheeks deepened a little.  “Oh, I am better than I look.  I did n’t come for”—­

“For medicinal purposes.  Well, I am glad of it.  We’ve a good hour between us and news or no news from Maynard, and I should like to think we were out for pleasure.  You don’t object?”

“No.  You can even smoke, if that will heighten the illusion.”