After that Martha, unconsciously, perhaps, to herself, kept watch, so far as she could, upon their movements, without, as she thought, betraying herself:  making excuses to go to the village when they two went off together in that direction; traversing the orchard, ostensibly looking for Meg when she knew all the time that the dog was sound asleep in the woodshed; or yielding to a sudden desire to give the rascal a bath whenever Lucy announced that she and Bart were going to spend the morning down by the water.

As the weeks flew by and Lucy had shown no willingness to assume her share of any of the responsibilities of the house,—­any that interfered with her personal enjoyment,—­Jane became more and more restless and unhappy.  The older village people had shown her sister every attention, she said to herself,—­ more than was her due, considering her youth,—­and yet Lucy had never crossed any one of their thresholds.  She again pleaded with the girl to remember her social duties and to pay some regard to the neighbors who had called upon her and who had shown her so much kindness; to which the happy-hearted sister had laughed back in reply: 

“What for, you dear sister?  These old fossils don’t want to see me, and I’m sure I don’t want to see them.  Some of them give me the shivers, they are so prim.”

It was with glad surprise, therefore, that Jane heard Lucy say in Martha’s hearing one bright afternoon: 

“Now, I’m going to begin, sister, and you won’t have to scold me any more.  Everyone of these old tabbies I will take in a row:  Mrs. Cavendish first, and then the Cromartins, and the balance of the bunch when I can reach them.  I am going to Rose Cottage to see Mrs. Cavendish this very afternoon.”

The selection of Mrs. Cavendish as first on her list only increased Jane’s wonder.  Rose Cottage lay some two miles from Warehold, near the upper end of the beach, and few of their other friends lived near it.  Then again, Jane knew that Lucy had not liked the doctor’s calling her into the house the night of her arrival, and had heretofore made one excuse after another when urged to call on his mother.  Her delight, therefore, over Lucy’s sudden sense of duty was all the more keen.

“I’ll go with you, darling,” she answered, slipping her arm about Lucy’s waist, “and we’ll take Meg for a walk.”

So they started, Lucy in her prettiest frock and hat and Jane with her big red cloak over her arm to protect the young girl from the breeze from the sea, which in the early autumn was often cool, especially if they should sit out on Mrs. Cavendish’s piazza.

The doctor’s mother met them on the porch.  She had seen them enter the garden gate, and had left her seat by the window, and was standing on the top step to welcome them.  Rex, as usual, in the doctor’s absence, did the honors of the office.  He loved Jane, and always sprang straight at her, his big paws resting on her shoulders.  These courtesies, however, he did not extend to Meg.  The high-bred setter had no other salutation for the clay-colored remnant than a lifting of his nose, a tightening of his legs, and a smothered growl when Meg ventured too near his lordship.