Sally took her upstairs, lighted a small but exquisitely appointed guest room, found a stiffly embroidered nightgown, a wrapper of dark-blue Japanese crepe, and a pair of straw slippers.  Julia, inwardly trembling with excitement, was outwardly calm as she got ready for bed; she hung her clothes in a closet delightfully redolent of pine, and brushed and braided her splendid hair.  Sally whisked about on various errands, and presently Mrs. Toland bustled in, brimful of horrified apologies and regrets, and Barbara dawdled after, rolling her belt and starched stock, generally unhooking and unbuttoning.

Perhaps the haughty Barbara found the round-eyed, golden-haired girl in a blue wrapper a little more companionable than the dreadful Miss Page, or perhaps she was a little too lonely to-night to be fastidious in her choice of a confidante.  At all events, she elected to wander in and out of Julia’s room while she undressed, and presently sat on Julia’s bed, and braided her dark hair.  And if the whole adventure had excited Julia, she was doubly excited now, frantic to win Barbara’s friendship, nervously afraid to try.

“You’re an actress, Miss Page?” asked Barbara, scowling at her hairbrush.

“Will be, I guess!  I’ve had dozens of chances to sign up already, but Mama don’t want me to be in any rush.”

The other girl eyed her almost enviously.

“I wish I could do something—­sometimes,” she sighed.  And she added, giving Julia a shamefaced grin, “I’ve got the blues to-night.”

It was from this second that Julia dated her love for Barbara Toland.  A delicious sensation enveloped her—­to be in Barbara’s confidence—­to know that she was sometimes unhappy, too; to be lying in this fragrant, snowy bed, in this enchanting room—­

“Well,” said Barbara presently, jumping up, “you’ll want some sleep.  If you hear us rushing about, at the screech of dawn to-morrow, it’s because some of us may go out with Dad in the Crow, if there’s a breeze.  Do you like yachting?  Would you care to go?”

“I’ve never been,” said Julia.

“Oh, well, then, you ought to!” Barbara said with round eyes.  “I’ll tell you—­I’ll peep in here to-morrow, and if you’re awake I’ll give you a call!” she arranged, after a minute’s frowning thought.

“I sleep awfully sound!” smiled Julia.

But she was awake when Barbara, true to her plan, peeped in at five o’clock the next morning, and presently, in a bluejacket’s blouse and brief blue skirt, with a white canvas hat on her head, and a boy’s old gray jersey buttoned loosely about her, followed muffled shapes through the cold house and into the wet, chilly garden.  Richie was going, Sally had the gallant but shivering Jane and the dark-eyed Keith by the hand, and Barbara hung on her father’s arm.

The waters of the bay were gray and cold; a sharp breeze swept their steely surfaces into fans of ruffled water.  The little Crow rocked at her anchor, her ropes and brasswork beaded with dew.  Julia, sitting in desperate terror upon a slanting upholstered ledge, felt her teeth chatter, and wondered why she had come.