The day spent at Aunt Judith’s cottage had been delightful, and Harry and Leslie had been such fine playmates that Rose and Polly wished that they, too, were staying at Cliffmore.

A few days had passed since the visit, and Princess Polly, still thinking of the day at Avondale, sat stringing shells on a long rose-colored cord.

She was sitting on a low seat in the garden, her box of shells beside her.  The shells were for Leslie, and Polly was selecting them with much care, that they might be of nearly the same size.

The garden was charming with its fine wall, and the lovely flowers that blossomed within its enclosure.

The house set well up on the beach, and its broad lawn and flower beds were surely safe from any encroachment by the sea, yet as a precaution, the massive wall had been built, and if by any chance a storm should drive the waves a bit too far, they would break against the wall, and then recede, leaving the garden unharmed.

The string of shells was now nearly a half yard in length, and Polly held it up for the admiration of Rose and Sprite, who had just arrived, and were running along the path.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely?” said Rose, “and the colors, how nice they look, first bluish white and then cream white.”

“Leslie will like that,” said Sprite.

“Anyone would, they’re strung so prettily.”

“I’ve ten more shells to add to the string and then it will be all ready for Leslie.  Everybody keep still until I have the ten shells in place,” said Princess Polly, “and then I’ll talk with you.”

Rose and Sprite pretended to be making a great effort to keep still, but the task was evidently too much for them, and after a few seconds of silence, Rose laughed, Sprite echoed, and then Polly laughed because they did.

“Oh, you two can’t keep from talking,” she said, “and neither can I, that is, not for very long, but I did keep still until I put the tenth shell on the string, and I’ll put it in this little box.  There, now I’ll listen, for I know you’ve something to tell.”

The three little friends were now sitting on the long garden seat, the tall shrubs behind them making a cool shade.

Mr. Sherwood had had the space inside the fine wall filled with rich loam, so that inside the garden gate was a genuine country garden, while outside the wall lay the sandy beach, and the surf, and spray.

The flowers in the garden seemed to like the breezes from the sea, for their colors were glowing, and their perfume sweet.

“There’s such queer news this morning,” Sprite said.  “First, a sailor that Pa knows came up from the wharf, and he said a vessel got ’way out to sea, when they found a boy had hidden himself on board, a regular stowaway, and the first fishing smack they met, that was heading for Cliffmore, took him aboard and brought him back, and who do you think that was?”

“Why, how could we ever guess?” Polly asked in surprise.

“Well, that was John Selby, the grocer’s boy.  You know the store over at the Center,” said Sprite, “and I guess you’ve seen the boy.  He’s ’bout fourteen, and has red hair, and he’s the one that helps deliver goods from his father’s store.”

Yes, they remembered him.

Good-tempered, happy-go-lucky John Selby.  What could have tempted him to leave home, and become a stowaway?  Sprite knew why he had done it.

“He said he didn’t want to be a grocer when he grew up,” she said.  “He said he loved the sea, and would rather be a sailor, so now his father says if he’ll stay at home and help in the store until he’s a bit older, he’ll consent to his becoming a sailor, if he still thinks he’d like a sailor’s life.”

The pronouns were a bit confused, but Rose and Polly understood.

They hardly knew whether to be sorry for John or his father.

“It seems hard for John to want to go and leave his father,” Polly said, “and it’s hard that John can’t be a sailor boy if he wants to.”

“And you can’t know which is the harder,” said Sprite.

“Well, I wouldn’t think any boy would run away from home when he knew that his father and mother would grieve for him,” Rose said.

“I’d think any boy would if he wanted to!” said a sharp voice.

It was Max Deland who had entered the garden, and now, with a defiant air, stood staring at the group of playmates, as if daring them to disagree with him.

His cap was tilted at a saucy angle, his hands were thrust into his pockets, and his feet, wide apart, were firmly braced.

He looked as if ready to quarrel with anyone who chanced to differ with him.

“Do you mean to say, Max, that you’d do such a thing?” Sprite asked.

“I don’t say I would, and I don’t say I wouldn’t,” Max said in a sullen voice.

“Well, would you?” Princess Polly asked, but Max looked disagreeable, and in a few moments had turned and left them, as abruptly as he had come.

For a moment Polly, Rose and Sprite sat very still, each looking into the faces of the others.

“What made him so cross?” Sprite asked, “and if he did feel cross, and couldn’t help it, then I should have thought he would have stayed away.”

“So should I,” said Polly and Rose, and “so should I,” echoed Sprite.

Outside the garden wall eager ears were listening, and the ears belonged to a little figure that crouched close by the gateway, just out of sight of the three playmates, yet quite near enough to hear all that had been said.

It was Gwen Harcourt.

She had been a bit too saucy to Max Deland, had called him a “sissy,” and what boy would bear that?  Max had returned the favor by calling her a “Tom-boy,” and then he had made a horrid face, and raced off up the beach.

Then Gwen was sorry.  She liked to play with Max, and while he could run away, and laugh as he went, Gwen was ready to cry.

He was quite as fond of Gwen as she was of him, but he was a great tease, and beside that, he liked to hear her calling to him to return.

It flattered his vanity.

“Come back, Max!  Come back!” she had shouted.

“Max dear, I take it back.  You’re not a sissy.  Max!  Oh, Max, I’m sorry!”

Max heard, but he chose to keep right on, and at last he reached the Sherwood house, and pausing for breath near the gate, had overheard the three friends talking about the boy who had run away from his home at Cliffmore.

A few moments later he had chosen to enter, especially because he was feeling rather cross with Gwen, and as Gwen was not at hand to quarrel with, he entered the garden to sneer at what his playmates were saying.

Gwen had followed him, and the time that he had spent in the garden had given her the chance to catch up.  Six little stone steps led down from the garden to the beach, and Max ran down, pushed the gate wide, and sprang out onto the hard white sand.

Gwen crouched at his left, but he shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked to the right down the beach.  She was pert and willful with all the others, but with Max she was humble indeed.

“Max, here I am, and I’m sorry I teased you.  Do be nice to me now, won’t you?  I won’t ever call you ‘sissy’ again.”

“Guess you won’t!” Max said, in anything but a pleasant tone.  “I wouldn’t let you say it if I was here, but I’ve ’bout decided to run away to sea!”

“Oh, Max, Max!  I don’t want you to, and just think!  What would your mother say?”

Gwen meant it rightly, but it did not please Max.

“There you go!” he cried.  “That’s the same as saying ‘sissy’ again.  I guess I can go where I want to.  A man can do as he likes without asking.”

Again Gwen blundered.

“Oh, but Max, you’re not a man.  You’re just a boy, and I wish you wouldn’t talk as if you meant to go ’way off somewhere.”

Just a boy!  That was aggravating.  Max felt sure that in a moment more she would call him a little boy, and that would indeed be too much for any boy to ever overlook.

Gwen laid her hand on his arm, intending to coax him to stay, but Max was too angry to be easily pacified.

“See here!” he cried, roughly brushing her hand from his arm.  “You heard me say I’d ’bout decided to run away to sea, but you don’t know whether I will or not, so look out and not be a tell-tale, for if I do go, and ever come back, and find out you told, I’d never speak to you!”

Before Gwen could get over her surprise, and grasp the meaning of what he had said, he was off at top speed down the beach.

She started to follow, but he turned and shouted:  “Don’t you dare to tag on!”

Poor Gwen!  Max was the only playmate with whom she had ever been gentle.  She had treated him far better than she had ever treated the girls at Avondale, or the new acquaintances at Cliffmore, and now he was going to run away, and she was not to ever mention it!

She reached home very tired, and also very unhappy.

At lunch she refused to eat, but that was not unusual.  She often did that to attract the attention of the other boarders.

As usual Mrs. Harcourt commenced to fuss, and to question her.

“What is it, dear?” she asked.

“Is there nothing that looks tempting?”

Then glancing at those who sat opposite, she said:  “Gwen’s appetite is so very dainty and capricious, she rarely cares for what is served here.”

The guests were a bit tired of that speech, as they had heard it at every meal during the Summer.

“You’re too tired to eat, darling,” Mrs. Harcourt said.  “Did you play too hard with Max this morning?”

At the mention of Max, Gwen burst into tears, and ran from the table, dropping her napkin on the floor, and walking upon it in her flight.

Mrs. Harcourt was really alarmed.  She wondered what Max had done to so upset Gwen.  Perhaps he had struck her.  He had a terrible disposition, while Gwen had the temperament of an angel.  So thought Mrs. Harcourt as she left the dining room, her own lunch untasted, to follow Gwen, and coax from her the reason for her distress.

The cause of any disturbance that led Gwen to shed tears was attributed to the outrageous temper of the other child, or children, as the case happened to be, and Mrs. Harcourt never dreamed that sometimes Gwen showed a temper that was rather far from angelic.

Max was not at lunch, but that caused no surprise, because he often was absent at one o’clock, returning at six for dinner with an appetite that seemed more befitting a brawny tramp than a boy who was always well fed.

On this day, however, he did not appear at dinner, and when seven, and eight, chimed forth from the hall clock, and still no Max in sight, Mrs. Deland was frightened.

“Do keep up your courage, Mrs. Deland,” said a man who happened to stand near her.

“Your small boy will come prancing in before long, just as he always does.  He usually remains out until you are nearly wild, and then he comes crawling in by the back door, and wonders why the chef isn’t on hand to cook a separate dinner for him.”

It was the truth, but Mrs. Deland thought the speaker exceedingly hard-hearted.  She had telephoned to everyone whom she thought might have seen Max, but all replied that he had not been noticed, and that proved that he had not been near them, for the boy was so saucy, so noisy, and so desperately active, that he must have been noticed if he was anywhere within sight.

“Nine!” chimed the clock, and a few of the guests of the house organized a searching party, and started out to hunt for Max.

They felt little interest in the matter, from the fact that the same thing had happened so many times that they seemed always to be searching for Max.

The boy had made himself a nuisance in countless ways, and while neither member wished any harm to come to Max, they felt that it would be a great relief if he and his mother would leave Cliffmore, and never think of returning.

Once outside the house, however, they made thorough work of their search, but although they looked in every place that a small boy might get into, and in many that seemed impossible, they did not find him.

One man, tired and disgusted, grumbled as he tramped along, and several others who did not utter the thoughts that filled their minds, felt every bit as disgusted as he did.

“It’s nonsense, clear nonsense, tramping all over the place, hunting for a little run-away rascal, who, at this moment, is doubtless eating a comfortable meal, after having returned when he felt like it.”

When they reached the house, they were surprised to find that Max was not there.

It was the first time that a party searching for the boy had returned to learn that he was still missing.

Mrs. Deland had become quite used to having Max away sometimes all day, and often until after eight in the evening, and, as a rule, she was reasonably calm, but that nine o’clock should have passed without hearing from him seemed beyond belief.

With the return of the searching party her courage gave way, and she sank onto a low seat, her cheeks white, and her hands tightly clenched.

The women gathered about her, trying to comfort her, but she seemed not to hear what they said.

How still she sat, her hands still tightly clasped, her eyes looking from one face to another.

Then her eyes closed.  She had fainted, and gently they carried her to her room, one woman promising to remain with her, after the doctor should have gone.

Gwen had acted so strangely that Mrs. Harcourt had ordered a light lunch sent up to their room, saying that Gwen was too ill to go down to dinner, and that she would remain with her.  No sound of the excitement reached them.  It was in vain that she questioned Gwen.  Gwen only replied that she and Max had quarreled, and that he had been “just perfectly horrid.”

When morning came, Gwen awoke feeling a bit better.

Having remained in their room all the afternoon and evening, they had heard nothing of the search for Max, nor did they know that he had not, as usual, returned.