"That so? Wouldn't you think he'd come up here and rock in the cradle o' the deep awhile? You write him about that hammock out there."
Mrs. Porter looked out through the open window toward the end of the porch, where a hammock hung.
"Doctor? Is it as bad as that?" Miss Barry frowned questioningly. "Lambert never writes. I don't care for his stenographer's letters, and he knows it. If he can't take time to write himself, let it go." The speaker threw her head to one side, as if disposing of the matter of fraternal affection.
"Linda is blooming," remarked Mrs. Porter.
Miss Barry's lips took a thinner line. "Let her bloom," she responded dryly; and her visitor laughed again.
"It will be less difficult now she's out of college," said Mrs. Porter pacifically. "Those girls are absolutely occupied, you know."
"Never play at all, I presume," returned her hostess, with a curling lip.
"Better not if you care where you go to.--No," after a slight pause, "I understand my niece a good deal better than she thinks I do. It's enough that she scorns her own name. She was named for me. Belinda's been good enough for me, and she's no business to slight the name her parents gave her."
"Oh, Linda is such a free lance," said Mrs. Porter apologetically; "and 'Linda' sounds so breezy, so--so like her. 'Belinda' is quaint and demure, and--and you know, really, she isn't demure!"
"Not a great deal," agreed Miss Barry curtly. "I'm sorry my brother isn't well," she added.
"These business men let themselves be driven so. You remember my cousin Bertram King. He and Mr. Barry have been worn down in the same vortex, and both are ordered away. I told Bertram Maine was the best place in the world for him. As soon as I find an abiding-place I shall let him know."
Miss Barry rose suddenly. "I'm forgetting that you're starved. Just excuse me while I dish up the chowder," she said, and vanished.
Mrs. Porter clasped her hands and lifted her eyes.
"Chowder!" she repeated sententiously; then she too rose, went to the open window, and stood looking out.
The tide was rising, and the waves, climbing higher and higher, threw white arms toward the shingled cottage, as if claiming its boulder foundation, and striving to pass the barrier of daisies and draw the little house down to its own seething breast.