over toward the stove to warm her snow-wet shoes, when all at once she became aware of a boy.
The boy was lying back on a leather chair, stockinged feet crossed, hands in his pocket, looking at her. He wore the leather shooting clothes of a duck-hunter; on the floor beside him lay his cap, oil-skins, hip-boots, and his gun. A red light from the stove fell across his dark, curly hair and painted one side of his face crimson.
Athalie, surprised, was not, however, in the least disturbed or embarrassed. She looked calmly at the boy, at the woollen stockings on his feet.
"Did you manage to get dry?" she asked in a friendly voice.
Then he seemed to come to himself. He took his hands from his pockets and got up on his stockinged feet.
"Yes, I'm dry now."
"Did you have any luck?"
"I got fifteen—counting shell-drake, two redheads, a black duck, and some buffle-heads."
"Where were you shooting?"
"Off Silver Shoal."
"Who was your bay-man?"
"Bill Nostrand."
"Why did you stop shooting so early?"
"Fifteen is the local limit this year."
Athalie nodded and bit into her turnover, reflectively. When she looked up, something in the boy's eye interested her.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
He looked embarrassed, then laughed: "Yes, I am."
"Wait; I'll get you a turnover," she said.
When she returned from the kitchen with his turnover he was standing. Rather vaguely she comprehended this civility toward herself although nobody had ever before remained standing for her.
Not knowing exactly what to do or say she silently presented the pastry, then drew a chair up into the red firelight. And the boy seated himself.
"I suppose you came with those hunters from New York," she said.
"Yes. I came with my father and three of his friends."
"They are out still I suppose."
"Yes. They went over to Brant Point."
"I've often sailed there," remarked Athalie. "Can you sail a boat?"
"No."
"It is easy.... I could teach you if you are going to stay a while."
"We are going back to New York to-morrow morning.... How did you learn to sail a boat?"
"Why, I don't know. I've always lived here. Mr. Ledlie has a boat. Everybody here knows how to manage a cat-boat.... If you'll come down this summer I'll teach you. Will you?"
"I will if I can."
They were silent for a few minutes. It grew very dark in the bar-room, and the light from the stove glimmered redder and redder.
The boy and girl lay back in their chairs, lingering over their peach pastry, and inspecting each other with all the frank insouciance of childhood.
Athalie still wore the red hood and cloak which had represented her outer winter wardrobe for years. Her dull, thick gold hair curled crisply over the edges of the hood which framed in its oval the lovely features of a child in perfect health.
The boy, dark-haired and dark-eyed, gazed fascinated and unembarrassed at this golden blond visitor hooded and cloaked in scarlet.
"Does your father keep this hotel?" he asked after a pause.
"Yes. I am Athalie Greensleeve. What is your name?"
"C. Bailey, Junior."
"What is the C for?"
"Clive."
"Do you go to school?"
"Yes, but I'm back for the holidays."
"Holidays," she repeated vaguely. "Oh, that's so. Christmas will come day after to-morrow."
He nodded. "I think I'm going to have a new pair of guns, some books, and a horse. What do you expect?"
"Nothing," said Athalie.
"What? Isn't there anything you want?" And then, too late, some glimmer of the real state of affairs illuminated his boyish brain. And he grew red with embarrassment.
They had finished their pastry; Athalie wiped her hands on a soiled and ragged and crumpled handkerchief, then scrubbed her scarlet mouth.
"I'd like to come down here for the summer vacation," said the boy, awkwardly. "I don't know whether my mother would like it."
"Why? It is pleasant."
He glanced instinctively around him at the dark and shabby bar-room, but offered no reason why his mother might not care for the Hotel Greensleeve. One thing he knew; he meant to urge his mother to come, or to let him come.
A few minutes later the outer door banged open and into the bar came stamping four men and two bay-men, their oil-skins shining with salt-spray, guns glistening. Thud! went the strings of dead ducks on the floor; somebody scratched a match and lighted the ceiling lamp.
"Hello, Junior!" cried one of the men in oil-skins,—"how did you make out on Silver Shoals?"
"All right, father," he began; but his father had caught sight of Athalie who had risen to retreat.
"Who are you, young lady?" he inquired with a jolly smile,—"are you little Red-Riding Hood or the Princess Far Away, or perhaps the Sleeping Beauty recently awakened?"
"I'm Athalie Greensleeve."
"Lady Greensleeves! I knew you were somebody quite as distinguished as you are beautiful. Would you mind saying to Mr. Greensleeve that there is much moaning on the bar, and that it will still continue until he arrives to instil the stillness of the still—"
"What?"
"We merely want a drink, my child. Don't look so seriously and distractingly pretty. I was joking, that's all. Please tell your father how very thirsty we are."
As the child turned to obey, C. Bailey, Sr., put one big arm around her shoulders: "I didn't mean to tease you on such short acquaintance," he whispered. "Are you offended, little Lady Greensleeves?"
Athalie looked up at him in puzzled silence.
"Smile, just once, so I shall know I am forgiven," he said. "Will you?"
The child smiled confusedly, caught the boy's eye, and smiled again, most engagingly, at C. Bailey, Sr.'s, son.
"Oho!" exclaimed the senior Bailey laughingly and looking at his son, "I'm forgiven for your sake, am I?"
"For heaven's sake, Clive," protested one of the gunners, "let the little girl go and find her father. If I ever needed a drink it's now!"
So Athalie went away to summon her father. She found him as she had last noticed him, sitting asleep on the big leather office chair. Ledlie, behind the desk, was still reading his soiled newspaper, which he continued to do until Athalie cried out something in a frightened voice. Then he laid aside his paper, blinked at her, got up leisurely and shuffled over to where his partner was sitting dead on his leather chair.
The duck-hunters left that night. One after another the four gentlemen came over to speak to Athalie and to her sisters. There was some confusion and crowding in the hallway, what with the doctor, the undertaker's assistants, neighbours, and the New York duck-hunters.