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For the first fortnight Frances revelled in a luxury of unhindered sorrow. She could cry all night–and all day too, if she wished–without having to stop because people might notice that her eyes were red. She could mope in her room all she liked. And there were no men who demanded civility.

When the fortnight was over, Aunt Eleanor took crafty counsel with herself. The letting-alone policy was all very well, but it would not do to have the girl die on her hands. Frances was getting paler and thinner every day–and she was spoiling her eyelashes by crying.

“I wish,” said Aunt Eleanor one morning at breakfast, while Frances pretended to eat, “that I could go and take Corona Sherwood out for a drive today. I promised her last week that I would, but I’ve never had time yet. And today is baking and churning day. It’s a shame. Poor Corona!”

“Who is she?” asked Frances, trying to realize that there was actually someone in the world besides herself who was to be pitied.

“She is our minister’s sister. She has been ill with rheumatic fever. She is better now, but doesn’t seem to get strong very fast. She ought to go out more, but she isn’t able to walk. I really must try and get around tomorrow. She keeps house for her brother at the manse. He isn’t married, you know.”

Frances didn’t know, nor did she in the least degree care. But even the luxury of unlimited grief palls, and Frances was beginning to feel this vaguely. She offered to go and take Miss Sherwood out driving.

“I’ve never seen her,” she said, “but I suppose that doesn’t matter. I can drive Grey Tom in the phaeton, if you like.”

It was just what Aunt Eleanor intended, and she saw Frances drive off that afternoon with a great deal of satisfaction.

“Give my love to Corona,” she told her, “and say for me that she isn’t to go messing about among those shore people until she’s perfectly well. The manse is the fourth house after you turn the third corner.”

Frances kept count of the corners and the houses and found the manse. Corona Sherwood herself came to the door. Frances had been expecting an elderly personage with spectacles and grey crimps; she was surprised to find that the minister’s sister was a girl of about her own age and possessed of a distinct worldly prettiness. Corona was dark, with a different darkness from that of Frances, who had ivory outlines and blue-black hair, while Corona was dusky and piquant.

Her eyes brightened with delight when Frances told her errand.

“How good of you and Miss Eleanor! I am not strong enough to walk far yet–or do anything useful, in fact, and Elliott so seldom has time to take me out.”

“Where shall we go?” asked Frances when they started. “I don’t know much about this locality.”

“Can we drive to the Cove first? I want to see poor little Jacky Hart. He has been so sick–“

“Aunt Eleanor positively forbade that,” said Frances dubiously. “Will it be safe to disobey her?”

Corona laughed.

“Miss Eleanor blames my poor shore people for making me sick at first, but it was really not that at all. And I want to see Jacky Hart so much. He has been ill for some time with some disease of the spine and he is worse lately. I’m sure Miss Eleanor won’t mind my calling just to see him.”

Frances turned Grey Tom down the shore road that ran to the Cove and past it to silvery, wind-swept sands, rimming sea expanses crystal clear. Jacky Hart’s home proved to be a tiny little place overflowing with children. Mrs. Hart was a pale, tired-looking woman with the patient, farseeing eyes so often found among the women who watch sea and shore every day and night of their lives for those who sometimes never return.

She spoke of Jacky with the apathy of hopelessness. The doctor said he would not last much longer. She told all her troubles unreservedly to Corona in her monotonous voice. Her “man” was drinking again and the mackerel catch was poor.