His head was bent, and he seemed to be lost in deep thought.
CHAPTER III.
A NAVAL VISITOR
Roy had departed, on an errand, for town. Peggy, indolently enjoying the
perfect drowsiness of noonday, was reclining in a gayly colored hammock
suspended between two regal maple trees on the lawn. In her hand was a
book. On a taboret by her side was a big pink box full of chocolates.
The girl was not reading, however. Her blue eyes were staring straight up
through the delicate green tracery of the big maples, at the sky above.
She watched, with lazy fascination, tiny white clouds drifting slowly
across the blue, like tiny argosies of the heavens. Her mind was far away
from Sandy Beach and its peaceful surroundings. The young girl's thoughts
were of the desert, the bleak, arid wastes of alkali, which lay so far
behind them now. Almost like events that had happened in another life.
Suddenly she was aroused from her reverie by a voice--a remarkably
pleasant voice:
"I beg your pardon. Is this the Prescott house?"
"Good gracious, a man!" exclaimed Peggy to herself, getting out of the
hammock as gracefully as she could, and with a rather flushed face.
At the gate stood a rickety station hack, which had approached on the
soft, dusty road almost noiselessly. Just stepping out of it was a
sunburned young man, very upright in carriage, and dressed in a light-gray
suit, with a jaunty straw hat.
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