# Brenda's Summer at Rockley/Chapter 16
### XVI ABSENT-MINDEDNESS

“Oh, Nora, just think of it! I never was so surprised. Agnes is going to be married, and probably this autumn before we return to town. Oh, I wish that you could stay. A wedding is such fun!” and Brenda danced around waving a letter which she held in her hand.
“I’m afraid that I don’t understand. Agnes married! Why, I thought that she was in Paris,” responded Nora.
“Well, so she is, or she was. But she’s coming back. Probably she has sailed; let me see—‘if the passage is favorable, I may reach Boston by the sixth of August.’ Why, that is hardly a week! I wonder what she ’ll bring me. I’m sure it will be something lovely. She has such perfect taste!”
“But I did n’t know that she was engaged,” said Nora.
“Neither did I,” replied Brenda. “It’s one of the things that they did n’t tell me until the last minute. I believe mamma and papa have known for some time. He’s an artist, and they ’re going to live in Paris. He’s in New York now, and papa is going on to see him and meet Agnes next week. He came over by himself; but Agnes is coming back with the Waterfords. They ’ve been abroad for a year.”
​Although Brenda’s rendering of the news was a trifle incoherent, Nora and Julia soon had a more connected account of Agnes’s prospects from Mrs. Barlow. The engagement was not exactly a surprise to Mr. and Mrs. Barlow, as they had had much correspondence regarding it with their daughter and Ralph Weston, her fiancé. They had heard such good reports of him from their old friends, the Waterfords, in whose care Agnes had been during her year in Paris, that, without seeing the young man, on the strength of his letters, they had given their consent. Yet to Brenda the engagement was news, and perhaps if she had known how many letters had passed between Rockley and Paris on the subject of this engagement, she might have felt a little hurt that she had been left out of the family consultations.
But now in all the plans for the wedding, Brenda was allowed to have something to say, and perhaps in the excitement of making her plans, she forgot that by her marriage her sister was to be removed from her even farther than she had been during the past year.
“For when she goes back to Europe, it is to be for three or four years,” she said to Nora, “and I shall really be Miss Barlow. Yet it’s strange, is n’t it, that although I used to think that would be the most delightful thing in the world, I feel quite blue at the thought of losing Agnes.”
“Perhaps you ’ll go to Paris to visit her.”
“Oh, perhaps, but still it will seem very melancholy to have her going off to leave us. I did n’t feel the same ​when Caroline was married, because I was so very little then, but now—”
“Brenda, Brenda, I have something to show you; ask Nora to come, too.”
“Yes, mamma,” and the two girls ran upstairs to see a photograph, which had just arrived, of Mr. Weston.
“Oh, he is handsome, is n’t he! Agnes did n’t exaggerate,” and Brenda handed the picture to Nora for a closer examination.
“I have decided to go to New York myself, Brenda,” said Mrs. Barlow, when the girls had expressed themselves fully on the subject of the photograph. “Your father thinks that it will not be too hot for me, and Agnes has been away so long that I feel that I cannot see her soon enough.”
Now while this little ripple of excitement was passing over the Barlow family, Amy felt herself neglected by her friends. The reading club had failed to meet one day because Mrs. Barlow and the girls had been invited to Magnolia; and on the day of the departure of her parents for New York, Brenda had gone up to town, ostensibly to see them off. But, as Nora and Julia accompanied her, they managed to make the occasion a pleasure trip, by having luncheon at the Mayflower, and going down town afterwards to assist Mrs. Barlow in her shopping.
As Mr. and Mrs. Barlow were to take the six o’clock train, the girls did not actually see them off, but, instead, were sent back to Rockley at five o’clock, rather tired, ​rather dusty, but fairly satisfied with the boxes of bonbons and little packages that they carried back as trophies of their day in town.
“Did you notice,” asked Brenda, “those tired, half-sick, dirty-looking children around the station?—it made me awfully uncomfortable to see them.”
“Oh, yes,” responded Nora; “and there were a lot on that side street that we passed through. There was a little boy there who made me think of the Rosas. He looked so like John.”
“I’m glad it was n’t John; fancy how much better off he is in Shiloh. Except for your Bazaar, Brenda, he might be selling papers this evening in Hanover Street.”
“Oh, it was n’t my Bazaar,” returned Brenda; “just think how many people had a hand in it.”
“Well, I wish that we could have moved a dozen of those families out of the city. It almost made me cry to-day to see those two little fellows on the corner, just as we turned toward the station, squabbling over that small bunch of flowers that that lady in front of us gave them.”
“Oh, I ’ve often had children beg me for the flowers that I ’ve worn at my belt. ‘Give me a flower, lady,’ they will cry, and, of course, I always give them what I have.”
“It would be a good idea, would n’t it, to send flowers to the city regularly, so that some of these children could have them?”
“Why, Brenda Barlow, do you mean that you have never heard of the flower mission! Why, dozens of baskets ​of flowers are sent up to town every day through the summer, from all the country places around. Is it possible that you have never sent any up from Rockley?”
“I’m afraid that I never have,” responded Brenda. “But it’s a perfectly splendid idea, and I ’ll begin right away. We always have plenty of flowers to spare in our garden.”
“You can send wild flowers, if you haven’t anything else. Even daisies, arranged in large bunches, are very highly appreciated. I ’ve heard my father speak of seeing them in the hospitals, and he says that the patients are very grateful for flowers.”
“But how could I get them to the city, and what would become of them after they get there?” asked Brenda, after a moment’s thought.
“Why, Brenda,” interposed Julia, “I should be glad to pay any charges. There’d be freight, or express, or something of that kind. But I wonder whom we’d send them to.”
“I could find out from my father; I think that there is a regular place for the flower mission. I believe that that is what they call it. At any rate, Edith could tell you. She has always been in the habit of sending flowers to town. Had n’t you ever heard about it?”
“Well, if I ever did, I ’ve forgotten. You see, until this last winter, I never had much to do with—with—”
“Philanthropy,” and Julia added to the word with which she had helped her cousin express her meaning. “That was only because you were so young, Brenda. ​People have to come gradually to take an interest in such things.”
“It’s very good in you, Julia, to be willing to pay the expense of getting the flowers to town.”
“Oh, no, it is n’t. You know that I have money to spare, and I love to spend it in such ways as this. Before you spoke, I was thinking about those children and the flowers, and it made me feel quite melancholy that we were going back to the seashore where it is so green and beautiful, and so cool compared with the city. Another summer, perhaps we can plan to do more for the poor little things who have so little to enjoy.”
The train had now gone far beyond the bridges near the mouth of the Charles and the Mystic, past Charlestown, where the grim walls of the State-prison and the gray spire of Bunker Hill Monument were seen fairly near at hand. They had passed through the outskirts of one or two less interesting suburbs, and now they were skirting the broad Lynn marshes, bounded far to the west by woods and distant hills, and again, looking toward the east, they had glimpses of the cool, blue sea. Yet Julia, delightful though she found the scenery through which the swift express passed, still had a feeling of dissatisfaction with herself. Why should it be her lot to have in prospect the delights of a summer by the sea, when all those poor, pinched little children must spend the long, hot weeks in the worst streets of a crowded city.
“Julia,” cried Nora, “you look as if you were dreaming. ​Did you notice, Brenda, the strange expression in her eyes?”
“I believe that I was half in a dream,” said Julia, “but I am wide enough awake now.” During the rest of the journey, the three girls laughed and chatted as if they had had nothing more serious than shopping on their minds.
Now it happened that on this very day when Brenda and the others went to the city, Amy, feeling a little lonely, decided to go out rowing. It was in the afternoon when she started, for she wisely waited until the sun had moderated.
She had to walk nearly a mile to reach the little cove near which lived an old fisherman from whom she was in the habit of hiring a boat. He charged her so little for it, that Amy occasionally could afford this luxury. The boat was cheap because it was shabby, old-fashioned in design, and never in demand. Amy, indeed, and Fritz were the only persons who ever hired it, and the old man would have been willing to let Amy have it for nothing. “She has such a pleasant way with her,” he said to his wife, “that I’d be almost willing to let her have it for nothing, and she’s as careful with it as if she was my own daughter, I’m sure of that.” Now although the old boat was shabby, it was safe and strong. Mrs. Redmond had made sure of its character before giving Amy permission to go out in it alone. Mrs. Redmond herself had given Amy her first lessons in rowing, and she knew that in the neighborhood of the cove there was little chance of ​any mishap to her daughter; for the young girl was the fortunate possessor of strong arms and a cool head. Fritz was not quite as fond of the water as Amy, and during the early part of the present summer she had seldom gone out in the boat.
But on this particular day, she knew that the exercise would do her good, and indeed when she felt herself gliding over the water, her light-heartedness returned to her, and she bent to the oars, and pulled toward a distant point where she meant to land for a little while. When the point was reached, Amy managed to pull her boat to just the right spot on the little beach where, by measuring the distance carefully with her eye, she could step ashore to a rock. There was an iron staple in the rock, which had evidently been used for mooring purposes for a long time; Amy fastened her rope to the staple, saw that the boat was in water enough to float it, and then, stepping from this rock to another nearer the land, and then to another, clambered up the side of the cliff which made the extremity of the point. There she sat down, in a sheltered nook which she and Fritz had discovered long before, and began to read. Her book was absorbing,—indeed did any boy or girl of fifteen fail to find “Off the Skelligs” absorbing?—and she sat there for more than an hour,—no, for more than two hours, regardless of time. At length she judged by the number of pages that she had covered, that she had been there longer than she had intended to be. But what was her surprise, in looking down toward the beach, to find that she had made an absurd mistake. The ​tide, instead of coming in, had been steadily ebbing during the two hours. She had been very careless, and it seemed as if she might have to pay rather dearly for her mistake.
For there was the boat left high and dry upon the beach, and she saw that it was going to be very hard for her to push it off. Nevertheless, as she must make the attempt, she hurried down to it. Had the tide been high, as she had calculated, she would merely have untied the rope, leaning over from the end of the boat, pushed against the rock with her oar, and, presto, she would have glided off into deep water. But now!
Poor Amy looked about helplessly; first she must get her boat down to the water. It did not seem as if this could be the same boat that she had made skim along the waves a few hours before. Now it was clumsy, unyielding and—yes, Amy actually called it obstinate, as she pushed and pushed, and only succeeded in pressing the bow a little more deeply into the sands. It was hopeless. She found it absolutely impossible to get it down to the water, and to wait until the tide returned under the boat, was altogether out of the question. It was almost equally out of the question for her to think of walking home. She was four or five miles away by the road, and she did not dare leave the boat. It was about a mile, too, to the nearest house, which stood back some distance from the shore. Of course she might go there, and perhaps find a man who could help her. But this would be putting some strange person to a great deal of trouble, and Amy knew that she was too timid to ask the favor. Besides, she did not care to leave ​the boat for the time that would be required to go to the house. So she leaned disconsolately against the rock, blaming herself for her carelessness and almost ready to cry,—she, the strong-minded Amy,—as she saw no way out of the difficulty.
Presently she heard a loud “halloo,” and looking up in the direction whence the cry came, at the other end of the beach, she saw a boy and a bicycle. The boy was not riding, but as he pushed his bicycle before him over the soft sand, Amy felt her heart throb quickly,—yes, it certainly was Fritz, and she gave back an answering call. It made no difference to her that Fritz was accompanied by the other boy, the one whom she had so often seen riding with him lately.
“Two will be better than one to overcome this monster,” she said, as she gazed at the great bulk of the clumsy boat.
“Hello, Amy,” cried Fritz, “trying to row on dry land? You might as well give it up. You can’t do it.”
“Oh, Fritz,” cried Amy, “is n’t this a ridiculous thing? It was one of my fits of absent-mindedness; I have n’t had one before for a long time. But I forgot that the tide was going out. I might have known, because the water was n’t very deep when I pushed up here. Do you suppose we could get it off together?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Fritz; “there are three of us.”
Amy looked toward the other boy, who had been approaching very slowly. He was not yet within hearing distance. Perhaps he had heard of the falling-out between Amy and Fritz, and politely kept at a fair distance to give ​them a chance to make up, or at least to say all that they had to say without a third person present to criticise.
But although, as you may have observed, Amy and Fritz for some time had been cherishing a certain amount of ill-feeling against each other, when they met they wasted no time in fault-finding or even in apologies. Fritz saw that Amy was in trouble, and he meant to help her. Amy as soon as she heard Fritz’s voice, knew that he was still her friend. There was no need of words to tell this. Indeed, when two friends have fallen out, whether they are boys or girls, if they are really friends, they ought to be able to make up without any great amount of explanation or apologizing. Of course if one has really done the other an injury, proper amends should be made. But misunderstandings between friends are so often the result of a little false pride, of the fact that one has expected the other to say or do something that has been left unsaid or undone. When, therefore, the time for reconciliation comes, and it always will come with those who have been really friends, “Least said, soonest mended” is a very good motto.
“Come here, Ben,” called Fritz, and the other boy, laying his wheel flat on the sand, ran towards him.
“If you could ride my wheel,” said Fritz, “I’d row home; but of course you could n’t do that.”
“Oh, I won’t have any trouble getting home, when once I’m out in deep water,” said Amy.
“Well, if you are in one of those absent-minded fits, you might row in exactly the opposite direction from the one you ought to go in, and that would be decidedly awkward for you to find yourself bound for Nahant or some other place in the direction of the city.”
“Oh, no,” rejoined Amy, without losing her temper, “I’m not so foolish as that, I can assure you. I ’ve come to my senses, and if you can only push me off, I ’ll get safely into port.”
“Well then, take your place,” said Fritz, “and we ’ll do the best we can.” But the weight of Amy, added to that of the boat, made the task very difficult.
Amy leaned from the stern, and, using her oar as a lever, tried to push off. But it was of no use. Although there were a few inches of water at the bow, there seemed to be no way of getting the boat into water that would float her.
Turning to the other boy, Fritz said a word or two that Amy did not hear. But the result of what he said she saw very soon.
“Oh, you must n’t—you really must n’t!” she cried. But the boys paid no heed to her.
“There she’s moving,” said Fritz; “sit down, Amy, you can’t stand up in a moving boat.”
​Amy obeyed meekly; she realized that the boat was moving, and she picked up the other oar, ready to row when she should feel that there was water under the boat.
“There, don’t come any further,” she cried. “You ’ll get your feet wet.”
“Oh, no, I won’t,” replied Fritz, “they are wet already;” and Amy saw that the boys were standing in water that came above their ankles.
“The worst is yet to come; push on, Ben;” and still deeper the boys waded into the water, while Amy exclaimed, a little uneasily, “Oh, what would your uncle say, to see your feet so wet!”
“Methinks he may never have the chance to say anything about it,” rejoined Fritz.
“There, you ’re off!” and, giving the boat a final push, he and Ben stood back, while Amy, in gratitude, waved one of her oars at them.
“Oh, by the way,” called Fritz, as she bent herself in the attitude of an oarswoman, “Ben says that he has n’t been introduced to you.”
Ben looked somewhat embarrassed, as Fritz, at the top of his voice, performed the ceremony of introduction.
“Miss Redmond, Mr. Ben Creighton.”
“Good-bye, Fritz, good-bye, Mr. Creighton; many thanks, and don’t catch cold.”
“And remember where you ’re bound,” retorted Fritz, teasingly. But Amy took no offence. It seemed to her just then as if she and Fritz would never again fall out.