THE HOUSE OF THE RUNNING WATER A week later, on a sunlit afternoon, Sylvia and her father drove northward out of Weymouth between the marshes and the bay.

Sylvia was silent and looked about her with expectant eyes.
"I have been lucky, Sylvia," her father had said to her.

"I have secured for our summer holiday the very house in which you were born.

It cost me some trouble, but I was determined to get it if I could, for I had an idea that you would be pleased.

However, you are not to see it until it is quite ready." There was a prettiness and a delicacy in this thought which greatly appealed to Sylvia.