At Sandywood, Fessenden was little surprised to learn that Miss Yarnell had been summoned home to Baltimore—on account of sickness in her family.

“I think she must have gotten a telegram at the station,” said Polly Cresap. “She’d been out riding, and when she came in she was in quite a flutter, and told us she had to go home immediately. I really didn’t understand just who was sick. We’re to send her things after her. You didn’t see her at Sandywood Station, did you, Tom? She must have taken the same train you came in on.”

“No,” returned Fessenden, truthfully enough. “She’s rather a headlong sort, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I suppose so. But, poor girl, she has a good deal on her mind! You know, before this disgraceful affair of Charlie Danton’s with——”

“Polly!” said her husband warningly.

“I don’t care, Pinck. You know everybody says so.”

“But nobody knows anything, my dear.”

“At any rate,” she rattled on, “before this affair, Madge was quite fond of Charlie Danton, and now I believe she’s eating her heart out.”

“Remember, Fessenden has just been up to Baltimore to meet Danton,” cautioned Cresap. “How do you know it wasn’t about this very thing?”

“Oh, goodness, Tom! Am I rushing in where angels fear to tread?”

“Not at all,” he assured her. “Danton didn’t mention the matter at all.”

“Besides, Polly,” said Cresap, “no girl eats her heart out nowadays. That sort of thing dates back to hoop-skirts and all that. Madge Yarnell can take care of herself, I’ll wager.”

The next day was Sunday, and for Fessenden the morning dragged rather wearily. But after luncheon he had the inspiration to suggest a sail in the Will-o’-the-Wisp. May Belle and Cleborne announced that they had already arranged to go for a walk together, but the others avowed their willingness to sail.

The wind was fresh, and Mrs. Dick Randall sat beside Fessenden at the wheel, and met the flying spray merrily. Dick himself flirted with Polly Cresap under the protection of the jibsail forward. Cresap drowsed accommodatingly at full length in the lee gangway.

“Harry Cleborne and May Belle think two are company,” said Mrs. Dick.

“Are they engaged?”

“Oh, I imagine there’s only an understanding.”

“Do you think that sort of arrangement is dignified?”

“What a funny way to put it! No, I don’t think so, now that you put it that way. Madge Yarnell, now—Charlie Danton and she had only an understanding—everybody took it for granted they’d be married some day—and look how it’s turned out.”

“But I understood their falling-out was due to outside influence—wasn’t it?”

“Partly, of course. But a regular engagement would have had more dignity about it, just as you say, and they would have had to be more careful.”

“No doubt.”

“Now, there’s Roland Cary—” went on Mrs. Dick.

“The handsome cousin Polly spoke of the other day?”

“Yes. There’s a dignified person for you. Hum-m! Dignified in some ways, but a perfect dee-vil in others.”

“He must be a very interesting sort. I’d like to meet him.”

“Oh, he—he is interesting. But I’m worried about Madge and Charlie Danton’s case.”

“I agree with Cresap—Miss Yarnell will follow her own course, whatever that may be.”

“I suppose so.”

The bracing air and the dancing yacht, if not the conversation, held Fessenden’s interest for an hour or two. As he headed toward home, the glory of the day put a happy idea into his head. He would return Betty’s picnic of yesterday by a day’s sail on the Wisp. Somehow he would manage to elude his Sandywood responsibilities again.

Darkness always fell long before dinner was served at Sandywood. Therefore, Fessenden, going for a stroll in the wilderness of a garden, ostensibly to indulge in an ante-prandial cigar, found in the dusk no difficulty in extending his walk to White Cottage.

A boyish sense of romance always took possession of him when he approached Betty’s vicinity. A knock at the cottage door, and a direct inquiry for her, would have been too commonplace. No workaday method of communication would suffice under a sky shot with stars and in an air a-tingle with spring.

Lights shone in a couple of rooms in the upper part of the house, while the lower story was in darkness. Apparently, the farmer’s family was already preparing to retire for the night.

Fessenden scouted about the place, smiling to himself at the absurdity of his own action.

There was nothing to indicate which room was Betty’s, and at a venture he tossed a handful of gravel against the panes of the corner room—then another.

Betty’s head and shoulders were the response, framed in the glow of the lamp gleaming through the white curtain behind her. The face, delicately oval, and the slender throat, seemed wrought of gold.

“‘So shines a good deed in a naughty world,’” said Fessenden aloud.

“Who’s there?” she called.

“It’s I.”

“Oh, you!”

“Yes. Can you came down a minute?”

“No.”

“Please come down, Betty. I want to see you about something.”

“No-o, I can’t. Is it anything important?”

“Immensely important. You aren’t vexed with me still, are you?”

“Of course not. And, Bob White, I didn’t tell you yesterday, but I did appreciate it very much.”

“Good!—but what?”

“The way you jumped out of the carriage and seized her horse, when she was so belligerent. It was very capable in you.”

“If it weren’t dark down here, you could see me blushing. Come down and see.”

“No. Bob White, you haven’t come around here like a Romeo to—to say good-by, have you?”

“Heaven forbid, Betty! I want to ask you to go on a picnic with me to-morrow, in my sailboat.”

“Oh, goody! Hum-m! I don’t know. For how long?”

“All day. We can sail down to Rincoteague Island and back.”

“Who’s to go?”

“Only you and I, of course.”

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be quite—well, quite—”

“Oh, I see. Then your aunt is invited, too, of course—but reluctantly.”

“We’ll come,” she said, with decision. “Shall we bring the luncheon?”

“No. The sloop has a lot of stuff on board now. Besides, there used to be a hotel on Rincoteague—such as it was. I’ll have the Wisp in Piney Cove at nine to-morrow. We must start early, you know.”

“We’ll be there. Thank you very much.”

“Betty, do come out a minute—long enough to shake hands. I haven’t seen you all day.”

“You funny man!” she said. “If I weren’t—a farmer’s girl, I should think you were flirting.”

He was unable to muster an instant reply. A shade, snapped sharply down, cut the fair hair and laughing face from his view.

There was nothing left for him to do but to make his way back to Sandywood, which he did very thoughtfully.

After dinner the men grouped themselves in easy chairs at a corner of the porch, to enjoy their cigarettes. Harry Cleborne drew his chair to Fessenden’s.

“Will you try one of my home-growns, Mr. Fessenden?” he proffered. “That tobacco was raised on my own plantation.”

Fessenden accepted a cigar, suddenly conscious that Cleborne’s unwonted attentions must have an ulterior motive.

“Thank you. You’re a Marylander, then?”

“Virginian,” returned the other. “My home’s in old Albemarle. I’ve seen a good deal of Maryland the last year or two, though.” His eyes strayed toward the white gowns of the women.

“Maryland has its attractions,” said Fessenden.

“Yes, that’s so—even for you?”

“Oh, yes, for me, too.”

Cleborne folded his arms, crossed one leg over the other, and blew a long cloud of smoke. “Look here, Mr. Fessenden,” he said, “that’s what I want to speak to you about—Maryland attractions.” He spoke with evident embarrassment. “May Belle—Miss Cresap—and I saw you yesterday, sitting on the wall at the end of the lane to White Cottage.”

“Hum! You did?”

“Yes. We were out for an early morning walk. Of course, then, we know you didn’t go to Baltimore—not on the morning train, at any rate.”

“Well?”

Impatience showed in Fessenden’s tone, and the other went on quickly: “We were out for a stroll again this evening, and—you may think it’s none of my business, but we saw her. She was at the window as we passed the house.”

“You seem to be fond of walking.”

“It was entirely an accident both times. But it won’t do, Mr. Fessenden.”

“May I ask what won’t do?”

“I don’t want to be impertinent, sir—you’re an older man than I—but, of course, it’s easy enough to guess that you’ve been going over to White Cottage because she’s there. Isn’t that so?”

“Certainly it’s so. But is there any harm in that?”

“There may not be any harm yet, but won’t there be?”

“This is ridiculous. Betty isn’t much more than a child—a very charming one, I admit.”

“Who?” demanded Cleborne, “Betty?”

“Betty Landis, man. Aren’t you talking about her?”

“Never heard of her,” returned the other shortly. “I’m talking about you know whom, Mr. Fessenden. I’m sorry I spoke. I wanted to give you a friendly hint that you should let another man look after his—his own himself. I don’t care to be laughed at in this way.”

“What the devil do you mean?”

Cleborne pushed back his chair savagely. “I’m through,” he snapped.

As good as his word, he stalked off to join May Belle.