The train was ten minutes late, and while she paced the platform at Sawyer Falls, the nearest station, Marcia fidgeted.

She had never seen any of Jason's family. At first a desultory correspondence had taken place between him and his sister, Margaret; then gradually it had died a natural death—the result, no doubt, of his indolence and neglect. When the letters ceased coming, Marcia had let matters take their course.

Was it not kinder to allow the few who still loved him to remain ignorant of what he had become and to remember instead only as the dashing lad who in his teens had left the farm and gone to seek his fortune in the great world?

She had written Margaret a short note after his death and had received a reply expressing such genuine grief it had more than ever convinced her that her course had been the wise and generous one. What troubled her most in the letter had been its outpouring of sympathy for herself. She detested subterfuge and as she read sentence after sentence, which should have meant so much and in reality meant so little, the knowledge that she had not been entirely frank had brought with it an uncomfortable sense of guilt. It was not what she had said but what she had withheld that accused her.

Marcia Howe was no masquerader, and until this moment the hypocrisy she had practiced had demanded no sustained acting. Little by little, moreover, the pricking of her conscience had ceased and, fading into the past, the incident had been forgotten. Miles of distance, years of silence separated her from Jason's relatives and it had been easy to allow the deceit, if deceit it had been, to stand.

But now those barriers were to be broken down and she suddenly realized that to keep up the fraud so artlessly begun was going to be exceedingly difficult. She was not a clever dissembler.

Moreover, any insincerity between herself and Sylvia would strike at the very core of the sincere, earnest companionship she hoped would spring up between them. Even should she be a more skillful fraud than she dared anticipate and succeed in playing her role convincingly, would there not loom ever before her the danger of betrayal from outside sources?

Everyone in the outlying district had known Jason for what he was. There had been no possibility of screening the sordid melodrama from the public. Times without number one fisherman and then another had come bringing the recreant back home across the channel, and had aided in getting him into the house and to bed. His shame had been one of the blots on the upright, self-respecting community.

As a result, her private life had perforce become common property and all its wretchedness and degradation, stripped of concealment, had been spread stark beneath the glare of the sunlight.

It was because the villagers had helped her so loyally to shoulder a burden she never could have borne alone that Marcia felt toward them this abiding affection and gratitude. They might discuss her affairs if they chose; ingenuously build up romances where none existed; they might even gossip about her clothes, her friends, her expenditures. Their chatter did not trouble her. She had tried them out, and in the face of larger issues had found their virtues so admirable that their vices became, by contrast, mere trivialities.

Moreover, having watched her romance begin, flourish, and crumble; and having shared in the joy and sorrow of it, it was not only natural, but to some degree legitimate they should feel they had the right to interest themselves in her future.

Not all their watchfulness was prompted by curiosity. Some of it emanated from an impulse of guardianship—a desire to shield her from further misery and mishap. She was alone in the world, and in the eyes of the older inhabitants who had known her parents, she was still a girl—one of the daughters of the town. They did not mean to stand idly by and see her duped a second time.

The assurance that she had behind her this support; that she was respected, beloved, held blameless of the past, not only comforted but lent to her solitary existence a sense of background which acted as a sort of anchor.

Not that she was without standards or ideals.

Nevertheless, human nature is human nature and it did her no harm to realize she was not an isolated being whose actions were of no concern to anyone in the wide world.

Separated though she was by the confines of her island home, she was not allowed to let her remoteness from Wilton detach her from it, nor absolve her from her share in its obligations. She had her place and every day of the year a score of lookers-on, familiar with her general schedule, checked up on her fulfillment of it.

If, given limited leeway, she did not appear for her mail or for provisions; if she was not at church; if the lights that should have twinkled from her windows were darkened, someone unfailingly put out across the channel to make sure all was well with her. Nay, more, if any emergency befell her, she had only to run up a red lantern on the pole beside her door and aid would come. What wonder then that, in face of such friendliness, Marcia Howe failed to resent the community's grandmotherly solicitude?

She had never kept secrets from her neighbors—indeed she never had had secrets to keep. Her nature was too crystalline, her love of truth too intense.

If she had followed her usual custom and been open with Jason's sister, the dilemma in which she now found herself would never have arisen. Granted that her motive had been a worthy one had it not been audacious to make of herself a god and withhold from Margaret Hayden facts she had had every right to know, facts that belonged to her? Such burdens were given human beings to bear, not to escape from.

Why should she have taken it upon herself to shield, nay prevent Jason's flesh and blood from participating in the sorrow, shame, disappointment she herself had borne? The experience had had immeasurable influence in her own life. Why should it not have had as much in Margaret's?

Alas, matters of right and wrong, questions of one's responsibility toward others were gigantic, deeply involved problems. What her duty in this particular case had been she did not and would now never know, nor was it of any great moment that she should. Margaret was beyond the reach of this world's harassing enigmas. If with mistaken kindness she had been guided by a pygmy, short-sighted philosophy, it was too late, reflected Marcia, for her to remedy her error in judgment.

But Sylvia—Jason's niece?

With her coming, all the arguments Marcia had worn threadbare for and against the exposure of Jason's true character presented themselves afresh. Should she deceive the girl as she had her mother? Or should she tell her the truth?

She was still pondering the question when a shrill whistle cut short her reverie.

There was a puffing of steam; a grinding of brakes, the spasmodic panting of a weary engine and the train, with its single car, came to a stop beside the platform.

Three passengers descended.

The first was a young Portuguese woman, dark of face, and carrying a bulging bag from which protruded gay bits of embroidery.

Behind her came a slender, blue-eyed girl, burdened not only with her own suit-case but with a basket apparently belonging to a wee, wizened old lady who followed her.

"Now we must find Henry," the girl was saying in a clear but gentle voice. "Of course he'll be here. Look! Isn't that he—the man just driving up in a car? I guessed as much from your description. You need not have worried, you see. Yes, the brakeman has your bag and umbrella; and here is the kitten safe and sound, despite her crying. Goodbye, Mrs. Doane. I hope you'll have a lovely visit with your son."

The little old lady smiled up at her.

"Goodbye, my dear. You've taken care of me like as if you'd been my own daughter. I ain't much used to jauntin' about, an' it frets me. Are your folks here? If not, I'm sure Henry wouldn't mind—"

"Oh, somebody'll turn up to meet me, Mrs. Doane. I'll be all right. Goodbye. We did have a pleasant trip down, didn't we? Traveling isn't really so bad after all."

Then as Marcia watched, she saw the lithe young creature stoop suddenly and kiss the withered cheek.

The next instant she was swinging up the platform.

The slim figure in its well-tailored blue suit; the trimly shod feet; the small hat so provokingly tilted over the bright eyes, the wealth of golden curls that escaped from beneath it all shattered Marcia's calculations. She had thought of Sylvia Hayden as farm-bred—the product of an inland, country town—a creature starved for breadth of outlook and social opportunity. It was disconcerting to discover that she was none of these things.

In view of her sophistication, Marcia's proposed philanthropy took on an aspect of impertinence.

Well, if she herself was chagrined, there was consolation in seeing that the girl was equally discomfited.

As she approached Marcia, she accosted her uncertainly with the words:

"Pardon me. I am looking for a relative—a Mrs. Howe. You don't happen to know, do you—"

"I'm Marcia."

"But I thought—I expected—" gasped the girl.

"And I thought—I expected—" Marcia mimicked gaily.

For a moment they looked searchingly into one another's faces, then laughed.

"Fancy having an aunt like you!" exclaimed the incredulous Sylvia, still staring with unconcealed amazement.

"And fancy having a niece like you!"

"Well, all I can say is I'm glad I came," was the girl's retort. "I wasn't altogether sure I should be when I started East. I said to myself: 'Sylvia you are taking a big chance. You may just be wasting your money.'"

"You may still find it's been wasted."

"No, I shan't. I know already it has been well spent," announced the girl, a whimsical smile curving her lips.

"Wait until you see where you're going."

"I am going to Paradise—I'm certain of it. The glimpses I've had of the ocean from the train have convinced me of that. Do you live where you can see it, Aunt Marcia? Will it be nearby?"

"I shall not tell you one thing," Marcia replied. "At least only one, and that is that I flatly refuse to be Aunt Marcia to you!"

"Don't you like me?" pouted Sylvia, arching her brows.

"So much that your aunt-ing me is absurd. It would make me feel like Methuselah. I really haven't that amount of dignity."

"Ah, now my last weak, wavering doubt is vanquished. Not only am I glad I came but I wish I'd come before."

She saw a shadow flit across her aunt's face.

"You weren't asked until now," observed Marcia with cryptic brevity.

"That wouldn't have mattered. Had I known what you were like, I should have come without an invitation."

In spite of herself, Marcia smiled.

"Here's the car," she answered. "What about your trunk?"

"I didn't bring one."

"You didn't bring a trunk! But you are to make a long visit, child."

"I—I wasn't sure that I'd want to," Sylvia replied. "You see, I was a wee bit afraid of you. I thought you'd be a New England prune. I had no idea what you were like. If I'd brought my things, I'd have been obliged to stay."

"You're a cautious young person," was Marcia's dry observation. "'Twould serve you right if I sent you home at the end of a fortnight."

"Oh, please don't do that," begged Sylvia. "It's in The Alton City Courier that I have gone East to visit relatives for a few weeks. If I should come right back, everybody would decide I'd stolen the family silver or done something disgraceful. Besides—my trunk is all packed, locked, strapped and I've brought the key," added she with disarming frankness. "It can be sent for in case—"

"I see!" nodded Marcia, her lips curving into a smile in spite of herself, "I said you were cautious."

"Don't you ever watch your own step?"

As the myriad pros and cons she had weighed and eliminated before inviting her guest passed in quick review before Marcia's mind, she chuckled:

"Sometimes I do," she conceded grimly.