"Don't talk to me about the curiosity of women," said Linda coming upon Miss Ri after her return walk. "The new importation at Miss Parthy's is certainly the most inquisitive person it has ever been my lot to meet. I was prepared to like him from what Bertie told me, but I never met a man who could ask such personal questions upon such short acquaintance."

"Why, Linda, I never thought he could be called exactly rude. Perhaps he doesn't pay one those little courteous attentions that we are used to down here, though he is polite enough as I remember. Parthy and I have wondered whether he could be an adventurer, or whether he were a visionary sort of person or what, but we have come to the conclusion that he is neither."

"I shouldn't be at all surprised if he were an adventurer and that he has come down here to hunt up some unsuspecting damsel with property of her own whom he could beguile into marrying him."

"Why, my child, did he ask you to marry him?"

"Oh, dear no, I hope not, since my first real conversation with him has just taken place, but he wanted to know all about Talbot's Angles, how much land there was and all that, and he wound up by inquiring if it belonged to me."

"That does look somewhat suspicious, though it does not show much tact, if his object is really what you surmise. A real adventurer would make his inquiries of someone else. I wouldn't judge him too severely. He says he is looking up an old claim, you know, and it may lie near your place. I would wait and see what happens."

"Tell me, Miss Ri, did he bring any sort of credentials with him?"

"Yes, I think so, at least he gave Berk a business card and said he was well known by the insurance company by whom he had been employed in Hartford, and that he had friends there who could vouch for him, and he said he had a number of letters in his trunk."

"Oh, says, says; it's easy enough to say. I don't believe he ever had a trunk, and I believe his story is made out of whole cloth."

"Why, Verlinda, dear, I never knew you so bitter. Do give the lad a chance to prove himself."

"I thought you didn't want me to know him. You know you said you weren't going to have him come when I was at home."

"Oh, well, I didn't mean that exactly; I only wanted to provide against your flying off into a sentimental attitude, but now you have gone to the other extreme; I don't want that either. Parthy says there never was a more considerate man, and that he is not any trouble at all. Of course, he hasn't the little thoughtful ways that Berk has; he doesn't always stand with his hat off when he is talking to me in the street, and he doesn't rise to his feet every time I leave my chair, and stand till I am seated. He has allowed my handkerchief to lie till I chose to pick it up myself, and doesn't always spring to open the door for me; in those things he differs from Berk, but he is certainly quiet and dignified. There comes Berk now, Verlinda; I knew he'd be along about supper time."

Berkley's broad shoulders were seen over the rows of chrysanthemums and scarlet salvia as he took a leisurely passage up the gravelled walk. He waved a hand in greeting. "I knew I wasn't too late because I saw you both from the street."

"And of course you hurried before that?" questioned Miss Ri.

"Yes, I always make it a point to hurry if there is a chance of being late to supper, but I never hurry when there is no need to. I don't wish to squander my vital energies, you see. What's for supper, Miss Ri?"

"You haven't been invited to take it with us, yet."

"I don't have to be. Once, many a year ago, you said, 'Berk, drop in whenever you feel like it,' and I have piously enshrined that saying upon the tablets of my memory. Once invited, always invited, you see, so I repeat my anxious query: what's for supper?"

"I am sure I don't know. Linda did the ordering this morning for I wasn't here."

"Tell me, Linda." Berkley had dropped formalities since the evening of song.

Linda shook her head. "As if I could be expected to remember things that occurred this morning before breakfast; so many things have happened since then."

"Things have happened in this blessed sleepy old place? That is news. I didn't know anything could happen in Sandbridge."

"Oh, they might not be important to you, but they are to me."

"Then, of course, they are important to me."

"A very nice speech, sir. Well, in the first place, Miss Ri has returned, as you see. Then Grace and Lauretta were here and have just departed for the city."

"For good?"

"Let us hope it is for good only," put in Miss Ri.

"Sh! Sh!" warned Linda. "That wasn't pretty, Miss Ri. Then I have been talking over the fence to your friend, Mr. Jeffreys, and he has aroused my antagonism to a degree."

"He has?" Berkley looked surprised. "I don't see why or how he could do that."

"Wait till she tells you, Berk," Miss Ri spoke up. "I am going in to tell Phebe to set another place at table. If I am to have guests thrust upon me whether I invite them or not, I must be decent enough to see that they have plates to eat from." She left the two to saunter on to the house while she entered the path which led to the kitchen.

Linda recounted her tale to which Berk listened attentively. "What do you think of a man who would put such questions to a perfect stranger?" queried Linda.

Berkley knit his brows. "Looks like one of two things; either unqualified curiosity or a deeper purpose, that of finding out all about the farm on account of personal interest in it."

"But what nonsense. You don't mean he thinks that's the place to which he lays claim? Why, we've held the grant for hundreds of years."

"We don't know what he thinks; I am not saying what are the facts; I am only trying to account for his interest."

"Miss Ri thought he might be interested because his claim may perhaps touch our property somewhere, and that there may be some question of the dividing line."

"That could very well be. At all events, I don't believe it was idle curiosity. I'll sound him a little if I can, but he is a reticent sort of fellow, and as dumb as an oyster about that matter, though there is really no use in his talking till he gets his papers, which, poor fellow, it's mighty unlikely he'll ever find."

"I'd hate a prying neighbor," remarked Linda.

"You're not liable to have one from present indications. If I had time I'd really like to look into some of the old titles, and see just how the property in the vicinity of Talbot's Angles has come down to the present owners. I know about a good many, as it is. Your brother sold off Talbot's Addition, didn't he?"

"Yes. You know my father had mortgaged it up to the hilt, and then Mart sold it in order to get rid of the interest and to have something to put into the home place. He thought he would rather hold one unencumbered place and have some money to improve it than to struggle along with two places."

"Good judgment, too. If I am not mistaken there was still more property belonging to the Talbot family originally. Wasn't Timber Neck theirs at one time?"

"I believe so, though it was so long ago that I don't remember hearing much about it."

"I see. Well, here we are, and I think there must be crab cakes from the odor."

"So there are; I remember now. I knew Miss Ri was fond of them and no one can make them as well as Phebe."

The supper set forth on the big round table displayed the crab cakes, brown and toothsome, the inevitable beaten biscuits on one side, and what Phebe called "a pone of bread" on the other. There were, too, some thin slices of cold ham, fried potatoes and a salad, while the side table held some delectable cakes, and a creamy dessert in the preparation of which Phebe was famous. No one had ever been able to get her exact recipe, for "A little pinch" of this, "a sprinkling" of that, and "what I thinks is right" of the other was too indefinite for most housekeepers. Many had, indeed, ventured after hearing the ingredients but all had failed.

"This is a supper fit for a king," said Berkley, sitting down after a satisfied survey of the table.

"You might have just such every day," returned Miss Ri.

"Please to tell me how. Do you mean I could induce Phebe to accept the place of head cook at the hotel?"

"Heaven forbid. No, bat, of course not."

"Why bat?"

"You are so blind, just like most conceited young men who might have homes of their own if they chose."

"Please, Miss Ri, don't be severe. You haven't the right idea at all. Don't you know it is my lack of conceit which prevents my harboring the belief that I could induce anyone to help me to make a home?"

"I don't know anything of the kind. I know it is your selfish love of ease and your desire to shirk responsibility."

"Listen to her, Linda. She will drive me to asking the first girl I meet if she will marry me. You might do it, by the way, and then we might take our revenge by luring Phebe away from her. Of course, Phebe would follow you. I wonder I never thought of that before."

"You are a flippant, senseless trifler," cried Miss Ri with more heat than would appear necessary. "I won't have you talking so of serious subjects."

"So it is a serious subject to your mind?" Berkley laughed gleefully.

But Miss Ri maintained a dignified silence during which Berkley made little asides to Linda till finally Miss Ri said placidly, "I told Linda not long ago that I never got mad with fools, and," she added with a gleam of fun in her eyes, "I'm not going to begin to do it now."

"You have the best of me as usual, Miss Ri," laughed Berkley, "although I might get back at you, if one good turn deserves another. By the way, Linda, did you ever hear the way old Aaron Hopkins interprets that?"

"No, I believe not."

"Someone sent him a barrel of apples last year, and he told me the other day that he expected the same person would send another this year. 'He sent 'em last year,' said the old fellow, 'and you know 'one good turn deserves another.' He is a rare old bird, is Aaron."

"He certainly is," returned Linda. "I think it is too funny that he named his boat the Mary haha. He told me he thought that Minnehaha was a nice name for young folks to use, 'but for an old fellow like me it ain't dignified,' he said."

"Tell Berk what he said to your brother when he came back from college," urged Miss Ri.

"Oh, yes, that was funny, too. You know Mart had been away for three years, and he met old Aaron down by the creek one day. I doubt if Aaron has ever been further than Sandbridge in his life. He greeted Mart like one long lost. 'Well, well,' he said, 'so you've got back. Been away a right smart of a time, haven't you?' 'Three years,' Mart told him. 'Where ye been?' 'To New Jersey.' 'That's right fur, ain't it?' 'Some distance.' 'Beyand Pennsylvany, I reckon. Well, well, how on airth could you stand it?' 'Why, it's a pretty good place, why shouldn't I stand it, Aaron?' said Mart. 'But it's so durned fur from the creek,' replied Aaron."

"Pretty good," cried Berkley. "A true Eastern shoreman is Aaron, wants nothing better than his boat and the creek. Good for him."

They lingered at table talking of this and that till presently there came a ring at the door. Phebe lumbered out to open. She was unsurpassed as a cook, but only her extreme politeness excused the awkwardness of her manner as waitress. "It's dat Mr. Jeffs," she said in a stage whisper when she returned. "He ask fo' de ladies."

"Then you will have to come, Linda," said Miss Ri, "and you, too, Berk."

"Of course, I'll come," replied the young man.

"You don't imagine I am going to stay here by myself while you two make eyes at an interloper." And he followed the two to the drawing-room into which Phebe had ushered the visitor.

The young man sitting there arose and came forward, and after shaking hands with Miss Ri he said, "I believe you have not formally presented me to your niece, Miss Hill, though I was so unceremonious as to talk to her over the fence this evening."

"You mean Linda. She is not my niece; I wish she were. How would it do for me to adopt you as one, Verlinda? I'd love to have you call me Aunt Ri."

"Then I'll do it," returned the girl with enthusiasm.

"Then, Mr. Jeffreys, allow me to present you to my adopted niece, Miss Verlinda Talbot, and beware how you talk to her over the fence. I am a very fierce duenna."

The young man smiled a little deprecatingly, not quite understanding whether this was meant seriously or not, and wondering if he were being censured for his lack of ceremony.

"I presented Mr. Jeffreys quite properly myself," spoke up Berkley. "To be sure, it was in the dark and he wasn't within gun-shot. I haven't recovered from my scare yet, have you, Jeffreys? Next time you go to town, Miss Ri, I am going with you, for I don't mean to be left behind to the tender mercies of anyone as bloodthirsty as Linda."

They all laughed, and the visitor looked at the two young people interestedly. Evidently they were on excellent terms. He wondered if by any chance an engagement existed between them, but when later Bertie Bryan came in, and he saw that Berk treated her with the same air of good comradeship, he concluded that it was simply the informality of old acquaintance, though he wondered a little at it. In his part of the country not even the excuse of lifelong association could set a young man so at his ease with one of the opposite sex, and he was quite sure that he could not play openly at making love to two girls at once. However, they spent a merry time, Linda, under the genial influence of her friends, was livelier than usual, and however much she may have resented Mr. Jeffreys' inquisitiveness earlier in the day, on further acquaintance she lost sight of anything but his charm of manner and his art of making himself agreeable.

After the young men had seen Bertie to her home, they walked down the shadowy street together. "Haven't heard anything of those papers yet, I suppose," Berkley said to his companion.

"Nothing at all."

"Too bad. Are you going to give it up?"

"Not quite yet. I thought I'd allow myself six months. I have a bit of an income which comes in regularly, and one doesn't have to spend much in a place like this. Once my papers are found, I think my chances are good." Then abruptly, "You've known Miss Talbot a long time, I suppose, Matthews."

"Nearly all my life. At least we were youngsters together; but I was at college for some years, and I didn't see her between whiles. She was grown up when I came back."

"Then you probably know all about her home, Talbot's Angles, do they call it?"

"Yes, certainly. Everyone about here knows it, for it is one of the few places that has remained in the family since its first occupation." Then suddenly, "Good heavens, man, you don't mean that's the place you are thinking to claim? I can tell you it's not worth your while. The Talbots have the original land grant and always have had it, and—why, it's an impossibility."

His companion was silent for a moment. "You know, I am not talking yet. If I find the papers are lost irrevocably, I shall go away with only a very pleasant memory of the kindness and hospitality of Sandbridge."

Berkley in turn was silenced, but after parting from his companion at Miss Parthy's door, he went down the street saying to himself, "I'll search that title the very first chance I get. I am as sure as anyone could be that it is all right. Let me see, Miss Ri would know about the forbears; I'll ask her." He stopped under a street lamp and looked at his watch. "It isn't so very late, and she is a regular owl. I'll try it."

Instead of continuing his way to the hotel, he turned the corner which led to Miss Ri's home. Stopping at the gate, he peered in. Yes, there was a light in the sitting-room, and from some unseen window above was reflected a beam upon the surface of the gently-flowing river. "She is up and Linda has gone to her room," he told himself. "Just as I thought."

He stepped quickly inside the ground and went toward the house. One window of the sitting-room was partly open, for the night was mild. He could see Miss Ri sitting by her lamp, a book in her hand. "Miss Ri," he called softly.

She came to the window. "Of all prowling tomcats," she began. "What are you back here for?"

"I forgot something. May I come in?"

"Linda has gone to bed."

"I didn't come to see Linda."

"Oh, you didn't. Well, I'll let you in, but you ought to know better than to come sneaking around a body's garden at this time of night."

"You see, I've gotten into the habit of it," Berkley told her. "I've done it for two nights running and I can't sleep till I've made the rounds."

"Silly!" exclaimed Miss Ri. But she came around to open the door for him. "Now, what is it you want?" she asked. "I've no midnight suppers secreted anywhere."

"Is thy servant a dog, that he comes merely to be fed?"

"I've had my suspicions at times," returned Miss Ri. "Come in, but don't talk loud, so as to waken Linda; the child needs all the sleep she can get. Now, go on; tell me what you want."

"I want you to tell me exactly who Linda's forbears were; that is, on the Talbot side. Her father was James, I know."

"Yes, and his father was Martin. He had a brother, but he died early; there were only the two sons, but there was a daughter, I believe."

"And their father was?"

"Let me see—Monroe? No, Madison; that's it, Madison Talbot, and his father was James again. I can't give you the collaterals so far back."

"Humph! Well, I reckon that will do."

"What in the world are you up to? Are you making a family tree for Linda?"

"No; but I have some curiosity upon the subject of old titles, and as it may come in my way, I thought I would look up Talbot's Angles."

"There's no use in doing that. Linda has the original land grant in her possession. Poor child, she clings to that, and I am glad she can. I wish to goodness you'd marry Grace, Berk Matthews, so Verlinda could get her rights."

"I'd do a good deal for a pretty girl, but I couldn't bring myself up to the scratch of marrying Grace Talbot. Now, if it were Linda herself, that might be a different matter."

"You'd get a treasure," avowed Miss Ri, shaking her head wisely. "She doesn't have to air her family silver in order to make people forget her mistakes in English."

"True, O wisest of women."

"There's another way out of it, Berk; the place reverts to Verlinda in the event of Grace's death."

"Do you mean I shall poison her or use a dagger, Lady Macbeth?"

"You great goose, of course I don't mean either such horrible thing. I was only letting my thoughts run on the possibilities of the case. I'm not quite so degenerate as to wish for anyone's death, but I haven't found out yet why you were looking into the family procession of names."

"Oh, just a mere matter of legal curiosity, as I said. I come across them once in a while, and I wanted to get them straight in my mind. James, son of Martin, son of Madison, son of James; that's it, isn't it?" He checked them off on his fingers.

"That's it."

"Well, good-night, Miss Ri. I won't keep you any longer from that fascinating book at which you've been casting stealthy glances ever since I came in. Don't get up; I can let myself out."

Miss Ri did not immediately return to the book. "Now, what is he driving at?" she said to herself. "It's all poppycock about his interest in the names because he wants to get them straight in his mind. He's not so interested in Verlinda as all that, worse luck. I wish he were." She gave a little sigh and, adjusting her glasses, returned to the page before her.