During the remainder of Mr. Jeffreys' stay in the town Berkley religiously kept away from Miss Ri's brown house on the point, and even carried his determination so far that once seeing Linda in the distance as he was coming out of his office he bolted back again and waited till she was well out of sight before he came out. "What did I do that for?" he said to himself, smiling a little. He did not see Mr. Jeffreys again until one afternoon a week later when he came into the office.

"I am going around making my farewell calls, Matthews," he said. "I take the boat for Baltimore this evening. My unfortunate old trunk and I will soon be out of your way. Again let me thank you for all your kindness."

"I'm sorry to see you go," replied Berkley, "but I hope you will carry away some pleasant memories of our old 'eastern shore.'"

"I shall carry away many. I can never forget the hospitality and kindness shown me here."

"And about those papers; if ever you want to renew the case I am ready to help you, remember." He held out his hand.

"That matter is disposed of," returned Jeffreys with a little frown. "We will dispense with the subject if you please. I am going to Miss Talbot from here, and shall tell her that she need fear no more interference from me. To-day our paths separate. Have you seen her, Matthews?" he asked after a slight pause.

"No, I have not." Berkley looked straight into the other's eyes.

Jeffreys gave the hand he held a closer grip. "You are a good friend, Matthews. Let me echo your offer; if there is anything I can ever do for you, command me. Good-by."

Berkley laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Thank you, Jeffreys. I will remember. Good luck to you and good-by."

So they parted and the boat slipping through the darkness over the quiet waters of the river that night, bore away him whose coming and going both seemed made under unpropitious stars.

It was a warm afternoon in February, one of those days when Spring seems close at hand by reason of a bluebird's early note, and the appearance of some venturesome crocus in the grass. February brings such days in this part of Maryland. The morning's mail had given Linda the happiness of receiving a magazine in which were some of her verses, accepted and paid for. This step, which carried her beyond the satisfaction of seeing herself in print, merely by compliment, was one which well agreed with the springlike day. She was sitting at the piano joyously singing:

She broke off suddenly, for in through the window open to the floor came Berkley.

"Don't stop," he begged. "I love to hear you."

They stood smiling at one another, before either spoke again, then Linda turned back to the piano to finish the song while Berkley leaned above her to watch her slim fingers moving over the keys. "It just suits the day, doesn't it?" she said when she had finished. "Did you see that there was a crocus by the side of the walk? And this morning I heard a bluebird."

"And that is what makes you look so happy?"

"Not altogether. Sit down over there by the little window, and if you will be very good I will show you something."

He obediently took the place assigned him, where the window seat ran along the small raised platform, and Linda produced the magazine. "There," she said, opening to a certain page. "And it is paid for," she added triumphantly.

Berkley read the lines through. "You have climbed into fame, haven't you?" he said. "Are you feeling very high and mighty? Would you like me to sit on the floor at your feet. It would be very easy on this platform."

She laughed. It was good to hear the old foolish manner of speech again. "No, I won't insist upon that, though I can't tell what I may require if this continues. Do you like my verses, Berk?"

"Yes, very much. I suppose they are really better than these. He took from his pocket-book a little clipping, 'The Marching Pines,' but I shall always care more for these. I shall never be quite so fond of any others, perhaps."

"Why?"

Berkley did not answer, but instead asked, "Did Jeffreys tell you of his determination not to follow up his claim?"

"Yes, he told me." Linda looked grave.

"It was generous of him, don't you think?"

A half smile played around Linda's lips. "Yes, I suppose it was. He meant to do me a great kindness and I appreciate it."

"But you could not agree to share it with him. He is a good fellow, Linda, and I am very sorry for him. He was greatly cut up."

"How do you know?"

"He told me."

"That—"

"That he had asked you to marry him? Yes, he told me that. Poor old chap. I grew quite fond of him. Why didn't you, Linda?"

"I don't know. I didn't; that's all; I didn't, though I tried very hard."

"Don't you think he was actually heroic to give up the claim?"

"I am sure he meant to be, but of course you understand that I could not accept such a sacrifice from him and that if the law were to give him a right to Talbot's Angles, I couldn't think of doing anything but giving it up to him."

"But he refuses to allow me to go on. I have the papers and I am to burn them if I choose."

Linda smiled, a little mysterious, exultant smile. "That doesn't alter my point of view."

"And so you refuse to allow him to be a hero."

"He isn't the only hero in the world. He himself told me of another." There was a wise, kind expression in her eyes.

Berkley slipped down from the window seat to a cushion at her feet. She bent over him as a mother over her child. "Linda," he said whisperingly. "Linda." He took her soft hand in his strong lithe fingers, and she let it lie there. He pressed the cool little hand against his hot brow, then he looked up. "Linda," he repeated, "here I am at your feet. I love you so! Oh, how I love you! I know I don't deserve it, but do you think you could ever learn to care a little for me? I am not rich, but some day maybe I could buy back Talbot's Angles. There is nothing I would not do to make you happy."

"You said that once before, Berk."

"Did I?"

"Yes,—that night in the rain."

"I meant it."

"As much as you do now?"

"Every bit."

"And yet you avoided me, passed me by, allowed another to step in."

"It was for you, for you. I wanted you to be happy," he murmured.

"I see that now, but I missed my friend."

"Your friend? Am I never to be anything more, Linda? I love you with my whole heart. You are the one woman in the world to me. Don't you think that some day you might learn to love me a little?"

Linda's face was aglow with a tender light; her eyes were like stars. "No, Berk," she said slowly, lingeringly, "I could never learn to love you a little."

He dropped her hand and looked down, all the hope gone from his face.

"Because," Linda went on, bending a little nearer that he could hear her whisper, "I already love you so much."

He gave a little joyous cry and sprang to his feet, all his divine right suddenly recognized. He held out his arms. "Come," he said.

Linda arose with shining face, stepped down from the platform and went to him.

The dim portraits on the walls smiled down at them. It was the old story to which each passing generation had listened. The ancient house could tell many a like tale.

"Berk," said Linda when they had gone back to the seat by the window, "they told me you had a sweetheart in the city. Bertie Bryan vowed you acknowledged it to her."

He took her hands and kissed them. "So I may have done, my queen, but it was when you were there."

Linda sighed, a happy satisfied sigh. "Berk, dear, were you very unhappy, then? You didn't have to be, you see."

"I thought it was necessary, and perhaps I needed the discipline."

"Just as I have needed the discipline of teaching. I am realizing by degrees what a wonderful life work it might become."

"But you shall not teach long, though, Linda darling, I haven't told you that we shall have to begin life rather simply, for you know I must always think of my mother."

"Berk, dear, I couldn't be happy if I thought you ever would do less than you do now for her."

"You are so wonderful, so wonderful," he murmured. "I hope to do better and better in my profession, for I am much encouraged, and some day, remember I shall buy back Talbot's Angles for you."

"You will never do that, Berk," returned Linda, trying to look very grave.

"Why, sweet?"

"Because when Grace marries it will be mine without any question. We have had a letter from Judge Goldsborough."

"And he said—"

"That he had discovered papers which prove that Cyrus Talbot had only a lease on the place; it was for ninety-nine years, and it expired more than ten years ago."

"Of all things!" ejaculated Berkley. "That was the last explanation that would have occurred to me. Did Jeffreys know before he left?"

"Yes, we told him that afternoon he called to say good-by. Aunt Ri thought it was best to tell him, and to show him the judge's letter."

"Poor old chap! And he had to go without even the recompense of having made a sacrifice for you."

Linda's face clouded. "Yes, he said that everything had failed, even his attempted good deeds. I hope he will find happiness some day."

"And you are very glad that you can feel an undisputed ownership of the old home?"

"Yes, of course I am glad. Aren't you?"

"What is your happiness is mine, beloved Verlinda."

"The only drop of bitterness comes from the thought of Wyatt Jeffreys, but even there Aunt Ri insists his unhappiness will not last and that comforts me."

"Who is talking about Aunt Ri?" asked that lady coming in and throwing aside her hat. "Parthy has a brood of thirteen young chickens just out, and I have been down to see them. What were you two saying about me? Hallo, Berk, what has brought you here, I'd like to know? I thought you were so busy you could scarcely breathe."

"Oh, I'm taking an afternoon off," he responded. "A man can't be a mere machine such weather as this."

"I've been telling him about the judge's letter," put in Linda.

"And I reckon that was a mighty big surprise; it certainly was to us. It took a better lawyer than you, Berk Matthews, to unravel that snarl. Even the judge himself didn't remember the facts."

"Which were?"

"That to Cyrus Talbot belonged Addition and a part of Timber Neck, while to Madison belonged the Angles and the other part of Timber Neck; that was in the first place when they had their inheritance from their father, you see. They sold Timber Neck, and then Madison retained the Angles, while Cyrus kept Addition. Well, it seems the Angles, being the home plantation, had always gone to the eldest son. Madison's first child was a daughter, and after her birth Madison's wife died. Cyrus' first child was a son, and he wanted the Angles for him but Madison wouldn't give it up, but at last he consented to lease the place to his brother. Later on Cyrus' son died, and he left for the West, selling out Addition to his brother Madison who had married a second time. Madison went to Addition to live while Cyrus still clung to his lease of the Angles. However, when the house at Addition was burned he allowed his brother to go back to the homestead place to live. The rest you know; how Cyrus rented the lands to this and that tenant, and how the place went to the dogs at one time, and how it was finally discovered by Charles Jeffreys to belong to his mother's family. He wrote the letter you remember, the answer to which you have shown us. There is no use going over all that, for you will see just how the matter stands, and Verlinda will come to her own."

Linda looked at Berk who smiled back at her understandingly. "Aunt Ri," said the girl, going over and laying her cheek against the gray head, "Verlinda has come to her own in more than one sense." She held out her hand to Berkley who took it and drew it against his heart.

"What?" almost screamed Miss Ri. "You haven't a sweetheart in the city, Berk Matthews? What did I tell you, Verlinda? I knew that Bertie Bryan was making that all up."

"Not exactly, Miss Ri," said Berkley, "for I did give her reason to think so."

"And why did you do it? Just to make Verlinda unhappy?"

"Oh, Aunt Ri," Linda put her hand over the dear lady's lips.

"I did have a sweetheart there, when you were in the city," replied Berk, "and here she is, the only sweetheart for me."

Miss Ri pulled out her handkerchief and began to mop her eyes.

"I'm as glad as I can be," she wept, "but I am tremendously sorry for myself. You will leave me, Verlinda, and you will take Phebe, too. What am I to do?"

"Oh, it will not be for a long, long time from now," said Linda consolingly.

"Yes, it will." Miss Ri was decided. "Of course it must be. Why in the world should you wait? You will stop teaching after this year, anyway, for then you will have the farm to depend upon, while as for Berk, he is out of the woods, I know that; his mother told me so. By the way, Berk, how glad your mother will be. She fell in love with Linda at first sight. Oh, she told me a thing or two, and that's why I knew Bertie Bryan was—"

"But she wasn't, you remember," interposed Linda. "She thought so."

"It amounts to the same thing. Well, I shall have to adopt somebody. Never shall I be happy alone again, now that I know what it is to have a young thing about. I believe I will send for Jeffreys, he is mighty forlorn, and he needs coddling."

"He wouldn't come," said Berkley triumphantly.

"You mean you don't want him to; you look much better when he isn't here to give the contrast," retorted Miss Ri. "I don't want him myself, to tell the truth. See here, children, why can't you both come here and live with me till I can find an orphan who wants an Aunt Ri? I'm speaking for myself, for how I am to endure anyone's cooking after Phebe's is more than I can tell, and think of me rattling around in this big house like a dried pea in a pod. I should think you would be sorry enough for me to be ready to do anything."

Miss Ri was so very unlike a dried pea that the two laughed. "We'll talk about it some day," said Berkley, "but just now—"

"All you want is to be happy. Well," Miss Ri sighed, but immediately brightened. "Go along," she cried, "I never get mad with fools, you remember, and, as I have frequently told Verlinda, I am still thanking the Lord that I have escaped. Go along with you. My brain has about as much as it can stand."

The two stepped out upon the porch, but Miss Ri bustled after them. "Here, take this shawl, Verlinda; it is growing damp. Don't stay out too late. You'll stay to supper, Berk, of course."

"Thank you, Miss Ri. I'll be glad to come, but I must go to the office for a few moments. I'll be back, though."

The sun was dropping in the west. Day was almost done for the workers in the packing house near by, from which presently arose a burst of song. Phebe, at her kitchen door, joined in, crooning softly:

As she sang her gaze fell on the two walking slowly toward the river's brim, the man leaning over the girl, her eyes lifted to his. Suddenly Mammy clapped her hand over her mouth, then she seized her knees, bending double as she chuckled gleefully. "Ain't it de troof, now," she murmured. "She nuvver look dat away at Mr. Jeffs, I say she nuvver. Bless my honey baby." Then she lifted up her voice fairly drowning the rival singers further away as she chanted:

"Phebe," said Miss Ri, suddenly interrupting the singing, "we have got to have the best supper you ever cooked."

"Ain't it de troof, now, Miss Ri," Phebe responded with alacrity. "Dat's thes what I say, dat's thes what I say."

The shadows fell softly, the singers ceased their weird chant. Phebe, too busy conferring with Miss Ri to think of singing, bustled about the kitchen. Berkley and Linda walked slowly to the gate.

"Berk," said the girl, "I wouldn't live anywhere but on this blessed old Eastern Sho' for the world, would you?"

"If you were in the anywhere else, yes," he answered.

She stood at the gate watching his sturdy figure and springing step as he went off down the street. So would she stand to watch him in the years to come. It was all like a wonderful dream. The old home and the love of Berkley, what more could heaven bestow upon her!

The sun had disappeared, but a golden gleam rose and fell upon the water's surface with each pulsation of the river's heart. The venturesome crocus had shut its yellow eye, the harbinger bird had tucked its head under its wing. The world, life, love, all made a poem for Linda.

Presently Mammy came waddling down the path in breathless haste. "Miss Lindy, Miss Lindy," she panted, "Miss Ri say yuh jes' got time to come in an' put on that purty floppity white frock. She puttin' flowers on de table, an' we sho' gwine hab a fesibal dis night."

Linda turned her laughing face toward the old house, lightly ran up the path, and disappeared within the fan-topped doorway. Presently Miss Ri heard her upstairs singing: