Next morning Henry Updyke was literally up with the larks, and there were plenty of them about the premises of Dreamy Hollow.

At six o'clock he betook himself into the open for a morning stroll. Winifred was also astir, for the call of Patchogue was in her heart, and she must be ready. But it was far too early to arouse the household, so now was her opportunity to once more behold the dreamland from which she would soon be on her way. To the beach and back was her first intention, as vivid memories clustered about its sandy slope, where she had gazed far out beyond the bay to the very ocean itself, and dreamed of "Castles in Spain." And now she would look for those castles again, and the cliffs of Fort Hancock, over Sandy Hook way, easily seen from the place where she sat on the day of her startling adventure. Fearful of the dew damp of early morning she took the inside path and was soon at the waters' edge. And now she sat down, oblivious to all save the waters, which moaned as they came in great waves, and sang as they splashed in diabolic fury and broke into gems of rainbow hue. And there was no one to disturb the thoughts within her mind, for which she was glad, only to turn her face toward the west, and there stood a huge man, calmly looking down upon her.

"Don't be frightened," said the big fellow, smiling down upon her. "You surely have not forgotten your father's friend, who used to hold you on his knee and tell you stories, and bring you books from the city."

"Mr. Updyke!" gasped Winifred, looking guiltily into his smiling face, then suddenly she exclaimed—"I've seen you but recently, have I not?"

"Yes—but you can't guess when and where," he laughingly replied, at which the girl looked far out to sea and pondered.

"Of course I can, only it must have been a dream. Indeed, I saw you in a dream. You, and another man, whom I had never seen, stood before me. You said something about it being time for me to get up and prepare breakfast for father. And something about opening up the stand—now isn't that true?"

"Practically, those were my words. You had slept entirely too long, so I tried a little trick on you and it worked for an instant. Then you went back to sleep. It is dangerous to sleep too long. Who do you think was with me?"

"Another man. I haven't seen him since. It wasn't the doctor?"

"No, it was Mr. Villard," replied Updyke, watching the effect of his words. "I never saw a man so anxious in my life."

"Oh, isn't he the dearest soul! I just love him—he has been so kind to father and me, and he is going to run us over home this morning in his car. We are leaving to-day for good, and we may never see New York after all," she concluded, shaking her head sadly.

"You'll have a different driver next time than the one you started out with," suggested Updyke, dryly, as Winifred looked down at the sand and revolved a certain question that she had in mind. It concerned Parkins' whereabouts, but she did not ever want to speak his name again.

"Where is he now?" she asked, briefly, but without malice in the tone of her voice.

"Probably in New York somewhere," replied Updyke. "I don't think he will try any more 'elopements' for the present."

Winifred looked up in surprise.

"Is that what he calls an elopement?" she asked, blushing deeply. "I thought elopements were by mutual understandings. Are they not?"

"That's what they use to mean before Bill Parkins set the new fashion," he laughed, as she looked up and caught the twinkle in his eyes.

"I hope you see something besides humor in his actions," she replied quite soberly, after a lengthy pause.

Updyke saw at once that Winifred Barbour's old-fashioned purity of heart and mind had been in no way affected by her sad experience.

"Now I've gone and said something that I didn't mean," said he quickly. "No girl, with a mother like you had, will ever need a champion for her code. She will maintain that standard through life. What time are you leaving for home?" queried the big man.

"About nine, I believe."

"Then we had better turn back," said Updyke reaching for Winifred's hand and helping her to her feet. "I think you will never have occasion to worry about Parkins in the future. I believe that he has gone out of your life forever," he concluded, looking testily into her face.

But Winifred needed no coaching to that effect. "All the king's horses" could never put the man Parkins back into her life. But she said nothing on that score to the big man trudging along beside her. Finally she asked—

"Do you know much about this matter, Mr. Updyke?"

"Just a trifle," he replied. "I heard a rumor now and then about the case, but it's been kept so quiet that your neighbors won't have an inkling of it when you get back. They only know of the accident, so if I were you I'd say nothing about anything else. You wouldn't want your picture in the paper and a great 'howdye do' kicked up with your name in it—now would you?" asked Updyke, stopping in order to impress her mind upon certain angles of the case.

"Of course not—I should simply wilt and die if my name should be printed in the newspapers."

"Naturally so, and no matter how innocent you really are, there are those who would enlarge the matter into scandal, if we fail to adopt a certain plan," said he, gently. "Now listen carefully, little girl. Everybody in Patchogue knows that Parkins' car was ditched and that you had a close call—also your father—and that Parkins was almost killed. They know that you were taken into the Villard home, and that you are all right and will soon be home. Julie Hayes has been faithful to you and your booth is well cared for. Now—remember this—no one must know about the other episode—the abduction. If that ever raises its head you will never live it down in your life, no matter where you might go—and you are the one to tell your father the consequences of confiding with any living soul."

"I will merely speak of the accident, and I will warn father to do the same," said Winifred, looking gratefully up into the big man's eyes.

"That's the idea—all you will talk about is the accident, and, if ever anything else is hinted at, just ask what that person means, and never acknowledge a word of truth that may be uttered as hearsay. You had an accident, and it laid you up, but you have fully recovered and the whole matter is in the past and practically forgotten."

Winifred now understood the program fully, and made up her mind to follow instructions literally. And she vowed that her father would do the same. Then, suddenly, she thought of young Mr. Carver, but hesitated to bring up his name. At last she determined that she must be instructed on that point.

"What about Mr. Carver?" she asked nervously.

"No worry in that direction—he is a sworn officer of the law and is fond of certain people who would be sorry to be involved in a story, even in a small way. He is one of the finest young men I know, and he is progressing rapidly in all ways. Some day he will be a rich man. He is brainy, and coming to the front all over Long Island. He may go far!" concluded Updyke, who knew the value of good friendship toward a man who aspired.

"I—I am ever so glad you have talked to me about all these matters, and now please tell me who you are so I'll know why you have interested yourself in our behalf," said Winifred, her voice reflecting her real thoughts.

She had no artifice by which to speak with double meaning.

"Oh, I am a friend of Mr. Villard's, and he and I would naturally pull together. He is a fine man, but the dear fellow is lonesome. Too bad he doesn't marry some sweet natured home body that would love him, and drive away the solitude of this wonderful place," replied Updyke, waving his hand at the well kept premises.

They were now at the east entrance of the stately home and he opened the door for her to enter.

"I shall hope to see you again, sir—some time. You have been exceedingly kind and I promise to act upon your suggestions."

Then she added, "I am glad you are a good friend of Mr. Villard's. He needs companionship."

A little later on, with herself and father already seated comfortably in Villard's smart touring car, she was surprised when Mr. Updyke got in and asked to be allowed to sit beside Mr. Barbour. This change brought Villard into the seat beside Winifred. But she thought she saw the reason for it by the way Updyke brought the sick man out of his doldrums.

"You are going to feel a lot better when you get back to your old haunts," said he, affably. "When a man spends a lifetime in one place, there is where his heart belongs. He should seldom leave it—your world is there," said Updyke, by way of getting acquainted.

And then he began to point out various interesting spots, with something historical about them which caused neighboring householders to think with pride upon their wonderful locations. In fact, the big fellow took Alexander Barbour's mind away from his troubles and made him feel how well he would be in a few days when he got back into the tang of the salt air at good old Patchogue. Winifred marveled at the manner by which this stranger could so install himself in one's good graces. These same scenes along the parkway interested herself as well, and she remarked upon the difference between a leisurely ride in comfort, as against the scarifying speeders who infested the southern drive. Such had been the only other experience of her lifetime. But, by way of comparison, the smooth, almost jarless driving of Jacques, with Santzi by his side, was to her the acme of delight.

And so the journey continued all the way out to Patchogue, and the little home, where the sleek and silent car came to a final stop. Into the spick and span cottage all four entered and it wasn't long before the father was put to bed, and Winifred, in gingham apron, engaged herself in preparing a dainty luncheon from her jams and preserves together with hot biscuit and coffee. A small jar of cream and big dab of butter were borrowed in neighborly fashion over the back fence, also a chunk of cold ham, representing good measure in the heart of the neighbor. Thus for two hours the little home gave a good account of itself and when saying good-bye Villard looked wistfully into the eyes of sweet Winifred and asked a serious question.

"Do you know how much I love you, dear?"

"With all your heart—I know," she answered.

"When shall I come again?" he pleaded, with eyes that smiled into her own.

"As often as you feel disposed. I shall have no time to attend the little business place we own. But I shall keep it open with help from others. I fear the worst about father."

And when it was time to go back home Villard made no further overture of his love than to hold her hand and to squeeze it tightly. He longed to kiss her but he knew her code—only a husband could claim that right.

Two days later, Alexander Barbour passed away, and Winifred put on mourning. During her grief, the whole town became interested in her affairs, and with Julie Hayes at the business helm, she took her time, and thought out her future. Seemingly everybody called at her home; even George Carver of Riverhead made a special trip to pay his respects. There had been an episode in her life in which he had figured heroically, and she had made a vast impression upon his youthful mind. With the best of intentions, and with due consideration of her bereavement, he did not come often, nor did Villard, owing to the small talk that might arise from too frequent calls. For the sake of companionship she gained consent of Julie Hayes' parents by which the young girl became her companion at home, as well as her clerk at the booth on the Parkway.

With regard to Villard's calls, it had been hinted by Winifred that the Sabbath was a day when visits would be most welcome and that going to church together would be better for her, and add to his prestige—now growing in the town. He had become fond of the place and made many acquaintances. Land deals were active through his ability to furnish money for building purposes. Every citizen was charmed by his modest simplicity and if ever a man owned a townful of ardent boosters it was Drury Villard.

On one particular Sunday George Carver left the Barbour cottage just as Villard drove up, and Winifred and Julie had gone out to the gate as he took his leave. Then, for the first time Winifred noted a shadow creeping over the face of Villard, though he smiled affably, and shook hands with the younger man.

"You are just in time for a good dinner," said Carver. "Sorry I have to go, but it is necessary. My loss is your gain," said the young man gaily, but there were times when he wondered if her sweet consideration could be turned into love.

When Carver had gone both Winifred and Julie each grasped the arm of the solemn Villard, and in less than a minute his face was all smiles.

"Julie, we will have to be careful about allowing our callers to cross each other's paths," teased Winifred. "Did you notice how quickly our Mr. Carver mounted his wheel when our Mr. Drury Villard drove up? Shall we invite them to a duel?" laughed Winifred, seizing one of his big hands. "Now sir, you shall be fed by both of us until you will never want to eat again—but, do we get a ride after dinner, Sir Knight?"

"You do—all three of us on one seat, so I can hug two charming girls at one time. Where shall we go?" inquired Villard, who had no choice of routes.

"I—I'm afraid to suggest," faltered Winifred, guiltily.

"Of course I'm no mind reader, dear girl——"

"I hardly know so well about that. It seems to me that you really do know my mind?" laughed Winifred.

"For example?"

"Don't you remember? Over at Dreamy Hollow—how you anticipated everything that would add to my comfort and ease of mind? If I was the least bit thirsty you rang a bell and in came the water without a hint from me. All I had to do was to think of something I'd like for dinner, and there it was, when it came time to be served. I am somewhat like the slaves of olden days who thought as did their master," teased the girl. "Now I'm going to prove all I've said. I'll write my wishes down as to where we shall go, and I'll fold it and hand it to you."

Over to her desk ran Winifred, where she rapidly set down her choice, then gave it into the keeping of Julie.

"Now sir—please state your own choice of a drive," said the girl, gaily.

"I've always wanted to visit Parkins' hut," said he, yawning after the fashion of one who desires to hide his curiosity concerning a certain particular thing.

Simultaneously the two girls broke out in laughter, as Julie passed over Winifred's scribbled line—"The Parkins Castle on the Outer Drive." She had once seen the hut and with girlish curiosity wanted to see it again.

"Now then—see how you control my very thoughts!" laughed Winifred running over to him and patting his cheek. "Now 'sposing you were a wicked king, just imagine what a living death I would lead!" she ended, her voice deeply sepulchral as her girlish voice could command.

And so the plan took immediate effect by way of starting out. As they quickly passed through the deserted business quarter, the question arose as to which turn to take for the outer drive, but an inquiry brought them the right information.

"Wouldn't it be terrible if we'd find him there," suggested Winifred snuggling more closely to Villard and clutching his arm.

"Nothing like that can happen. He is occupied elsewhere," replied Villard, his teeth set and his voice cold.

After that the ride continued in silence until the outer drive came within view. Then with delight the two girls grew interested in the great billows that came rolling in from the ocean, almost forgetting the objective hut that had held their thought. But it came to view most quickly thereafter. Unpainted and weather beaten, it stood alone without tree or shrub to lend it hospitable appearance. Just a shack—nothing else—a bedroom, plainly furnished, and in order, also a kitchenette, and a bath tub with shower. Several empty barrels outside told of the fresh water supply, hauled in, no doubt, from nearby wells, inside the bay district. Evidently the owner liked music, as a banjo-guitar stood in one corner of the room. Also there had been a dog about the premises, accounted for by a muzzle and chain, and a collar to which was attached a state license. In a crude desk there were various papers and letters, some with envelopes addressed by feminine hands. All these Villard made into a bundle, and wrapped them with an old newspaper.

"I'll turn them over to Updyke," said he to Winifred, as she looked on. "They might be valuable—some time," he mumbled as if to himself. Then suddenly he almost shouted—"Let us get away from this infamous den!" as he opened the door for the two girls to pass out. Then he slammed it behind him and walked to the car without looking back.

A month went by before anything of importance broke in upon the even tenor of Villard's daily life. The Parkins matter had waned into a memory and Updyke held his peace as to the whereabouts of the man. Then, suddenly, as a bolt from the sky, the engagement of Winifred Barbour of Patchogue and George Carver of Riverhead was announced in the local papers of that thriving little city. From the moment Villard learned of it he settled back into the life of a recluse. He had lost his battle in the dearest cause of his life. He became old and worn over night, such had been the inexorable reaction from his mighty love for the girl of his heart. Only Updyke and Sawyer could gain access to his seclusion. Gray patches of hair made quick attack upon the dark brown, and no longer caring for his general appearance, gray whiskers and a stubby mustache were allowed to grow at random. The change was most radical, but not without distinction. After all it was Villard who wore them.

From the day he read the item concerning the engagement Villard refused the newspapers and all reading matter. Even letters, addressed personally to him at Dreamy Hollow, were allowed to lay unopened. And there was one from Winifred, in which she had bared her soul in explanation, declaring her undying allegiance, as might a daughter and a comforter—but not as a wife. The envelope remained unbroken, as merely one of the heap that grew day by day. Nothing mattered—Villard's world stood still.

In one paragraph Winifred had written an explanation of her motives, and she prayed for an answer from the depths of her heart. It read—

Dear Friend:—These things I would have you stop and consider, not lightly, because of your love for me. I am not of your station in life—and I would not drag you down to mine. Just imagine the harm that would come of it—a blight on your life, that you could never live down. Oh, my dearest friend on earth, how would either of us regard the other once we were confronted by the mirror of public opinion? So, with eyes open wide to the consequences of wedlock with you, I am about to consecrate my life to a plain, simple man, without riches or deep learning—one of my own station in life, who will never have cause to rue the day he takes me to wed. It is all for the best, dear friend. Just allow your big, generous heart to feel that my intentions are for your good, and also my own. There have been precious moments in our lives which I shall never forget—nor shall I deny, even to the man I shall marry—that you were the first to inspire my heart with a knowledge of what a sacred emotion love should be.

And that was the letter in full, all save the signature—one word—Winifred.

Had Villard opened it upon its arrival, his greatness of heart would have asserted itself forthwith. But gaining first information from a newspaper clipping was quite another matter. It rankled in his bosom. Big, manly fellow that he was, ordinarily he would have stopped to think how innocently such things could happen. Winifred's letter had been mailed two days before the article appeared, but it had been delayed in transit. On time, it would have given Villard opportunity to support his own cause, but fate plays in all games, either of heart or of brain. To a girl of her mould wealth had no standing when measured by love.

Time flew by as the wedding day drew near. But there came no word from Villard. Henry Updyke looked in on Winifred's little home one day and found the girl crying. Few women are they who may heighten their beauty through tears, but Winifred's face was that of a grieving Madonna. She ran to him at once, as a child to its father and wound her arms about his neck. And there she remained as she sobbed out her story.

"But you love this young man, don't you?" soothed the big fellow whose face looked drawn and old, as his heart went out to the girl.

"I don't know," sobbed Winifred.

"Do you love Drury Villard?"

"Oh, fondly, sir, but he is far above me! I would ruin his life—and after all his kindness to my father and myself, I can't bear to think of it."

"Well, now, little woman, just sit down in that big rocking chair and let me talk to you like an uncle who had your interest at heart. Villard is a sick man, and he hadn't opened your letter when I called upon him two weeks ago. There were many more and all of them more or less important. Yours was among them, and to oblige him I read all his mail."

"My letter, too!" blushed the girl—"and it was sacred—I meant it so."

"Yes, and it is still sacred, but now he knows its contents—and he might never have known had I not done a little secretarial work for him that day. He had ordered his mail to be thrown in the fire, but I was consulted, arriving as I did at the right moment. In due course I read your letter, and I sincerely compliment you upon your good sense. I count you as one of my friends, for I know you have nothing against me, so we may be quite confidential, I hope."

"Indeed we may, sir," assented Winifred in a very weak little voice.

"Mr. Villard trusts me, Mr. Sawyer trusts me, and hundreds of the best-known people in New York trust me. Now I want you to understand that every word I say is truth. I make my living by telling the truth, but in many cases it does not come to light. Now then, listen carefully—Mr. Villard is one of God's noblemen!"

"Oh, I know he is, Mr. Updyke!" assented Winifred.

"He loved a girl named Winifred many years ago——"

"Yes, I know that—too. She warned me of the accident, but in my eagerness to see New York I said little about it. But I did tell Mr. Villard, after I came to know him."

"He hears from her, from time to time—or thinks he does—it's all the same," said Updyke. "She warned him of Parkins, but trustful man that he was, he wouldn't believe. Now he knows the truth—but to get back to my point, I want to say, in justice to all parties, that you should not marry Villard. Not that he isn't worthy—far from that, there is no one more so—but his heart is with the dead! As his wife you would become to him the shrine of his dead love's soul!—and he would worship you as such. Would you be satisfied with just that, little girl?" queried the big fellow.

Updyke watched the varying emotions of the girl as she struggled to understand. It was all so deep and mysterious, even though she had beliefs of her own like the one he had explained.

"Allow me to answer the question for you," prompted Updyke, gazing deep into her eyes. "There are as many beliefs on the subject of the hereafter as there are grief-stricken people. Every person who pretends to know about the life to come is to that extent insane. In fact there is no such thing as complete sanity. The ninety and nine are divided into that same number of personal and deviating beliefs, and the one-hundredth—has no belief whatever."

Winifred's eyes had begun to open wide, as if to testify in behalf of her own hereafter, but Updyke raised his hand for a new beginning.

"I know what you are going to tell me—your own belief—eh? But what is the use? It is but yours after all, and though it might satisfy you it might not meet my views. But I am glad you have a belief, little woman. We must all have something to lean upon or what would be the use of a temporary life, and nothing to hope for in the future? I want you to believe that which will comfort your soul and keep it good. And you must never allow any one to shake that belief—'for therein is the power and the glory forever—Amen'!"

Updyke's voice betokened a depth of feeling that Winifred had never before witnessed in his conversation. He had joked and teased, but now he talked in a way that convinced her of his superior mental equipment.

"Your words comfort me, and I shall always think of that dear good man at Dreamy Hollow with reverence for his constancy," she sighed. "Were it fair to either of us I would gladly share his love with the other Winifred, but something tells me that my youth must not be shadowed by brooding thoughts. I must have individuality of my own," faltered Winifred, her eyes haunted by strange lights of mingled fear and compassion.

"Then marry the young man. It is simply in justice to you and George Carver that I say it. I have never known a more upright man in my life. He has the heart of a lion—you know that yourself, for you saw him in action as he carried out my instructions to the letter. And——"

"Your instructions!—I don't understand, Mr. Updyke. Please explain," demanded the astonished girl.

"It was a slip of the tongue, but there is no harm done. You are soon to be one of our family, so perhaps I'd better tell you something about George," said he, laughingly. "He belongs to the greatest law and order association in America, perhaps the world. It spreads to wherever our flag flies and is truly the backbone of the nation. As members of the association each man is carefully chosen and sworn in, but not as an officer of the law, but rather as an upholder of our government. Most of them are given official standing by being sworn in as deputy sheriffs, clerks of courts, and so on. George is a deputy sheriff, and that is why he came to your rescue. As soon as you were kidnapped my office sent out an alarm that spread all over Long Island. It wasn't possible for Parkins to escape in my district," concluded the big fellow as he arose to go.

"Then you are a—a——"

"Sleuth?—No, never!—I just keep bad eggs from getting into the cake," laughed Updyke—and then very soberly, he reached out his huge hand to the little girl in front of him, and she grasped it eagerly. She tried to squeeze it, but it was too big and too gnarled—it couldn't be squeezed—ah, but how it might squeeze was Winifred's thought, as she followed him out to the gate.

"Would you mind if I asked one more question?" queried Winifred, her cheeks turning red from the wave of diffidence that crept into her heart.

"Bless you, no—go on," said Updyke, invitingly.

"I am haunted with fear—where is this man Parkins?"

"You will never hear of him again; rest your mind on that score. He is alive—somewhere. Nobody knows but me," he laughed, as he jumped in his car.

And then she stood at the gate and watched with awe the big man's machine as it faded in the distance, but when it turned west he raised his hand, and she answered by waving her own.