THE FULL MOON

"I declare that was too bad of Jerry," said Miss Barry. "He's usually so"—her voice died away because she became aware of Linda, standing before her, a sort of glorified presence. "Hey?" she finished sharply.

The girl had one of Mrs. Porter's hands and with the other arm she now softly embraced her bewildered aunt, then drew away far enough to look into the questioning eyes of first one and then the other.

"You've both had so much trouble with me," she said.

"Well?" returned Miss Barry crisply. "Is it over?"

The girl nodded.

"Linda," said Mrs. Porter, with excited urgency, "what has happened, dear?"

The girl continued to look at them for a moment of silence, as if loath to let her secret pass her lips.

"Bertram!" exclaimed Mrs. Porter.

Linda nodded.

Miss Barry gave her niece a shake. "Speak out," she said, cross in the mounting excitement of the moment. "Has he been over here?"

"No. I went there. Blanche Aurora sent me with a snack. The hens got the snack; but—we had tea."

"Oh, you darling!" exclaimed Mrs. Porter under the eloquent eyes and dimples. "You shall kiss her first, Miss Barry. Hurry up. I can't wait."

"I don't see any reason for kissing her," said Miss Barry, and her earrings quivered with what she was repressing. "Feeding dainties to the hens. The idea!"

"Oh, there is a reason, there is a reason, Aunt Belinda." Her namesake spoke softly, and taking her in her arms kissed her. "How good you've been to me!" she said tenderly.

Then Mrs. Porter had her turn, and the eyes of both women grew wet in their long embrace.

"Well, give me some place to sit down," said Miss Barry desperately. She looked around and found a piazza chair, into which she dropped. "In all my born days I never saw such a girl. She's either got to hang a man to a sour apple tree, or else she's got to marry him!"

Over at the homestead Bertram King was winning golden laurels from his self-appointed caretaker.

At the supper table his novel vivacity and good appetite gave him the appearance of complete recovery.

"See here," remarked Whitcomb, "solitary confinement is evidently all you've been needing. We'll clear out soon again. Even you went away, didn't you, Luella?" The speaker turned to Miss Benslow, whom on his return he had discovered scrambling about to get supper in her robes of state. She was now waiting on table and blessing Jerry Holt for his dilatoriness in bringing the Lindsays home.

"I did step out for a spell," she returned in her best manner; "but I guess I warn't missed," she added coyly. "Miss Linda Barry gave Mr. King his tea."

"Really!" drawled Madge Lindsay. "How cleverly she chose the right moment for her first call."

"There are cats in the room," announced Whitcomb, helping himself to honey.

Madge lifted her eyebrows and made a defiant grimace.

"I met her as she was a-comin' back," said Luella. "I guess she felt dretful bad not findin' me home, 'cause she said she'd call again to-morrer."

This remark coming under the head of what Madge called "juices," she glanced at Whitcomb for sympathy, but he was preoccupied. He was looking curiously at King's debonair countenance.

"It's jest as well I warn't in, I think," continued Miss Benslow, casting Whitcomb her most kittenish glance. "Mr. King's tay-a-tay seems to 'a' done him a world o' good."

The object of her remark caught his friend's eye and laughed frankly. Whitcomb reflected the laugh with a smile, but his curious interest precluded much notice of Luella's sallies. He regarded King's good cheer and increased color questioningly. Evidently Linda had used tact and succeeded in making her peace, and the talk had relieved King as well as herself. He wondered whether his friend would tell him of the interview or leave it to his imagination.

"To-morrow, tennis!" cried Madge triumphantly; "and don't we deserve it, Freddy?"

"We do, we do," he replied, returning with gusto to the hot biscuit and honey and lobster salad.

When the meal was finished, Whitcomb pantomimed throwing a ball at Madge and raised questioning eyebrows.

"All right," she said, rising with alacrity.

"Oh, you crazy children," protested Mrs. Lindsay, "are you going to play ball? Can't you be satisfied to be still a minute? Freddy, you'll take all her nice new ten pounds off her."

But the young people only laughed. Though Madge Lindsay might drawl, she could throw a ball like a boy, and in default of King, Whitcomb, whose muscles were always crying out to be used, was glad to accept her.

Mrs. Lindsay went to the kitchen with Luella to bestow the provisions she had purchased, and King strolled out on the piazza and watched his friend and Madge.

The girl was still in her smart tailor gown. From previous observation of her tactics he believed that when the game was over she would change her dress before starting in on her evening; and he watched for that psychological moment when she should disappear.

The moon was full to-night, and with the marvelous obligingness of Maine weather the wind had gone down with the sun, making the out-of-doors even more attractive by night than by day. As the twilight deepened, the great planet changed from silver to gold.

When at last the ball players took off their leather gloves, Madge spoke wistfully.

"I wish we could go out on that moon path! Think of this heavenly night and no boat except that old smelly tub of Mr. Benslow's! When we come again, Freddy—"

She stopped, and he smiled down at her brilliant dark face, rosy with exercise and brown from the sun.

"Yes, next time sure," he said. "You see I didn't want to do anything about a boat so long as King couldn't go out."

"You're the best friend I ever knew," declared the girl. "Wait till I get on another frock. We'll drag him with us over to the rock. The Loreleis will be singing to-night, I am sure."

"One will, I hope," returned Whitcomb. She skipped before him. "You've never seen me dance," she said. "Before the moon goes I must dance for you on the grass. I have a costume here and my castanets."

"You'd be a wonderful Carmen," returned Whitcomb, regarding her lithe dipping and swinging, admiringly.

"Oh, mar-velous!" she rejoined. "So long," and taking the rickety piazza steps two at a time she disappeared into the house.

King immediately buttonholed his friend. "Come over to the tent, will you?" he said.

"Sure thing," returned Whitcomb, flinging an arm around the other's shoulders.

They crossed the grass and entering the tent sat down on camp-stools in the opening, where the increasing mystery and magic of the night was spread before them.

"I can see that you and Linda have fixed it up," said Whitcomb. "She has worried her head off for fear the old friendship would never be renewed. She thinks an awful lot of you, old man."

At the beginning of this speech King looked up eagerly. Could it be that his task was going to be so easy?

But as Whitcomb continued, his look veered away, back to the moon path.

"Yes, we fixed it up," he replied.

There was a space of silence during which he tried to decide how to go on.

"You've been frank with me, Freddy, at various times regarding Linda, and I've been rather surprised lately to notice that you're not very assiduous in your attentions over there."

Whitcomb's eyes also sought the moon path and a perplexed line came in his forehead.

"No," he admitted. "Something has happened to Linda. She's different. I can't say that she ever let me come very near to her, but now—since she left Chicago, she has grown away from me; far away. She seems to have a lot of new ideas that I can't follow. I don't seem to get on with her."

"And you do get on with Madge Lindsay?" suggested King.

"Isn't she a peach?" ejaculated Whitcomb, turning to his companion a suddenly bright face. "Why, it's like owning a whole vaudeville company to be with her. Little slender thing that looks as if you could snap her in two between your thumb and finger; but game! Gee, but she's game!"

"She is game," agreed King, the vapor-cloud which had obscured a trifle the full sun of his happiness melting away.

"Of course, a man doesn't connect sentiment with that sort of girl," went on Whitcomb, "but she's a comrade: just as good as a chap, you know."

"I understand perfectly," returned King, "but sometimes these delightful chaps in petticoats have very feminine hearts; and you don't want to break them in two between thumb and finger."

"Oh, rot," returned Whitcomb, trying not to look pleased. "There she is," he continued, starting up from his camp-stool as a figure in a pale wrap of some sort came out on the piazza. "That's another thing about Madge. She can change her clothes in a jiffy."

"Hold on a bit, will you?" said King quietly.

"Sure. Long as you like. Madge and I thought perhaps you'd come over to the rock with us and listen to the Loreleis."

"I haven't quite finished telling you, Freddy. You know I said something to you about the past being dead and all that."

"Yes."

"Well—I was mistaken. Linda and I—"

Whitcomb turned like a flash and dropped back on the camp-stool.

"What?"

"We fixed it up this afternoon for all time."

"What!"

"Yes. It's a trite thing for a fellow to call himself the happiest man on earth, but Linda has given me back everything I had lost. I am as much a new man as if I had been created to-day."

The quiet words thrilled through Whitcomb. He tried to answer and gulped. Tried again, and shook his friend's responsive hand.

"You deserve it," was all he could manage to utter.

"I want to go over there to-night, Freddy."

"You can't walk that far."

"Try me. I've never seen Miss Barry's cottage, and I—well, I can't stay away."

"We'll walk over with you, then," said Whitcomb gravely. He walked toward Madge and called her, and she came springing across the grass.

"Ho for the rock?" she cried gayly.

"No. King wants to go to Miss Barry's. He thinks he's up to it. We'll walk over with him."

The three moved away across the enchanted field. The night was hushed. Even the tide whispered. Not yet sounded the crescendo which would culminate at midnight in a crashing, magnificent choral.

Madge scented something novel in the mental atmosphere. Her companions were grateful for her easy chatter.

When they neared the shingled cottage she protested tentatively.

"Oh, do we have to go into the house on such a glorious night?"

"You and I are not going in," answered Whitcomb quietly.

They stood a moment near the piazza steps.

"Good-night, King." The two men shook hands. "I think that is Linda now over there in the hammock. Give my love to her, will you?"

"I will."

Above the dazzle of golden water and under the pulsing beat of the stars, King moved up the steps.

There was a stir in the shadow at the end of the piazza and in a moment one word sounded on the still air.

"Bertram!"

The voice and its tone wrenched some deeply rooted fiber in Whitcomb's being and all his blood seemed trying to rush at once to his heart.

Madge, too, heard the revealing joy of the single word. As they turned to walk back, her clinging silken draperies stirred, and she slipped her hand through her companion's arm, and clasped it.

"It's a vast sea," she said softly.