"'Where every prospect pleases,'" said Diana, "'and only man is vile.'"

They had crossed the field and come up to the height of the road which commanded an extensive view of the bay and other islands. They stood still for a minute.

"Are you at all interested in metaphysics, Miss Diana?" asked her companion.

"I think I am. I am interested in everything."

"I don't like the latter half of that quotation," said Mrs. Lowell. "It stands to reason that God couldn't create anything vile."

"No, of course," agreed the girl. "It is man who makes himself vile."

"God's man couldn't do that either," returned Mrs. Lowell. "There is no potentiality in him for vileness."

"Then," said Diana, "how do you explain Mr. Gayne and his like?"

"He is a man whose real selfhood is buried under a mass of selfishness and cruelty, the beliefs of error and mortality. God doesn't even know what the poor creature believes, and all his mistakes and blundering will have to be blotted out finally by suffering, unless he should learn to turn to the Love that is always available; for God can't know anything unlike Himself."

"Your ideas are quite new to me," said the girl. "I am an Episcopalian."

Mrs. Lowell smiled. She understood this final tone.

"Then you are satisfied, I see."

"So far as religion goes, yes."

"Religion goes all the way, my dear girl."

They turned to the right and continued their walk.

"The islanders call this direction 'up-along,' Mr. Blake told me," said Diana. "If we had turned south we should have gone 'down-along.' Isn't that quaint? Mr. Barrison's grandmother lives down-along. He took me to see her the other day, the sweetest old lady."

"That refreshing young man hails from here, then?"

"Yes. He is the Viking type, is he not? I can picture him in the prow of one of those strange Norse ships. Physically he seems an anachronism."

Mrs. Lowell smiled. "Physically, perhaps, but colloquially he is certainly an up-to-the-minute American."

"He is an eminent singer and has shown himself a hero in arriving at that point."

"A hero, really?"

"Yes, but most unconsciously so."

"He is certainly as unaffected and straightforward as a child," said Mrs. Lowell. "I hope he will sing for us."

"I have heard him once," said Diana. "It was merely a nonsense song, because he had only an heirloom of a piano—a harp he called it, and I imagine harpsichords did sound similar to that. Now, we are on a high point of the island, Mrs. Lowell."

They paused again and, looking off, saw a vast ocean in all directions, foam breaking on its ledges. Mrs. Lowell drew a long breath of delight.

"'Every prospect pleases,'" she said.

"Does it not seem a pity," returned Diana, "that it is our duty to hunt for a vile, imitation man?"

Mrs. Lowell laughed. "He is scarcely even an imitation," she replied. "But come," she sighed, "let us go after him. I wonder what gave this farm its reputation." They walked on.

"I'll ask Mr. Blake," began Diana. "Oh, here he comes now."

The carpenter was returning down the island preparing to take up his freight duties on the wharf. Diana accosted him and introduced him to Mrs. Lowell.

The latter shook hands with Matt, her radiant smile beaming, "I am glad to meet you, Mr. Blake," she said. "You seem to be Miss Wilbur's oracle. She is always quoting you, and I am rather curious about this farm up here. Why do they call it haunted?"

"Oh," said Blake, "let any place be left empty a few years, and windows get loose, and blinds bang, and it's called haunted."

"I suppose that is often true," said Mrs. Lowell. "It is an abandoned farm, then?"

"Yes, for many years."

"I don't know why I have never inspected it," said Diana, "when who knows but it is the very homestead for me?"

Matt Blake shook his head and smiled. "The old house is crumbling away. There is a part of it that'll keep the rain off, and there Mr. Gayne keeps his stuff."

"Stuff?" echoed Mrs. Lowell interrogatively.

"Brushes and paints and pencils and all his outfit," said Blake.

"Oh, oh, yes," replied the lady. "You know in the West a squatter claims complete rights to the land he has settled on. I hope Mr. Gayne hasn't established an ownership up there that will make us seem like intruders. We thought we would like to see this exciting place."

"'Tain't exciting," said Matt Blake with another shake of the head. "It's asleep and snoring, the Dexter farm is."

"Who does own the place?" asked Diana with interest.

"It would take a pretty smart lawyer to find that out," was the reply. "It's been in litigation longer than it's been haunted. There's three women, I believe, pullin' and haulin' on it."

"I think I might pull and haul, too, if I find I like it," said Diana with her most dreamy serenity, and Matt Blake laughed.

"Well, you won't," he returned. "'Twould give a body the Injun blues to live there. How Mr. Gayne can stand it even in the daytime is a mystery to me; and there don't either o' the claimants really want it. They live around the State somewheres. I s'pose it would be hard to buy 'em out at that, because landowners here seem to think the island's goin' to turn into a regular Newport and that they'll make a fortune if they only hang on."

"Do not speak such desecrating words!" begged Diana. "Do not hint at waking the island from its alluring, scented dream."

Matt Blake gave her a patient stare. "Just as you say," he returned. He had already, as a fruit of many interviews with Diana, given her up as a conundrum. He tipped his hat and continued on his way.

The two companions pursued theirs, and soon came to where a rather steep hill led down to the northern beach.

"Now, we do not go down there unless we wish to be 'set across.' That is what they call it: set across to the next island, our near neighbor."

"We must do it some day," replied Mrs. Lowell, looking at that other green hill rising out of the sea.

As they stood gazing, they saw a man run across the rocks on its shore and hail a rowboat which came to meet him.

"It is within rowing distance, isn't it?" said Mrs. Lowell.

"Yes. Little Genevieve told me, one can always find some fisherman who is willing to act as a ferry." Diana looked about. "I think we shall be obliged to ask our path to the farm. Let us go to that cottage over there. It is probably on our way."

They proceeded to a house near the road where cats and chickens seemed equally numerous, and knocked.

"Will you tell us how to get to the Dexter farm?" asked Diana of the woman who answered the summons.

The woman pointed. "You go right up that way to Brook Cove and you'll really be on the farm then if you keep to the right bank. You'll see the old house near a big willow tree."

They thanked her and moved on.

"What pleasant voices these people have," said Diana. "They have not been obliged to shout above clanging trolleys and auto horns."

"No; all except Genevieve," returned Mrs. Lowell. "I should guess that she had been brought up in a boiler factory."

"Yet it is a piercing sweetness," protested Diana.

Mrs. Lowell laughed. "The island can do no wrong, eh?"

"Perhaps I am somewhat partial," admitted the girl.

They sprang along over the rough hillside, and at last came to a deep, precipitous cleft in its shore. The rocky sides of the hollow were decked with clumps of clinging shrub and evergreen and the clear water lapped a miniature beach.

"Why Brook Cove?" asked Mrs. Lowell. "I suppose there must be one about here. What a mystery the springs are in the midst of all this salt water. Miss Burridge says everybody has a well."

Diana gave her her most dreamy and seraphic look.

she replied.

"I wish only angels did," sighed Mrs. Lowell. "You remind me of our errand."

"Don't you think we might spare a few minutes for repose?" asked Diana, looking wistfully at the bank where the grass grew close and green to the very edge of the chasm.

"You want to sit down and let your feet hang over," laughed Mrs. Lowell. "You may as well confess it."

As she spoke, a man appeared on the other side of the cove. He skirted it and, hurrying, passed them and disappeared in a grove of fir trees.

Mrs. Lowell looked at her companion with large eyes.

"All the Sherlock Holmes in me responds to that man," she said in a low tone. "This is no time to let our feet hang over. He probably is the very one who came across in the rowboat and he is on an errand. His whole manner showed it. We're on the right bank. So we're on the farm now. Let us go into those woods and see what happens."

"Shall we not be intruding?" said Diana, hesitating.

"I hope so," returned Mrs. Lowell valiantly, and she seized her companion's hand and drew her toward the grove. There a winding path greeted them, a lover's lane, between close-growing firs, and together they sped along the scented aisle. The man was the swifter and, by the time they emerged from the fir grove, he was approaching a huge willow tree near the crumbling farmhouse built in a hollow with protecting mounds of green hills and trees on three sides of it.

They saw Gayne come out of the house and shake hands with the man, giving him a most effusive welcome, but before he had had opportunity to do more than this, the host descried the other visitors.

The eyes of both young women being excellent, they were able to observe the lightning change which took place in the pleased excitement of his face. The ugly frown that appeared was banished as soon as he could control himself. He said something to the other man, and the latter walked on to a rise of ground where he stood to enjoy the view, and Gayne came to meet the ladies.

"Ah, good-day," he said with as pleasant a manner as he could command. "Your explorations are leading you far this morning."

"Is this the Dexter farm?" asked Mrs. Lowell.

"The very same," replied Gayne lightly. "I see its creepy reputation has aroused your curiosity. Too bad there isn't more here to gratify it. It is a very tame place by daylight, as you see."

"The house is a ruin, they tell me. Doesn't it seem a pity that should have been allowed? The place is full of possibilities, isn't it?"

"I should say not," returned Gayne, speaking curtly in spite of his best efforts. "It is about the least attractive part of the island. Far from the open ocean, no place to bathe, cuddled into a hollow, no views."

Mrs. Lowell met his impatient look.

"I thought the very reason you chose this for a sort of artist camp was on account of the views," she said pleasantly.

"A headquarters. A headquarters only," said Gayne quickly. "I haven't locomotor ataxia, you know," he added, laughing; "I can still get about."

"I should like very much to see that old house," said Mrs. Lowell, her gaze wandering over to it. "We interrupted your greeting of a friend. Please don't let us detain you. We will just roam around here a bit."

Nicholas Gayne hesitated for an instant as the young women moved toward the house, but he followed them.

"There is nothing to see, I assure you, and it's an unsafe place. The floors are rotting; you are liable to fall through anywhere. I really feel as if I ought to beg you to confine your curiosity to the outside."

"You speak quite like the owner of the place," said Mrs. Lowell, with an access of dignity not lost upon Gayne. "We will absolve you if any accident befalls us."

The man's frown at her reply was so unpleasant that Diana felt some timidity and took her friend's arm.

"Another time, perhaps," she suggested.

"Why not now, since we are here," returned Mrs. Lowell calmly. "A haunted house isn't to be seen every day." She smiled. "Do join your friend, Mr. Gayne. He seems to have found some view well worth looking at. We shall not stay long."

"Oh, take your time," returned Gayne, seeing that he could not prevent the intrusion, and altering his manner to that of a host. "Perhaps you would like to see my artist camp as you call it. I did find one spot where there is a dry season and my canvases can be safe."

He led the way into the farmhouse. The paper on the little hallway in oval designs of faded green landscapes had peeled and was hanging from the wall. They passed into a living-room where tattered and splintered furniture and a rusty stove met the eye. Back of this was the artist's den evidently. A table stood in the center, on which reposed a palette, some brushes, a couple of sketch-books, and a portfolio. Against the side of the room were a few canvases leaning against the wall, and in bold relief, supported against the table, stood a pickaxe and a shovel.

Mrs. Lowell regarded Gayne's flushed countenance as he picked up the tools and pushed them behind a screen.

"Your still-life studies, appropriate to an abandoned farm?" she laughed.

"They don't look very artistic, I must say," returned Gayne. "Of course, I'm an amateur of the amateurs," he went on, picking up the portfolio (he pronounced it amatoor), "but a man is all the better for having a fad, no matter how footless. Since you are here and have caught me red-handed, you may as well know the worst."

He opened the portfolio and threw down a couple of crayon sketches of woods, water, and rocks.

"But these are good!" exclaimed Mrs. Lowell, in a tone of such astonishment that it could scarcely be considered complimentary.

Gayne shrugged his shoulders, as Diana, looking over her friend, added her approval.

"I make no pretensions," he repeated. "I amuse myself."

His guests lingered a minute over the sketches, then looked about the forlorn old homestead, but as each step was closely accompanied by Gayne, they soon took their departure, passing the stranger on his knoll as they walked toward the sea, over grassy hill and fragrant spruce-filled hollow. The stranger, as they passed, kept his hands folded behind him and stared stolidly ahead.

"Were you ever more astonished?" asked Mrs. Lowell in a low tone as if the balsamic breeze could carry her words back.

"Your suspicion that the man is sailing under false colors seems to be incorrect," replied Diana.

"He's a rascal!" declared Mrs. Lowell with conviction.

"Artists often are, I believe," returned Diana.

"I wish with all my heart I could know what he and his visitor will talk about during the next half-hour, and what that pick and shovel meant. Why was he so sorry to see us?" Mrs. Lowell's brows drew together in perplexity.

"Perhaps they are going to search for smugglers' treasures, or pirate gold," suggested Diana.

Her companion smiled. "Perhaps so. The man has some reason for promoting the foolish ghost talk and resenting visitors to his preserves. Of course, the treasure idea is as foolish as the phantoms, and just as little likely to fool a modern man in his senses."

Diana shook her head. "It is certainly rather irritating to have him assume jurisdiction over that ruin which is open and free to all," she said. "I dislike his personality extremely, but his pencil has a sure touch and those sketches showed an appreciation of values."

"If he did them," said Mrs. Lowell thoughtfully.

Diana smiled. "You surely are consistent."

Her companion drew a deep breath. "A man who can treat that fragile, sensitive, lonely boy as he does—his own brother's son at that—can plan to crush him and sweep him out of his way as he would an insect—that man is dangerously wicked, and so long as the matter has come to my notice, I must share in the responsibility."

"He would be a merciless enemy," said Diana warningly.

Mrs. Lowell shook her head. "I shall pray for the wisdom of the serpent and the harmlessness of the dove," she said.