Meanwhile Veronica, her morning work finished, had started out to oblige Mrs. Lowell. As she tripped around the house in search of the unfortunate boy, she suspected herself of hoping she should not find him. She summoned recollections of the Boston train and of various occasions since, when her sympathy for him had been roused, and by the time she espied him lying against a rock in the sunshine, her courage had risen sufficiently to address him.

"Good-morning, Bertie," she said.

He started, as was his habit when addressed, and turned his apathetic face toward her.

"Do you like to play croquet?"

The boy rose to a sitting position.

"I—" he began, then some recollection came to him. "I never did play," he finished; then, his stolid eyes meeting the fresh young face: "You don't need to be kind to me," he added bluntly.

Much disconcerted, Veronica flushed.

"What do you mean?" she returned. "I like to play croquet. I'll teach you."

"No," said the boy. "Uncle Nick said—said this morning that—that when people were—were kind to me, it was because they—they pitied me because I was a fool." The boy swallowed. "You can—go away, please."

Veronica's round eyes snapped with indignation. "Your Uncle Nick's the fool to say such a thing," she returned, her cheeks growing very red. "Don't you believe him. You and I are the youngest people here. Don't you think we ought to play together a little?"

"No. You pity me. Go away, please."

"Now, Bertie, I wish you wouldn't talk to me like that."

He averted his head and was silent, and Veronica stood there, uncertainly.

"I wonder if you are stronger than I am," she said at last.

"I don't know."

"The grass is too long on the croquet ground. I want to mow it. The lawnmower is pretty heavy. Do you think you could help me?"

The boy lay still for a minute more without meeting her eyes again. Then he pulled himself up slowly and walked beside her back to the shed.

"Mr. Barrison makes fun of our croquet ground because it is rough. I want him to see an improvement when he comes again." Veronica led the way to where the mower stood, and the boy took hold of it and drew it after him back to the desired spot.

"I'll pull up all the wickets," said the girl eagerly, and, as she did so, she cast a side-glance at her companion, waiting, and she thought his face the most hopeless and sad she had ever looked upon. She could feel her own eyes sting.

"None of that, none of that," she told herself.

"Now, don't you get too tired," she said. "Let me take my turn." She followed him as he went across the ground once and back again. She chattered of the weather, the sea, the song sparrows, and he answered never a word, just pushed the clicking little machine until the perspiration stood out on his forehead.

"Now, you must let me take it," said Veronica. "I didn't mean that I couldn't do any of it. I just felt it would be tiresome to do it all."

She insisted, and the boy yielded the lawnmower to her, and, standing still, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

Veronica pushed the mower valiantly up and down the ground. It was a cumbrous one and somewhat rusty. So the effort she let appear was not all assumed. When she returned, the boy took it from her and went to work again. He was on the last lap when Mrs. Lowell and Diana appeared, coming up from the sea, having returned from their ramble by the rocky shore instead of by the road. Mrs. Lowell's face lighted as she saw what was going on, and she cast a grateful look at Veronica as she approached.

"Good for you, Bertie," she said, as he at last dropped the mower and again wiped his hot face. "It is fine of you to help Veronica."

He looked at her for a second mutely, and then turned away.

"Thank you," called Veronica as he moved off. "I'll bring you an extra large piece of pie this noon. I must go in and set the table now," she added to the others, and she winked at Mrs. Lowell who followed her into the house.

"You succeeded better than I hoped," said Mrs. Lowell. "Activity is what that boy needs."

"I wish whipping-posts hadn't been abolished," said Veronica. "I could see Uncle Nick tied up there and enjoy the activity that followed."

Then she told Mrs. Lowell of the reception Bertie had given her and all he had said.

Mrs. Lowell shook her head in silence and laid her hand on the girl's shoulder. "You can see we have work to do there," she replied. "We must not be discouraged."

Diana had heard the recital. "What an extraordinary circumstance it is," she said, "that strangers should be endeavoring to build for the boy while his next of kin systematically tears down."

"That is what I was telling you," replied Mrs. Lowell. "The man is pursuing a system." She shook her head again, and added as if to herself: "But he cannot defy Omnipotence."

It was probably a very good thing for Mr. Gayne that he did not return to-day to the noon dinner. The waitress would have been likely to give him cool soup, warm water, and the undesirable portions of meat and vegetables. She served the boy with the best of everything. In the chatter about the table, he was never included, so his silence was not noticeable, but Mrs. Lowell observed the pallor under the sunburn, the hopeless droop of the mouth, and the languid appetite that should have been voracious in a growing boy fresh from exercise.

After dinner she stopped him, the others all having gone out on the piazza. He was moving toward the stairway.

"Where are you going, Bertie?"

"Upstairs."

"I don't think we ought to waste this weather in the house. Do you?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I do. It is liable to change any time now. We have had so much sunshine. We ought to make the most of it."

"You go out, then," said the boy.

"But I would rather you came, too."

"No. You pity me, that's all."

"No," returned Mrs. Lowell quietly. "I pity your uncle, not you."

The boy stared at her, unmoved.

"I pity him because he doesn't know how to make you happy."

"You don't need to—to take any trouble," was the stolid reply.

"It isn't a trouble. I like you. I like to have you with me. I went up to the farm this morning—the haunted farm."

"Did—did you see anything?"

"Yes. Supposing we go down to the beach and I'll tell you about it. You shall carry two cushions for us; then if you want to take a nap you can do so while I read."

"I would rather—rather be alone."

Mrs. Lowell met his wretched eyes with her irresistible smile which had in it selflessness, love, and courage.

"No, you wouldn't, dear boy. Besides, it is an impossibility. We are never alone. You know the Father we talked about the other day, the One who showed your mother how to love you. He is with us all the time, and no one and nothing can separate us from Him, no matter what seems to be."

"Could I see Him if I—if I died? Because I'd like to—to die and see—my mother."

"You will see her at the right time," said Mrs. Lowell. "You have a great deal to do for her first. Were you going upstairs to sleep? No doubt you are sleepy after all that mowing. It was very kind of you to do it for Veronica."

"I didn't do it for her." There was no stammering in the declaration. "She thought I did, but I didn't."

Mrs. Lowell smiled again and nodded. "I understand," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't know your mother. I believe she would like you to go outdoors with me now."

"You don't—don't need to—to have me. I'm—I'm all right."

Mrs. Lowell could see the wound throb.

"I know I don't need to. I should think you could see that I really want you."

He hesitated and looked away.

"Now," she went on, "I will go up to my room and get some cushions and my books and we will have a nice read or a nice snooze, and perhaps get some more stones for our collection. Perhaps you have some book you would like to bring."

"I haven't any books—except a paper one."

"Bring it," said Mrs. Lowell with interest. "I would like to see it. Let us meet down here in five minutes, then."

She went up the stairs and the boy followed.

When she came down again, the corridor and living-room were empty. Perhaps the lad had decided against her plan after all. She sank down in a chair by the door and closed her eyes.

"Dear Father," she prayed, "Thy will be done, and may my thought be ever ready to separate between the real and the unreal. Let me not be discouraged by the seeming, but may I remember every moment what Thy will is, and that Thine omnipotent Love is ever present. Let me reflect Thine intelligence and take my human footsteps wisely. Let me know that Thy Truth will uncover the error that is to be met, and that I cannot be dismayed, for Thou art with me, and underneath are the everlasting arms."

Footsteps sounded on the uncarpeted stairs and she looked up and saw Bertie.

"I thought I wouldn't come," he said. "Then I thought you—you might wait—"

"You see I did," said Mrs. Lowell, "and here are the cushions. Will you take them, please?"

The boy picked them up and they set forth.

As they crossed the piazza, Mrs. Lowell nodded to Miss Emerson and the two men with her. These followed the pair with their eyes as they descended the steps, and started across the field.

"By Jove, that young nut is in luck," said Mr. Evans, a short, thick-set man, with spectacles.

"Why, do you think Mrs. Lowell is so attractive?" asked Miss Emerson.

"Of course. Don't you?"

"Why, I think she's a very good-looking woman," was the reply. "Her husband is coming up later."

Mr. Evans shook his head mournfully. "I'm afraid it won't make any difference to me. I've tried to prattle to her a little, but she doesn't hear me, or, if she does, I've been weighed and found wanting. I talked to her quite a while my first morning here. As soon as I saw her I determined to make hay while the sun shone, but I soon found I couldn't make any, or even cut any ice either. So, since then, I just look at her from afar."

"I'm sure you're too easily discouraged," said Miss Emerson with some acerbity. "You underrate your own attractiveness, Mr. Evans. Any woman who would rather spend her time with that poor, forlorn image of a boy than with men of intellect, cannot be so very interesting, herself."

Mr. Pratt, a tall, slender, long-necked gentleman, here spoke: "I judge from what Mr. Gayne says that the boy is pretty far gone mentally. He said he supposed he really shouldn't have brought him up here. Gayne has a heavy burden on his hands evidently. It's naturally hard to bring one's self to shutting up any one who is your own kin, and, as Gayne says, you're between the devil and the deep sea, for you may put it off too long. It looks like a case of dangerous melancholia to me."

Miss Emerson shuddered. "All I know is that if Mrs. Lowell was as sensitive as I am, she never in the world could bear to have that boy around with her as much as she does. Mr. Gayne, an artist as he is! What he must suffer in that constant association!"

"He doesn't seem to be much with his nephew," remarked Mr. Evans.

"Well, I should think rooming with him was enough," retorted the lady. "He has a cot for the boy right in his own room."

"Well, it isn't my business," yawned the other. "Come on, Pratt. I hear they've taken a horse-mackerel and it's down on the wharf. Let's go and see it."

"Oh, I think those giant fish are so interesting!" exclaimed Miss Emerson, sitting up alertly.

Mr. Evans nodded at her over his shoulder as the two friends started off.

"After your siesta you ought to get Miss Wilbur and come down," he said.

"I don't want any siesta," thought the lady crossly. "Why did I get into this hammock? They would probably have asked me if I hadn't been lying down."

She had not yet discovered the domestic status of the two men, although she had put out many a feeler to learn whether they were unprotected males. She was wearing one of her prettiest dresses since their arrival, but the emergency sport suit of baronet satin would not come forth from its hanger on any such uncertainty.