Blake went back through the grove of firs to the cove bank and there he saw the boy again. He had sunk down on his back and, as Blake approached, appeared to be asleep. The man stooped over him.

"Hello, kid," he said.

As the boy did not move, Matt shook him gently by the shoulder. Bert jumped up with a start.

"I didn't—didn't hear you," he said. Then, looking up and seeing that it was a stranger, he got to his feet.

"Does—does Uncle Nick want me?" he asked.

Blake shook his head. "No, he's busy. You better go down the road with me."

"He told me—told me to wait for him," said the boy.

"Well, he doesn't want you now. He wants you to go along with me. I've just left him."

Upon this the boy followed obediently, and they walked together over the field to the road. Blake occasionally looked at the unsmiling young face as he cogitated on Gayne's plans for the lad.

"Like it pretty well here?" he asked.

"No—yes—I don't know," was the answer.

The delicacy and refinement of the boy's face, and the utter hopelessness of it, stirred his companion, as he considered the one he had left in the tattered armchair. They walked on in silence until they had nearly reached the little island cemetery. Then the boy's long lashes lifted. He seemed to be gazing at the shafts and headstones.

"Uncle Nick says the—the ghosts don't have far to walk," he remarked.

The carpenter put his hand on Bert's shoulder. "Stuff and nonsense," he said. "You're too big a boy to believe that foolishness."

The dark eyes regarded him. "That's what Mrs. Lowell says. She says God takes care of us."

The carpenter nodded. "That's right," he returned emphatically. "I hope He's got His eye on you right now and will see you through. You tie to Mrs. Lowell and you believe what she says."

"Uncle Nick doesn't want me to. He says I'm—I'm better off alone."

"You're the best judge of that, I should say," remarked Matt bluntly. "We're all entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I hope you'll get 'em, kid. Stand up for yourself. Do you like Mrs. Lowell?"

"I—I don't know.—It isn't any use for me to—to like her. Uncle Nick doesn't." They began to pass hedges of wild roses. "She likes—likes flowers," added the boy.

"Take her some, that's right, take her some," said Blake, stopping and going to the side of the road.

"You won't tell Uncle Nick?" said Bert anxiously.

"No, blast him, I won't tell him. Here, I've got a knife. They know how to defend themselves all right, don't they?"

Bert gathered some of the flowers, amazingly large and deep of color they were, and Matt cut more, and a charming bunch was in the boy's hand at last. Blake noted that the sight of it brought color into the pale face.

"This must be another secret," said Bert. "Mrs. Lowell and I have some already."

They plodded on again.

"That's right," said Blake. "Hold 'em tight. That Mrs. Lowell and Miss Wilbur are friends worth having, I'm thinking." The man frowned at his own thoughts. The creed of the island had, as its first article: Mind your own business. Matt wished he could go to Mrs. Lowell and pour out to her all he had learned this afternoon, but had his pledged word not prevented, his own habit and training would have made it difficult.

When they reached the field which divided the road from the Inn, Blake parted from the boy, who started off for home with his prize. He stumbled over the knolls while looking at the blossoms, and inhaling their delicious fragrance.

When he had nearly reached the house, he met the quartette of croquet players, the girls escorting the men to the road.

Veronica and Barney Kelly came first and Diana and Philip followed.

"Oh, how lovely, Bertie!" exclaimed Veronica, stopping and stooping the five sun-kisses to smell deep of the roses.

"They are not—they are not for you," said the boy hastily.

"You've no taste, then," said Kelly, while Veronica laughed. "Have you a better girl than this one?"

Bertie pushed on in nervous haste, and Diana's smile did not detain him.

"Not for you either, apparently," remarked Philip.

"No," said Veronica. "I'm good, Miss Wilbur is better, but his best girl is at home on the porch."

There the boy found her, and luckily alone. He advanced holding out his gift without a word. She colored with pleasure as she accepted it, holding it in one hand and caressing it with the other as from time to time she took the sweet breath of the roses.

"Thank you so much, Bertie!" she exclaimed. "It must have taken you a long time to gather so many."

"No—he had a knife."

"Who, your uncle?"

"No—Mr. Blake. Uncle Nick mustn't know. You won't tell him?"

"No, dear child, I won't tell him." She looked in the boy's face for a reflection of her own pleasure, but there was none. He remained standing.

"Sit down, Bertie, you have had a long walk."

He did so with some reluctance. "This is the last—last time I'll sit with you," he said.

"Are you going away?" she asked, much concerned.

"No, but—but Uncle Nick doesn't—doesn't want me to speak to you—and you make me sad."

"How do I make you sad, Bertie?"

"Talking about—about things," he said vaguely. "If I don't think and don't talk, then—then it's better. Uncle Nick says so and—and I—it is so."

"Very well, Bertie," returned Mrs. Lowell quietly. "All I want is what is best for you."

He looked at her sweet face with the affection in the eyes. She was wearing a white dress and the blossoms were a roseate glow against it. He struggled against all that he blindly felt she represented: all he had lost, all that would have kept the present and the future from being blank. His face suffused with color, his eyes with tears.

"I can't bear it!" he said suddenly, with more force than she had supposed was in him, and rising with an energy of movement that sent his chair over with a crash, he fled into the house.

Mrs. Lowell bent her head over the flowers for minutes, and, when she raised it, there was dew upon them. She looked off a moment in thought, then rose, went into the house and upstairs to the Gayne room. The door was ajar. She could hear the boy sobbing. Entering, she saw him stretched on his cot, and she approached, drawing a chair beside it.

Seating herself, she put a hand on his tightly doubled arm and looked at the averted, dark head, its face buried in the pillow.

She spoke to him quietly: "Bertie, I am going to do just as you plan and not ask you to go about with me any more, but I want you to remember all the time that I love you and am thinking of you, and knowing that better times are coming for you. No human being can have as much power over us as God has. He isn't going to forget His own children whom He has created. So the more you think about Him, knowing that He is all-powerful and all-loving, the sooner you will feel His help coming to you. We don't know just how or when, but be sure it will come if you won't listen to discouragement. Discouragement is like a cloud that hides the sun, and God is the sun of the whole universe. You are trying to hide away from Him when you weep and let thoughts of grief and despair come in."

Her voice carried through the nervous, dry sobs, and they lessened as she talked. When she finished, the dark head lay still on the pillow. She patted the thin arm.

"Now I will leave you, Bertie," she went on. "Try to think about the Shepherd. 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.' Say that over and over to yourself, and know that it is true. Some day all these things that seem barriers to everything that you feel makes life worth living, will melt away. Think about it, and be hopeful, dear child. Remember I am in the house when you want me, and remember that I love to help you. Good-bye, dear."

She stooped over the averted face and kissed the boy's temple. Then she passed out and down the stairs.

The answer to Diana's telegram came from her mother, and read as follows:

Your father away on the yacht. Be cautious socially. No Loring relatives or friends in this country. Letter follows.

The letter did follow with great promptness. It was the old story of the worried hen who had hatched a duck.

My dear child:

You say you are feeling very well again, sleeping soundly and eating with good appetite. Then do come home at once. I have submitted to your wild-goose chase because the doctor approved, and it was evidently working well, but I haven't really had an easy minute since you left. When you said that even taking a maid with you would make you nervous, and I allowed you to go off to a strange island quite alone, I put a great constraint upon myself. Your wire shows me that you are encountering some of the circumstances which I feared, and which will lead to future embarrassment. Some people are evidently trying to claim acquaintance or even relationship with our family. I wired you that there were no Lorings connected with us in this country. It was an odd coincidence that just after I sent the message to you, I picked up a newspaper and saw that Herbert Loring had returned from Paris and was staying at the Copley-Plaza. I am quite certain he has not emigrated to your island. So my message is true enough. He is a distant cousin of your father's and though not an old man is a very broken one, owing to family troubles. Seeing his name in the paper brought up sad memories and made me thankful for a good, conscientious daughter who will always remember what is due her family, and now, when you are thrown among ordinary people, such as you have never come in contact with, is a good time to speak of such a tragedy. Mr. Loring's only child was a daughter, a pretty, artistic girl of whom he was inordinately proud and fond. She became infatuated with a man whom her father forbade her even to see. She eloped with him. Oh, the agony she caused that father, who had lost his wife years before. Of course, he did the only thing possible in such a case—forbade her name to be mentioned. He became very ill, and, as soon as he was convalescent, gave up business and went abroad. He has spent all the years since—about fifteen, I think—in traveling about, trying to recover his health and divert his mind. Now the poor, weary man has come back again. I am wondering if he will open his house. He is wealthy, and, if his health is restored, he may do so and take up life again. I am sure your father will wish to communicate with Mr. Loring as soon as he returns from his cruise. Perhaps the lonely man will accept an invitation to visit us.

I think it a grave question whether the artistic temperament does not furnish more sorrow than joy to the world. I am proud and thankful that I have a daughter to whom an infatuation would be an impossibility. Come back, Diana, if you feel strong enough. I promise to preserve you from gayety if you wish me to do so. I do not feel at all easy about you. Please write and set a date for coming, explaining also all that lay behind your wire.

Your affectionate
Mother

By the time Diana finished reading this letter, her hands were trembling.

She hurried to Mrs. Lowell's room. A rather stifled voice bade her enter. Her friend was stooping over the washstand bathing her eyes. Her face, as she looked up through the splashing, showed an April smile.

"I knew it was you," she said. "I recognized the step, and I knew you wouldn't mind discovering that I cry once in a while."

"My dear Mrs. Lowell, I'm sorry for whatever distresses you."

"Oh, it is just that dear talented, wretched boy. I couldn't help weeping a few little weeps; but what happy thing has happened to you, my dear?" she added, catching the excitement in the girl's face. She dried her own finally, and came forward and Diana put the letter into her hands.

They both stood in silence until Mrs. Lowell had finished reading and looked up. Her cheeks were as flushed as Diana's, and they exchanged a radiant gaze and then sat down.

"One always weeps too soon," said Mrs. Lowell at last.

"I was thinking," said Diana, looking off, "that it might be a good plan for me to go to Mr. Loring myself."

"You good girl! Do you know him?"

"Not at all, but any one can go to the Copley-Plaza, and I can tell him I am his cousin."

"You're a precious child. When had you thought of going?"

"Immediately," said Diana, with recovered serenity.

"Shall I go to Boston with you?"

"It will not be necessary, I think."

"But your mother would prefer it, I am sure. Yes, I see that I should go," added Mrs. Lowell, casting a glance at the rich stationery in her hand with its heading "Idlewild, Newport, R. I." She could feel the probable disapproval of this move which Mrs. Wilbur would feel.

Nicholas Gayne did not come back to the Inn to supper that afternoon. Bertie came to the table expecting his uncle would be there and not daring to absent himself, but he showed the effect of his unwonted outburst in such extra pallor and lassitude that Veronica was moved to give him her choicest offerings. Mrs. Lowell thought it best for his calm not to take any notice of him, but she and Diana found it difficult to control the excitement that beset their hearts as they looked at him: the drooping bird in the cage of a cruel and neglectful master, the key that would unlock its door almost in their hands.

The next morning they took the early boat from the island, leaving word that they were going to Boston for a few days. Miss Burridge gave them their coffee and toast and bade them God-speed, little reckoning how appropriate was the prayer for them.