"I have to get the afternoon boat, Matt," explained Philip. "Miss Wilbur wants me to bring the Gayne boy to Boston in a hurry."

Blake looked around alertly as his horse pulled slowly up the hill to the road. "Miss Wilbur?" he repeated. "Why didn't his uncle send for him? He is there."

"Is he?" asked Philip carelessly. "I didn't know the island had been deprived of his artistic presence."

"Yes. You bet he lit out when he saw by the paper that the millionaire he's had his eye on was dead." Blake shook his head. "There must be something doing or Miss Wilbur wouldn't be sending for the kid."

"Oh, you know she and Mrs. Lowell made a protÉgÉ of him. My idea is they want to give him some kind of a treat, but I must say I'm surprised at the importance she seems to put on my bringing him—dead or alive, as you might say. She says if he holds back, through fear of his uncle's displeasure, to tell the boy his uncle is there."

"Oh, yes, he's there, believe me. Keep it under your hat, but that old souse has got it all fixed that the boy is the grandson of that Herbert Loring who has just died, and that he's going to get a slice o' the money. Now you might as well know, Phil, as long as you're doing the errand, that Gayne's a skunk. He's counting on shutting that boy up and gettin' the money himself. He told me so one time when he was half-seas over. Believe me, I feel sorry for that kid. If he ever had any spirit, he's had it squeezed out of him. By George, I'd like to have those ladies know Gayne's plans."

"They certainly must be greatly interested in the boy to take all this trouble," said Philip. "I knew they were very much stirred up over Gayne's treatment of Bert, but I don't know whether they're aware of how far he intends to carry it. I'm glad you've told me this. I fancy we shall find that their plan is to give the boy a show or two and some ice-cream instead of a fortune. Bert Gayne, Herbert Loring's heir!" scoffed Philip. "Don't make me laugh. My lip's cracked. However, I'll oblige those two corking women and bring him to them, by the scruff of the neck, if necessary. Ever see the Copley-Plaza, Matt? If you did, you can make a picture of me making a grand entrance there with Bert."

"I do feel sorry for that kid," repeated Blake with feeling.

"So do I, and after what you say, I'm wondering why Gayne is keeping himself in the background and letting the goddess Diana take charge."

"I wish her luck," said Matt emphatically. "I wish her luck."

Arrived where the road branches away to the Inn, Philip and his friend left the wagon and struck off through the field. Halfway across they met Miss Emerson, walking triumphantly between Mr. Pratt and Mr. Evans, a parasol over her shoulder. It is not well to sun soft ripples of hair, when the head that grew them is far across the seas.

"Good-morning," she cried gayly; "we're going to the post-office. Can we do anything for you?"

"Thank you," said Barney. "We've just come from there. You might write me a letter or two, Miss Emerson, while you're waiting. I've been neglected since I've been here."

"I shall be delighted," she returned, regarding his tanned face and permanent wave with high approval. "I love to write. I even like pencil and paper games, verbarium, and crambo, and all those. I've been trying to convert these men. I wish you would both come up and spend the evening and let me show you how much fun it is."

There was a wild look in the grave faces of her escorts which advised caution.

"You're always so kind, Miss Emerson," said Kelly.

"Shall we see you at dinner?" she asked.

"Depends on how good your eyes are," said Philip pleasantly. "We dine at home and then I'm off for Boston."

"Really? How can you bear to leave here!" Miss Emerson waved her parasol as the young men nodded and passed on.

"I think that Mr. Kelly is perfectly delightful," she said as they pursued their way. "So full of fun always." Then she proceeded to tell her captives how many words could be made from the one: c-a-r-p-e-t.

Philip and Barney walked around to the front of the Inn and there were Veronica and the unconscious young Herbert, leaning over the sweet-pea bed. Veronica was using the trowel and the boy was weeding. He glanced up under his lashes, then went on with his work. Veronica rose and welcomed the arrivals.

"You see, Aunt Priscilla keeps us at it, Mr. Barrison. She isn't going to have your garden neglected, and just look at the buds."

"Fine. In another week they'll be a show."

"And a smell," said Barney fervently. "I adore them. You look rather sweet-peaish yourself, Miss Veronica," he added, regarding her gingham gown of fine pink-and-white checks. "Do you know you're going to have me on your hands the next few days?"

"What's going to happen?" asked Veronica.

"There is going to be a dance at the hall to-night," suggested Barney.

"I know it," returned Veronica. "Can you dance?"

Barney looked at her reproachfully. "It's a land sport. How can you ask? A duck can swim and Kelly can dance. Will you take me? I'm shy."

"If Mr. Barrison will allow it," said Veronica with a demure glance at Philip.

"Not a word to Puppa. I promise," he said.

"What a pity Miss Diana isn't here!" she exclaimed.

"I shall see her to-morrow," returned Philip.

"You going to Boston?"

"'M-h'm."

"That's what I'm telling you," said Kelly. "You mustn't allow me to get lonely. We'll row in the cove."

"Really go near the water?" replied Veronica, laughing incredulously.

"Yes. Aunt Maria is stuffing me like a Thanksgiving turkey. No tennis, I just natchelly had to get a boat—without a motor, be it well understood."

"That's fun," said Veronica, her eyes shining. She hoped Philip would stay away indefinitely. "If Mr. Kelly could really dance—"

Meanwhile Philip had stood watching the boy's slender hands pulling out weeds.

"Aren't you going to speak to me, Bert?"

"I—yes. How do you do?" The lad was so used to being overlooked by everybody except Mrs. Lowell and Diana that Philip's question surprised him and he rose and looked at him.

"Do you miss Mrs. Lowell and Miss Wilbur?" asked Philip.

"Yes."

"His uncle has gone, too," said Veronica. "We have had some good times all alone, haven't we, Bert? He is learning to play croquet and he helps me with the garden."

The boy regarded her in silence and with no change of expression. Philip thought or imagined that in his dull, undeveloped way he resented the girl's kindly tone of patronage. He caught the lad's eye again.

"I am going to see Mrs. Lowell and Miss Wilbur. Would you like to go with me to see them?"

Color stole up into Bert's face and he brushed the clinging soil from his hands.

"Yes.—No," he said.

"I am going to Boston this afternoon," continued Philip, in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone. "The ladies would like to have you come with me."

"No," returned the boy. "I have to—to wait here for—for Uncle Nick."

"Oh, he is there, too," returned Philip. "They have made some plan. We shall be all together there just as we were here. It won't take you long to get ready. I'll help you."

"No," said the boy breathlessly. "Uncle Nick—"

"But Mrs. Lowell wants you."

"No. Uncle Nick doesn't want—Mrs. Lowell—"

"Oh, boy, you know Mrs. Lowell wouldn't ask you to do anything that would get you into any trouble," said Philip pleasantly. "Perhaps your uncle has decided not to come back to the island. At any rate, they want you there in Boston and they sent me a telegram asking me to bring you. So it is up to us to do what they say. Don't you think so? Come upstairs and I'll help you get ready."

The boy's stolid habit of obedience stood Philip in good stead now. With heightened color, but no other change in his face, he followed to his room, washed his face and hands, and got into his shabby best while Philip found a comb and brush and toothbrush, and put them into a paper parcel. Returning downstairs, they found Veronica consuming with curiosity, but considerably entertained by her future dance partner, who was teaching her a new step by means of his blunt finger-tips on the porch rail.

"I'm going to take Bert home to dinner with me, Veronica. So say good-bye and expect us when you see us. Where's Miss Burridge?"

"Oh, Aunt Priscilla!" shouted Veronica at the kitchen door. "Come out. Bertie Gayne is going to Boston with Mr. Barrison."

Miss Burridge emerged wiping her hands on a towel. The other went to meet her.

"How nice!" she said, beaming. "What a nice outing for Bertie. That's real clever of you, Philip. How did you happen to think of it?"

"Well, his friends in Boston want him," said Philip, and he administered a wink which Miss Burridge understood sufficiently to postpone a catechism until later. The boy allowed her and Veronica to shake his passive hand in bidding him good-bye and then he went away with his companions with no further questioning.

When they were gone, Miss Burridge exclaimed her astonishment.

"Mr. Barrison received a wire, that's all I know," said Veronica. "The youngster's in mortal terror of his uncle, but Mr. Barrison told him his uncle was there and it was all right. Miss Wilbur or else Mrs. Lowell sent the telegram. Sort of queer they should be hobnobbing with old Nick, but perhaps he let them send the wire to save expense."

Philip made conscientious efforts to entertain his young charge on their trip. In Portland, where they spent the night, he bought some magazines, naturally guessing that the more filled with pictures they were the better, and he was puzzled at the evident shrinking from the illustrations that the boy displayed.

"Something seriously off with the poor little nut," he thought. "Any boy likes to look at pictures."

So he left him in peace and let him stare apathetically from the car window all the way to Boston, or doze in his corner.

Philip wired Diana just before they took the train, and she ordered luncheon to be served in her rooms. She wished very much that some kind turn of Fortune's wheel would call her mother forth to the shops that morning, but by reason of the fragments Mrs. Wilbur overheard passing between her child and Mrs. Lowell or the lawyer, her curiosity as to this waif who might be going to carry on the Loring fortunes became sufficiently vivid to determine her to remain where she could oversee all that her daughter did.

"Who did you say is bringing the boy on?" she asked Diana that morning.

"His name is Barrison."

"You wired him to do this?"

"Yes, Mamma."

"How could you ask it? Is he a servant?"

"No, Mamma, he is a professional singer taking his vacation at the island."

Mrs. Wilbur looked at the girl closely. "You must have become rather friendly with him to ask such a favor?"

Mrs. Lowell glanced up from a glove she was mending. "Everybody is friendly at the island, Mrs. Wilbur. It is one of the assets of the simple life. As one of the men at the Inn said: 'Every time you go out the door, you wade up to your knees in the milk of human kindness.'"

Mrs. Wilbur regarded her coldly. "An inexperienced schoolgirl cannot discriminate," she said. "I felt all the time that Diana should not go there."

Her dominating tone was significant of the relation she, contrary to the experience of most American mothers, had succeeded in retaining with her daughter. The average American girl of Diana's age would have had no difficulty in telling her mother that the expected boy would be embarrassed by the presence of a stranger and requesting her, more or less agreeably, to return to her apartments. Not so Diana. Her mother plied her now with additional questions about Herbert Loring's heir.

"For mercy's sake," said Mrs. Wilbur at last, "I should judge from what you say that the boy isn't far off melancholia."

Mrs. Lowell sighed unconsciously. Mrs. Wilbur heard her, but did not understand the reason for it.

"Well, don't ask me to lunch with him. I am sure he would make me nervous," added the lady.

"I think it quite likely he would, Mamma," said her daughter dutifully, one of her problems disappearing. "There certainly will be an interesting evolution observable in him very soon, but just at first his limitations might annoy you."

"Well, I'll just stay long enough to look at him and then I will go," returned Mrs. Wilbur.