"Come here, Aunt Priscilla," called Veronica at the top of her lungs. It was a joyous call, and Miss Burridge hurried into the dining-room where, a few minutes before, she had left Veronica sweeping, and found her standing still and confronting a boy who stood, hat in hand, while on the floor beside him reposed a new and handsome suitcase.

"Would you know him, Aunt Priscilla?"

Miss Burridge pulled down her spectacles and gazed at the trim figure with the immaculately brushed and parted hair.

"It ain't Bertie Gayne? Why, it is! Where are the other folks? Somebody has been being awful good to you."

How could it be possible that the boy they sent away a few days ago could be the same one who looked at them now with happy eyes and a faint smile.

"They're coming," he answered. "Mr. Blake brought me up—in his wagon, and the others had to wait—for the car, and they were going to take a drive."

Matt Blake here appeared in the open doorway from the piazza, bearing on his back a shining new trunk.

"Where's this going?" he asked.

"I'll show you," said the boy, and they made a procession up the stairs, Bert leading and the women bringing up the rear, full to the lips of questions ready to pour out upon Matt, who was smiling, eyes twinkling under his burden, at the amazed countenances of Miss Burridge and Veronica.

"Where's your Uncle Nick?" asked Veronica when they reached the bedroom.

"No," said Bert quickly; "no, he isn't coming."

"Isn't?" cried Miss Burridge as Blake set the trunk down. "Matt, has Mr. Gayne come into money?"

"This Mr. Gayne has," returned Blake, grinning and indicating the boy.

"No, my name isn't Gayne any more," said Bert gravely. "I am Herbert Loring, Second."

"That so?" said Matt. "There you have it, ladies. You've read about the Prince and the Pauper, haven't you? You sent away the pauper and got back the prince."

"Yes," said the boy; "my grandfather gave me all these things because he didn't need money any more."

While the boy spoke, Blake noticed that he was looking at Nicholas Gayne's trunk.

"Kind o' in the way, ain't it? That's a good place for yours to stand. We'll pull Mr. Gayne's trunk out here where I can pack it. He wants me to send him all his things."

Bert's face looked as if sunlight suddenly struck it. It was as if now only he entirely credited the fact that there was nothing to apprehend in the way of a reckoning.

"You are going to send all Uncle Nick's things to him?"

"Yes, everything but you," replied Matt jocosely.

"But I—I don't belong to him any more," explained Bert eagerly. "He gave me to—to the lawyer."

"Good work," said Blake, and, lifting the lid of the old trunk, he fell to opening the dresser drawers.

"Matt Blake," said Miss Burridge, "will you tell me what has happened?"

"Ever hear of Herbert Loring, one o' Boston's rich men? Well, he died suddenly and this boy's his grandson, and the lawyer has persuaded Mr. Gayne to take his hands off." As an addendum to his explanation, Matt bestowed upon Miss Burridge a wink which seemed to say: "More anon."

"And Mr. Gayne isn't coming back?" asked Miss Burridge, sundry financial considerations occurring to her.

"I guess he'll pay up all right," said Blake, reading her thought. "You make out what he owes. I'll see to it. Come on, Herbert Loring, help me to get your uncle's duds together so I won't be packing any o' yours."

"That wouldn't make—make any difference," said the boy, "because Mrs. Lowell said for me not to wear them any more." And he turned to with a will, emptying dresser and closet while Matt packed.

"I hear the motor," said Veronica suddenly.

Miss Burridge had been in a flutter ever since Diana's telegram, saying that her mother and maid would return with her. Miss Priscilla's outlook on life was placidly democratic, but somehow the prospect of having to care for the wife of the steel magnate loomed as something overwhelming. She and Veronica hurried downstairs to meet the guests. Mrs. Lowell and Diana were in high spirits. LÉonie had fortunately discovered some resemblance in the island to a fishing village of her childhood and had sat with Bill Lindsay on the front seat coming up. He understood her trim appearance, even if half of what she said so volubly was lost to him.

The springs of the machine were not reminiscent of Mrs. Wilbur's Rolls-Royce, and her lorgnette had not yet been able to discover what charm this corner of the world had exercised upon her daughter. She had been predisposed, from her first view of Philip Barrison, to give him the credit, or discredit; and during the trip from Boston, she had kept one eye upon every move he or Diana had made toward the other. But the examination had revealed nothing. Philip had not even been assiduous toward herself. She would have suspected that instantly. As a matter of fact, almost all the way to Portland, he had concentrated his attention on a book of Brahms' songs, which were welcomed effusively by a curly-headed Irishman in white sweater and trousers who met them when they landed from the island steamer.

"Is it the mother of the goddess, then?" he said when he was presented. "You lost your heart, I'm sure, to that ride down the bay, Mrs. Wilbur."

"It was very lovely. I should like to come around here in the yacht sometime. The rudder chain, or whatever it was on that little boat, nearly banged a hole in my head."

Diana smiled on Kelly. "Mamma has begun roughing it, that's all," she said. "I warned her."

Philip had telephoned down to bespeak the motor in order that the august Mrs. Wilbur might not be obliged to linger on the wharf where, on account of the adjacent fish-house, the odors were not always of Araby, and the only seat was a weather-worn board a little wider than a knife-blade.

Diana leaned out of the car just before they drove away and offered him her hand. "Have I thanked you nearly enough, Mr. Barrison?" she asked, and Barney Kelly observed her melting eyes. "You have filled in every need and been an untold help to us all in this affair. Even Mr. Wrenn said the nicest things about you."

"And about you," returned Philip pressing her willing hand. "I think Mr. Wrenn has had the time of his life the last few days."

"It has been very exciting, very happy—"

"Had we not better start, Diana?" put in Mrs. Wilbur. "I just caught a glimpse of a dreadful fish over there by a post. Do they catch whales here?"

"They stop at nothing, Mrs. Wilbur," Barney assured her. "Good-bye, good-bye."

The motor sped off with a grinding noise.

"You've put in your time well, eh, Barrison?"

"What makes you think so?"

"My word! If Miss Wilbur ever turned those lamps on me with that look in them, I'd fly right in and singe my wings for life."

"I don't intend to singe mine," said Philip quietly. "They think I've been useful in this one-act play they've been staging and they are grateful, that's all. The goddess is as transparent and honest as any child that ever lived. She doesn't want to light any flame for the moth, she has far too big a soul. Did you notice that the boy I took away looked different from the one we brought back to-day?"

"It wasn't the same one, was it?"

"Yes, with a few renovations in mind and body. I'll tell you about it as we go along."

When Mrs. Wilbur went out on the Inn piazza and was assailed with the island sights and odors, the snowy daisy drifts, the dark evergreens, the rock-lashed foam dragging at the pebbles and flinging them back with a never-ceasing crescendo and diminuendo, the soaring, sweeping gulls above and beneath the blue, she did not speak for a time, and it was a place where her lorgnette failed.

LÉonie, however, kept up a joyous undertone. "Mais, c'est comme chez moi. C'est vraiment comme chez moi, et Mr. Beel, he will take me to see ze poisson."

"Mr. Beel" kept his word, and not once, but many times, did Mrs. Wilbur look about vainly for her maid in a place where there was no bell to ring for her, and no clocks for her to see when she was without, and Bill's motor was running up and down the road in such a convenient way for him to stop and take on an eager passenger, for whom no fishing boat was too dirty, and who could swim as well as any fish in the bay.

"Do let her go, Mamma," Diana said one morning when they were alone. "She is having a real vacation. When you are once attired and your hair is dressed, can I not perform any other office for you?"

"But I don't know which is the maid, LÉonie or I," said Mrs. Wilbur. "First she had to have a sweater and I sent for that. Then she wanted a bathing-suit and I sent for that. Then she bought herself some fishing tackle and, if she can't get out in a boat, she sits on the wharf with her feet hanging over and fishes for those—those—"

"Cunners?" suggested Diana.

"Yes; and she knows every one of the island boys, and how does she know when I need her? She doesn't think anything about it."

"That's it," returned Diana, nodding. "She has lost her head. That is what we all do. You will, too, Mamma. I heard you laughing and laughing with Mr. Kelly yesterday."

"He is such a droll creature," said Mrs. Wilbur, with a reminiscent smile. "It's such a queer place here," she went on with a puzzled brow. "You could put this whole Inn into the ballroom at Newport, and there isn't space enough to turn around in the little rooms; yet out of doors it is all space, and something in the air makes you want to run and jump. I might as well tell you, Diana, my mind is just getting set at rest on the subject of Mr. Barrison. Your craze for this place seemed unnatural, and when I first saw him in Boston, I suspected that he was the cause." The lady met her daughter's calm eyes which contradicted her changing color.

"What should have disturbed you about that?" asked the girl quietly.

"Disturbed me! That you should have come off here alone and fallen in love with nobody knows who?"

"Oh, a good many people are learning who. That is really the chief trouble with him: I mean from a girl's standpoint. He is rapidly becoming one of the stars of the musical world."

"And why is that a drawback?" Mrs. Wilbur began to feel somewhat bewildered by her daughter's attitude.

Diana's color was rather high, but she turned toward her mother with entire calm. "I am not going to marry a man whom other women besiege. My husband will be rather short. I think he will stoop and be nearsighted and wear spectacles. He will incline to baldness, but he will be very charming—to me, and he will be mine." The smile that accompanied this declaration was so winning that Mrs. Wilbur was startled.

"Diana, have you met any such person?" she returned. "I don't like the sound of him at all!"

"Not yet," admitted Diana. "But I keep him in mind. He fights off other types."

"Supposing," said Mrs. Wilbur sharply, "some very desirable man, as attractive as Mr. Barrison, for instance, were to say he wouldn't marry you, because you are too pretty—other men would look at you."

"You do think he is attractive, do you, Mamma?"

"Why—certainly," returned Mrs. Wilbur, not quite sure even yet that the admission was safe.

"The cases are not parallel," said Diana. "Women as a rule are more faithful, and men are conceited. The average man must have severe lessons before he believes that the woman who has loved him will turn to some one else."

"Why, Diana, I am surprised at you. You talk in such a sophisticated way; but, my dear, let me remind you that you have some one beside yourself to please when you marry. Your father may give you an unlimited check-book, but he won't give you carte blanche when it comes to marrying. He isn't going to welcome into the family any insignificant little scarecrow such as you are counting on."

If Philip wanted to hear Diana laugh, it was a pity he wasn't near now, for she burst forth so merrily that Veronica peeped out the window.

"I see you are going to be as difficult as I am, Mamma," she said at last.

It was soon after this that the cottage people with one accord begged Philip to give a recital in the hall. The summer colony was an appreciative and cultured one. Many of them had known Philip from his boyhood, and were watching his career with interest. So it was an occasion of intimacy and delight.

When the evening arrived, the hall was decked with flowers, and the singer and his accompanist appeared in white flannels. Philip was his own programme, announcing his songs and receiving at times stentorian requests for special encores.

Mrs. Wilbur, as she looked and listened, felt that she gained an understanding of Diana's arguments: not that, in any case, she desired this young man for a son-in-law, but she was greatly surprised at the beauty of his voice and his art. It was a feast he gave them that night in the uncalculating opulence of his youth and strength: Arias from "BohÈme" and "La Tosca"; the "Dream Song" from "Manon"; ballads; a group of modern French songs; another of old English. Barney Kelly's accompanying was perfect. He was among strangers, and he was as serious throughout as if they were performing in Carnegie Hall. Despite the fact that the piano was an upright, he played a group of Chopin, Palmgren, and Debussy with great charm, and the contingent from the Inn led the strong applause. As he bowed, Kelly recognized Veronica's rosy, serious face and wildly active hands.

At the close of the recital, Mrs. Wilbur was more excited than she had been for years.

"He's wonderful, Diana," she said, standing up while she was still in the throes of hand-clapping. "Wonderful! We must try to get him for an October date in Pittsfield. Our room is quite large enough. He will make a sensation."

"Yes," said Diana, rather faintly. "That is the easiest thing he does." Her face was pale. The possible charmer with the bald head and spectacles had had a hard fight to-night.

Barney Kelly disappeared through some back door while Philip's enthusiastic friends gathered around him, and Veronica dashed out on the front piazza, cleared the steps in two bounds, and the July moon aided her progress between the bushes to the back of the hall where a figure in white was straying.

"Mr. Kelly," she called breathlessly, "you were perfectly splendid. Why didn't you stay and let the people tell you so?"

"Oh, I don't know them," said Barney carelessly. "And they want to eat up Barrison."

"But they want to eat up you, too. Didn't you see how crazy they were about that last funny out-of-tune thing you played?"

Kelly laughed.

"And don't you go away; they're going to dance."

"Oh, do they want me to play?"

"Don't you dare to play! Don't you dare to let them know you can." Barney laughed again. "Well, of course, they know now you can, but not dance music."

"You're a very nice child, Veronica." Barney looked at her little dimpled rose face, and the pale green dress she wore.

"Well, if I am, then come around to the front piazza with me. They're setting back the chairs."

Meanwhile Mrs. Wilbur was drawing Diana toward the group surrounding Philip. "I don't know what to say to you that won't sound too effusive," she said as soon as she could get his attention and his hand. "Will you come to us in October and sing a recital?"

"I shall be glad to, if I can. I will see about my dates." As Philip replied, he looked at Diana. She gave him a pale smile and said nothing. More people approached and Mrs. Wilbur drew away, her daughter with her.

"Miss Diana," said Philip, across the heads of the crowd, "they are going to dance. Will you stay?"

Diana nodded. "You like to dance, Mamma. You stay, too."

"Oh, not in this little place where everybody will be stepping on every one else. Beside, LÉonie's beau is waiting outside to take us home. I will go with Miss Burridge and tell Bill to come back for you in an hour. I suppose you don't need a chaperon for I don't see your ideal here to-night, Diana," in a lowered voice. "You were right about Mr. Barrison. Let us pray that women don't make a complete fool of him. You don't look just right, dear. Don't stay late. I'll tell Bill to come back in an hour. Oh, there is that comical Mr. Kelly." Mrs. Wilbur sailed up to him. "Thank you so much for this evening. You were delightful, Mr. Kelly, and Mr. Barrison is most fortunate in having you."

"But you're not going, Mrs. Wilbur?"

"Yes; good-night."

"No, not until you've danced once with me. There, the music is just going to begin." And, sure enough, Miss Burridge stood back and waited while Mrs. Wilbur's little satin-clad feet tripped lightly around in the dance with the volatile Barney, and she talked to him about the date in October and promised she would dance with him again at that time.

Mrs. Lowell and Herbert had been enjoying the concert and had told Philip so, and now stood back watching the dancing.

"Would you like to learn to dance?" asked Mrs. Lowell.

"No."

"It sounds better to say, 'No, Mrs. Lowell,' or, 'No, I thank you.'"

"Then I will," said the boy.

"I like to dance," said Mrs. Lowell, "and I wish you would learn."

"Then I will," said the boy again.

The music had thrilled his artist soul. It seemed all a part of the entrancing night, a part of the safe world of love into which he had been guided.