Over my hayfield, that morning toward the last of June, a pleasant breeze was blowing, and from the southwest, as is the habit of breezes hereabout. A man clad in white flannels, and wandering slowly about, would have found that hayfield cool enough and pleasant, I have no doubt. I found it pleasant, but not cool, for I was mowing. For weeks I sought some one—any one—who would cut my grass, and cut it in June, for I have a prejudice in favor of June for cutting hay. In the last week of June the grass is in full flower—tiny blossoms of a pale violet color—and the stems are swollen with the juices, and rich and tender. I, in my ignorance, believe that it makes more succulent hay than if cut in July, when the stalks have begun to dry up and become thin and wiry. Besides, if it is cut in June it is out of the way, and I can use my hayfield for a ball-field if I am so minded.

I am no mower, and I have not known what a scythe should be. I was dimly aware that my old scythe was not everything that could be desired, for I remember that when I took it to be ground the man applied it lightly to his stone, then harder, then cursed and bore on with all his might, and cursed again and sweated for half an hour, and charged me ten cents, holding the scythe out to me as if he never wanted to see it again. He observed that it was the hardest scythe he ever see; and I smiled and thanked him, and thought no more of the matter, and walked off with my scythe. And I struggled with that scythe for ten years, never being able to keep it sharp, and spending much more time with the whetstone than I did in mowing, but I did but little mowing, only trimming around here and there. I never got the scythe sharp. I know that now, but I did not know it then, attributing the fault to my own lack of skill.

I got a new scythe the other day, being unwilling to whet through two acres. I can get it as sharp as a razor in half a dozen strokes of the stone. When I tried it the other afternoon, just before dinner, I found myself laughing, and I should have gone at the hayfield then if Eve had not stopped me. Now I go about with my scythe in my hand, and hunt for clumps of grass tall enough to cut, for the hayfield is shorn close and tolerably smooth, and the grass lies in the sun and gives off all manner of sweet odors.

The mowing of that hayfield with that new scythe was simply a joy—a delight. I swung to and fro with the rhythmic motion of rowing—mowing is not unlike rowing, and one swings about thirty or more to the minute—with my eyes on the ground, and I listened to the sounds: a soft ripping with a little metallic ting as the scythe advanced, and a gentle swish as it swung back again. Yes, mowing is a delight—with a good scythe; but it is a hot sort of amusement. If I could regulate matters mowing time should fall in November. All mowing should be done by hand, and mowing should be compulsory for all able-bodied men. They would be the better for it.

I stood for a few minutes, leaning on my scythe and letting the breeze blow through me and gazing down the bay. Then I went at my mowing again and the scythe sang a new song. It was sub—marine; sub—marine, over and over. And I kept at my mowing mechanically while I thought my thoughts. There had been no reports of submarines since the day of Eve's party, and nothing further said of the report of that day. Even Bobby would say no more than that they did not find any; and when I would have rallied him, remarking that I feared he had not baited his traps properly, he glowered at me, which hurt my feelings. It was not like Bobby to glower. But Bobby seemed tormented by that restlessness which seizes on men in a certain case. I did not laugh at him, for I feared lest he take it but ill, but I did counsel him to take to clamming; at which he gave me a smile that would have brought tears to Eve's eyes. He has not yet found that fount of eternal youth, and whether he will find it or not no one can guess. I hope he will, and that joy and peace will be in his abiding place forever. And the one who should show him the fount is not far to seek, as he well knows; but, as I think, and Eve too, he is stubborn and cherishes some fancied grievance, hugging it to his heart. The poor fool!

Then I stopped mowing, and straightened my back, and rested. And, on a sudden, that talking machine of my neighbor began pouring forth a strident voice, and I looked and there was the little Sands girl watching me over the wall. She no longer throws things. But I was not giving an exhibition of mowing, and I nodded to her, and went back to my garden. Melons are a lottery; but I looked at my peas—my second look that morning—to make sure that they will be ready for the Fourth, and I took a turn about the garden. And all the while I listened, much against my will, to that strident voice. And when it had finished that particular humorous selection, I fled, my scythe on my arm, for fear that I should have some sort of secret liking for the next selection; and I came to my pine, and I sat me down on the seat, and again my gaze ran across the waters of the harbor, well ruffled by the breeze and dancing in the sun, to the shore opposite; and down that curving line of shore to the lighthouse on its rock; and over the blue-gray water beyond, that was lightly veiled in haze, to the islands floating high. And on the water between the lighthouse and the islands I saw the Arcadia. She was coming fast, with all her light canvas set, a thing of beauty. It would be a fast submarine I thought, that could damage her—in any sort of breeze. Then I thought idly of Captain Fergus, and of Elizabeth and Olivia, and Bobby and Ogilvie, and of Eve and Pukkie. That is the goal—Eve and Pukkie and Tidda—little Eve.

Elizabeth has been our guest for the past two weeks when she has not been on the Arcadia. She puzzles me yet. What is she doing here so long—a poor girl, seeming to be loafing out the summer? She should be conducting her classes in swimming. It is likely enough that the same question has been a puzzle to Bobby; but he takes it harder than I. I am content to let the question go unanswered and have her stay with us. She is a good comrade, and a comfort to Eve, and she is fond of Tidda, and Pukkie is her willing slave. For Pukkie is at home again.

He came on the twelfth. I remember that we had had a hard rain for two days before, and that all the ploughed land was no better than a bog, and all the fields were covered with water under their cover of grass, so that the water was running out through the crevices of the stone walls, through each crevice a rivulet. But not my field, and my garden was no bog. And I waited, sitting just where I was at that moment and gazing idly at the same things that were there before my eyes. I could not work in peace, nor sit in peace for many minutes at a time, but I spent the morning going like a shuttle from garden to pine and wandering the shore, then back again.

Eve had gone with Old Goodwin in his fastest car to bring him back—"him" being Pukkie, my son. But as the time approached for his arrival I sat upon the bench and simulated peace and content, and gave no outward sign of other; but every muscle was tense, and every nerve on edge; I listened so hard that it hurt, and I wished devoutly that Old Goodwin's car was not so perfect and so silent, and I resolutely kept my gaze fixed upon the distant hills, and did not see them.

At last I heard the latch of the gate click faintly, as though somebody had tried to lift it without noise, and I heard an excited chuckle, instantly subdued. And I turned quickly, forgetting that I had resolved not to turn, and there was Pukkie running toward me. And I whipped up and ran, and I sank upon one knee and held my arms wide. And Pukkie ran into them at full speed, almost knocking me over, and he threw his arms around my neck, and he hugged me. He hugged me so tight that I was nearly strangled; but not quite—not so nearly but that I could hug him close and whisper in his ear.

"Oh, Pukkie!" I whispered. "My dear little son! My well beloved!"

For answer he but hugged me the harder, and gave an excited little laugh that was near to tears. That was enough for me. Indeed, I was not so far from tears. I looked up at Eve, who had followed close, and tears stood in her eyes, but she was smiling. Oh, such a smile! A smile that belongs to wives and mothers—of a certain kind. And, seeing her, I gave thanks. But that is nothing new that I give thanks for that, for I have done the same many times a day for many years.

Then Old Goodwin came up behind Eve.

"If you and Pukkie can spare the time," he said to me, "I should be glad to have you ride home with me—you and Eve. I have something to show you."

Pukkie went somewhat eagerly, and Eve and I, having devoted ourselves to following our son about, went after, not so eagerly. And Old Goodwin took us down to his boathouse, which is at the head of his stone pier and gives upon his artificial harbor, and out of the car and into the boathouse.

"Grandfather," said Pukkie, trying in vain to keep all signs of excitement out of his voice, "is it my dory that we're going to see? Is it?"

Old Goodwin smiled to himself. "Well, no, Pukkie. It isn't your dory. I didn't manage that. But it's something of that nature."

"Oh," said Pukkie in low tones of disappointment, "I didn't know but—" Old Goodwin had opened the door at the other side. "Oh! What's that?"

Made fast to the stage there lay a perfect little sloop about twenty feet long which seemed to be an exact reproduction in miniature of a large boat. Every sail was there which the large boats carried, every rope and block and stay, although they had drawn the line at a separate topmast. I realized at a glance that there were too many ropes and blocks and stays for her size. It would take more of a crew to handle her easily than she could carry.

But Pukkie realized nothing of the kind. He ran toward her, and stood beside her, touching with a fearful hand her smooth deck, and the pretty blocks and cleats of shining brass, and smiling.

There was even a gangway ladder, and her gunwale not much more than a foot above the water.

Pukkie turned his shining face to me.

"Oh, daddy," he cried, "look at her dear little jibs. Aren't they cunning?"

They were cunning and tiny.

Old Goodwin, simple-hearted gentleman that he was, was as pleased as Pukkie. He seemed delighted.

"There are other sails," he said, smiling and eager. "In the sail locker you will find a gafftopsail and a jibtopsail and a flying jib. We couldn't very well manage any more," he added to me.

"They are quite enough," I returned, "for her size—and for her crew to manage."

"She is rather deep for her length," Old Goodwin went on. "A boy can stand straight in her cabin, and a man very nearly. Go aboard, Puk, and see. Go down into the cabin."

So Pukkie, excited and solemn, went aboard, stepping carefully, and opened the cabin doors, and disappeared. We followed him on deck and looked down. There was a little table in the middle which would fold up out of the way, and there were two small transoms with little netted hammocks for the sleeper's clothes, like a sleeping-car. And there was a silver pitcher for ice water, and racks for glasses and dishes, and shelves with brass rails around them, and lockers tucked away in every corner, and a door at the forward end which should have led to the galley. Old Goodwin saw my look of incredulity, and he smiled.

"There is a galley," he said, "although a very small one. But I think a boy could manage it. About the size of a cupboard." Old Goodwin pushed the slide farther back. "We had to put this slide on her," he said apologetically, "or there couldn't have been a cabin of any use to anybody. I was sorry."

I was not sorry. It would help to keep the seas off. But Pukkie took one last look around, drew one long, quivering breath, and came up.

"Oh, see!" he cried.

I turned and looked where he was pointing. There was the little wheel, which we had seen before; and there too was a tiny binnacle with its compass, cunningly contrived to take no room, set just forward of the wheel.

"Do you like it, Pukkie?" Old Goodwin asked somewhat wistfully. "Do you think that you'll like her as well as you would have liked a dory?"

"Like her!" cried Pukkie. "Like her! Oh, grandfather!"

And he leaped at his grandfather, and seized him about the neck, and hid his face; and Old Goodwin patted Pukkie's shoulder, somewhat awkwardly, and smiled at Eve and me. I wonder what is the market value of the time that Old Goodwin wastes upon his grandson.

Then Pukkie would go sailing at once. It did not matter that it was time for luncheon, although my clock that I carry beneath my belt told me that it was. He was not hungry. It did not occur to him to wonder about me, or he would have offered to get me a luncheon in his galley. So we set forth to sail the raging main; a little sail of half an hour, with Eve and Old Goodwin to see us off.

So we set all the little sails, but we did not get out from the sail locker that gafftopsail and the jibtopsail and that wonderful flying jib. The wind was moderately strong. And we glided out from Old Goodwin's harbor with me at the wheel, and Pukkie sitting beside me with shining face. The little boat was handy, and she went about her business with no fuss, and the water began to hiss past under her rail. And I sat the straighter. Truly, what is luncheon?

We passed some fishermen going out—the same way that we were going, and we passed them as if they were at anchor; and they gazed in amazement and I saw them pointing. I headed for a lighter that I saw dimly through the light haze—she was anchored by a wreck, as I chanced to know—and I gave up the wheel to Pukkie.

He had never steered with a wheel, but I undertook to teach him—although the art of steering, whether with a wheel or with a tiller, cannot be taught. One learns to steer by feeling. And Pukkie was alert and anxious to learn. I told him to keep the boat headed for the lighter, at which he looked at me in surprise, and suggested that it might be too far to get back in half an hour. It was; but I did not tell him so.

Thereafter, for some time, the boat cut some astonishing capers, which must have set those fishermen to wondering. We passed the fish traps, with men in rowboats busy with taking in the catch; and we passed innumerable terns, or, rather, they passed us, and they were fishing and sending forth their harsh metallic cry; and we saw a pair of fishhawks, and they too were fishing. All fishing. Truly, the business of the waters is catching fish. And Pukkie was getting the hang of the wheel and steering a straighter course, so that he could give some attention to other matters.

There were rocks which looked like monsters just risen from the deep, and with the water washing over their backs.

"They look like submarines," said Pukkie. "Don't they, daddy?"

I explained to him the appearance of the back of a modern submarine; but the rocks did remind me of submarines. Everything reminds me of submarines. And we saw, afar off upon the water, a small gray speck. And the speck grew until it became a motor-boat, painted a dark gray. Why they paint them a gray that is almost black is a mystery. There is no concealment in it. This motor-boat was small, and was heading right for us, it seemed.

"Is that a chaser, daddy?" Pukkie seems to have the jargon pat. Probably he learned it at school. "It isn't very fast, is it? It couldn't catch a submarine, could it? It wouldn't be any use to chase with that." His words held a depth of scorn. Always submarines. I cannot get away from them. "Why don't you go out and chase them, daddy? I should think you would like to. I would."

I am thankful that he cannot. I gave him some answer that seemed to satisfy him.

"That chaser is trying to meet us," he resumed. "Whichever way I go, she goes too."

It did look so; but it was a small boat and slow. I thought that we could beat her likely enough, if it came to a chase, but Pukkie would not have it so. He wanted to meet her, and asked me to steer.

We met in a few minutes, and the pleasant-faced ensign hailed me and asked if I had a license or a permit or something. I knew nothing of any permit, and I told him so, and he said that they were required, and we had to turn about and sail back again. It was just as well, for we were like to be over our half-hour; and we got in well ahead of the motor-boat.

Since that day I have been out with Pukkie every afternoon, for he must be taught to sail if he has a boat. He is well used to going with me in my dory and he swims passing well for a boy of ten. He will be eleven in October. And Elizabeth has taken him in hand. She sails nearly as well as she swims, and she sails with him nearly every morning; and sometimes Eve and she go with us in the afternoon. I feared a little at first to take so many, for I thought it might swamp the boat; but the boat will carry all she will hold.

I had got to this point in my meditations, and I was well rested, and I was somewhat cooler than I was; and my scythe rested against the bench beside me, and I gazed down the bay at the Arcadia, and I wondered idly about Captain Fergus. If Elizabeth was a mystery, he was no less. He did not seem the sort of man to be sailing idly about in a beautiful, fast yacht when everybody else was busy in looking for something to fight; everybody but Old Goodwin and me, and Old Goodwin is nearly seventy. Fergus is a fighter if ever I saw one, the very kind of man that would stick out his jaw and damn the torpedoes.

Since Tom Ellis is gone, I have no moral support against my conscience—if it is my conscience that makes me vaguely uncomfortable—except the knowledge of Eve's pacifist attitude. I try not to say anything that would give her concern, but it is hard sometimes. It gets harder as time goes on. Gardening is well enough, but I hate to be left alone and gardening. Gardening seems but a poor occupation for a man when other matters are afoot, although it is better, perhaps, than acting as chauffeur for a lot of naval officers. But Tom seems to like it well enough, and says that he has put himself entirely in their hands, and does whatever he is called upon to do, without a thought for the morrow, which is, no doubt, the proper attitude. Cecily likes it too, and spends most of her time in Newport, going to and fro in Old Goodwin's car. I went over with them one day, and the first thing my eyes alighted upon was the Arcadia just come to anchor, and Captain Fergus landing at the War College. Perhaps his conscience was too much for him. Fergus is a year or two older than I am, and—confound it!—there is some fight left in me yet. If there were only something more than phantoms to fight! And this frantic search for what is not!

I heard the sound of a screen door slamming, and looked around the tree-trunk, and saw Pukkie running over the grass toward me; and behind him there came, at a somewhat more sedate pace, Eve and Elizabeth.

"Daddy," Pukkie called as soon as he saw me, "don't you want to go swimming? We're going. Tidda's at grandmother's."

Being indulged, of course, with unlimited cookies and raisins and anything else she took a fancy to. Grandmothers have a talent for indulging, and Tidda has a genius for accepting indulgences.

"I do, Pukkie. That is exactly what I want. I have been mowing. Is your mother going swimming? You going in, Eve?"

"Yes, she's going." And Eve smiled and nodded.

So I put my scythe in the shed, and we went down the steep path, and along the shore where the water lapped high; and past my clam beds to the bathhouse near the stone pier. The bathhouse is Old Goodwin's, as any might guess, and the little beach is Old Goodwin's, and the float-stage a little way out, with its springboard. It is good bathing at that little beach only when high water covers the sand. Beyond the sand are great pebbles covered with rockweed and barnacles.

Eve came out hesitating, her eyes smiling and tender as she looked at me; but a dark green cap covered her glorious hair except some wisps which ever bother her with their straggling, and the sun shone upon the wandering locks and framed her head in fine spun copper.

"Don't you think, Adam," she asked timidly, "we might go in here? It is a good tide—and I'm afraid I can't manage the float."

Eve does not swim very well, although confidence is all she lacks to make her a passable swimmer. And I was quite willing, but Elizabeth would not hear of it, promising that she would look out for Eve; and she had us all in the boat and rowing out before we could make our objections heard.

And no sooner were we well clear of the beach, than Elizabeth dived, and when she came up again,—it was some distance that she was under water—she called to Pukkie. And Pukkie, with supreme confidence in Elizabeth, stood up on the seat and dived over the side, and swam beside her.

Eve seemed to have more confidence in Elizabeth than she had in me, which is not strange, for I have observed that, in matters of skill or knowledge or judgment, a woman will trust the veriest stranger before her husband, although in this matter of skill and knowledge Elizabeth was well past me.

So Eve trusted herself utterly to Elizabeth, and she made some progress in her swimming. And we all floundered about there in the cool, clean water until Elizabeth said that Eve was cold, and then we all drew ourselves, dripping, on to the float, and there, but a little way off, was the Arcadia anchored, and her sails nearly furled.

As I gazed at her I thought I saw something queer about her topmast stays—a little thing. It looked almost like aerials for wireless. I asked Elizabeth about it.

She was looking at it too, almost with satisfaction.

"Yes," she said, "I see. It does look as if it might be."

Why should she know? And then the tender put off with Captain Fergus and Bobby and made for the landing, going rather close to us huddled on the float. They hailed us, Bobby very solemnly, but they did not stop.

There was a light of mischief in Eve's eyes.

"I'm going to have Bobby to dinner to-night," she whispered.

"If he'll come," I said in her ear.

"Oh, he'll come."

And he did.

Eve and I were standing alone together and silent and hand in hand upon the edge of my bluff, watching while the Great Painter spread his colors as he was wont to do. The still waters were covered with all manner of reds and purples. The grasses of the little marsh below us waved gently above the shining mud, and now and then there broke a wave that ran in among the grass stems in ripples of color, and left the wet mud glistening in a coat of shimmering green, and set the grass waving anew.

As we stood there looking down, Bobby came silently and stood beside us, and breathed a long sigh, and gazed for a long time. Then he looked at Eve and smiled.

"Lovely," he said, "and peaceful. For the matter of that, it would be hard to find a more peaceful-looking place than the lightship—in good weather."

"Then, Bobby," I said, "I take it that not many periscopes have fallen to your bow and spear."

He shook his head. "I'm disgusted. I'm beginning to think that the Germans have no submarines, and that all these tales are fables. Your traps, Adam, are no good. I'd just like to get a chance to go across to the North Sea or Ireland or the Channel. I'll tell you in strict confidence—we have been warned not to talk about these things—a mine sweeper went to Boston a few days ago, on the way over. Nobody knows when she will leave Boston. I was greatly tempted to try for a place on her. But I'll get there yet."

"No doubt there would be occupation for idle hands over there. But what has become of Ogilvie? We have not seen him since the clambake."

"He's busy. He's going over—to go on a chaser. Lucky chap! He had his orders that very morning. Waiting for the chaser. But I'd be tried for high treason if you were to tell anybody—even Miss Radnor, for instance."

I had turned about, and there was Elizabeth. She must have heard it all, for she turned pale, and the light in her eyes went out suddenly, leaving them cold as stones. It was a pity.

She came forward slowly. "Why are you afraid of me, Mr. Leverett?"

"Afraid of you?" asked Bobby in surprise. "I am not. Why should I be?" It was a challenge. "We have been warned to be cautious."

"It was not I who was incautious," said Elizabeth.

Bobby smiled, and his smile was not pleasant to see, but he spoke in a faultless manner.

"You are never incautious," he said. "Trust you for that."

Then Pukkie came running, with Tidda after him, and they pitched upon Bobby and created a diversion, which we welcomed.

Our dinner was not a success, as may well be imagined. Elizabeth was cold and silent, which was not like her. We had come to know Elizabeth pretty well, and we liked her; and we knew Bobby very well, and we liked him. And it is unpleasant and awkward when people whom you like and who like each other—I knew it well enough—speak together little and look upon one another with hostility which is but ill concealed. And, dinner over, we withdrew to our candles, but Elizabeth went up with Tidda, and Pukkie followed her. Bobby laughed mirthlessly at that, and muttered something. It sounded to me like "latest victim."

We had a pleasant but short evening with Bobby, and he left early, making an excuse of duty. As we turned away we encountered Elizabeth, who murmured that she had just got the children to sleep, and said that she was going out for a few minutes.

"I was glad to hear that news of Jack," she said. "To say truth, I have known it for a long time. Jack told me." Truly, she was not incautious. "It will settle the yeogirl. That was a joke, he wrote me. But, whether it was or not, it will settle her."

"And Olivia?" I asked.

"Olivia is settled already. She has gone home."