Instantly, Georgina dropped her pencil and flew out to meet him. Here was an opportunity to find out all about the Brewster trip. As he came towards her she saw the same look in his weather-beaten old face which she had wondered at the day before, when he was bending over Aunt Elspeth, patting her on the cheek. It was like the shining of a newly-lighted candle.

She was not the only one who had noticed it. All the way up the street glances had followed him. People turned for a second look, wondering what good fortune had befallen the old fellow. They had come to expect a cheery greeting from him. He always left a kindly glow behind him whenever he passed. But to-day the cheeriness was so intensified that he seemed to be brimming over with good will to everybody.

"Why, Uncle Darcy!" cried Georgina. "You look so happy!"

"Well, is it any wonder, lass, with such news from Danny? Him alive and well and sure to come back to me some of these days! I could hardly keep from shouting it out to everybody as I came along the street. I'm afraid it'll just naturally tell itself some day, in spite of my promise to Belle. I'm glad I can let off steam up here, you knowing the secret, too, for this old heart of mine is just about to burst with all the gladness that's inside of me."

Here was someone as anxious to tell as she was to hear; someone who could recall every word of the interview with the wild-cat woman. Georgina swung on to his arm which held the bell, and began to ask questions, and nothing loath, he let her lead him into the yard and to the rustic seat running around the trunk of the big willow tree. He was ready to rest, now that his route was traveled and his dollar earned.

Belle, back in the kitchen, preparing a light dinner for herself and Georgina, Tippy being away for the day, did not see him come in. She had not seen him since the day the old rifle gave up its secret, and she tried to put him out of her mind as much as possible, for she was miserable every time she thought of him. She would have been still more miserable could she have heard all that he was saying to Georgina.

"Jimmy Milford thought that the liniment folks calling the boy 'Dave,' proved that he wasn't the same as my Danny. But just one thing would have settled all doubts for me if I'd a had any. That was what he kept a calling in his fever when he was out of his head: 'Belle mustn't suffer. Belle must be spared, no matter what happens!'

"And that's the one thing that reconciles me to keeping still a while longer. It was his wish to spare her, and if he could sacrifice so much to do it, I can't make his sacrifice seem in vain. I lay awake last night till nearly daylight, thinking how I'd like to take this old bell of mine, and go from one end of the town to the other, ringing it till it cracked, crying out, 'Danny is innocent,' to the whole world. But the time hasn't come yet. I'll have to be patient a while longer and bear up the best I can."

Georgina, gazing fixedly ahead of her at nothing in particular, pondered seriously for a long, silent moment.

"If you did that," she said finally, "cried the good news through the town till everybody knew—then when people found out that it was Emmett Potter who was the thief and that he was too much of a coward to own up and take the blame—would they let the monument go on standing there, that they'd put up to show he was brave? It would serve him right if they took it down, wouldn't it!" she exclaimed with a savage little scowl drawing her brows together.

"No, no, child!" he said gently. "Give the lad his due. He was brave that one time. He saved all of those lives as it is chiseled on his headstone. It is better he should be remembered for the best act in his life than for the worst one. A man's measure should be taken when he's stretched up to his full height, just as far as he can lift up his head; not when he's stooped to the lowest. It's only fair to judge either the living or the dead that way."

For some time after that nothing more was said. The harbor was full of boats this morning. It was a sight worth watching. One naturally drifted into day-dreams, following the sweep of the sails moving silently toward the far horizon. Georgina was busy picturing a home-coming scene that made the prodigal son's welcome seem mild in comparison, when Uncle Darcy startled her by exclaiming:

"Oh, it pays to bear up and steer right onward! S'pose I hadn't done that. S'pose I hadn't kept Hope at the prow. I believe I'd have been in my grave by this time with all the grief and worry. But now——"

He stopped and shook his head, unable to find words to express the emotion which was making his voice tremble and his face glow with that wonderful inner shining. Georgina finished the sentence for him, looking out on the sail-filled harbor and thinking of the day he had taken her out in his boat to tell her of his son.

"But now you'll be all ready and waiting when your ship comes home from sea with its precious cargo." They were his own words she was repeating.

"Danny'll weather the storms at last and come into port with all flags flying."

The picture her words suggested was too much for the old father. He put his hat up in front of his face, and his shoulders shook with silent sobs. Georgina laid a sympathetic little hand on the rough sleeve next her. Suddenly the sails in the harbor seemed to run together all blurry and queer. She drew her hand across her eyes and looked again at the heaving shoulders. A happiness so deep that it found its expression that way, filled her with awe. It must be the kind of happiness that people felt when they reached "the shining shore, the other side of Jordan," and their loved ones came down to welcome them "into their desired haven."

That last phrase came to her lips like a bit of remembered music and unconsciously she repeated it aloud. Uncle Darcy heard it, and looked up. His cheeks were wet when he put down his hat, but it was the happiest face she had ever seen, and there was no shake in his voice now when he said solemnly:

"And nobody but the good Lord who's helped his poor sailors through shipwreck and storm, knows how mightily they've desired that haven, or what it means to them to be brought into it."

A delivery wagon from one of the fruit stores stopped in front of the gate, and the driver came in, carrying a basket. Uncle Darcy spoke to him as he passed the willow tree.

"Well, Joe, this looks like a chance for me to get a lift most of the way home."

"Sure," was the cordial reply. "Climb in. I'll be right back."

Georgina thought of something as he rose to go.

"Oh, wait just a minute, Uncle Darcy, I want to get something of yours that's down cellar."

When she came back there was no time or opportunity for an explanation. He and the driver were both in the wagon. She reached up and put the bag on the seat beside him.

"I—I did something to some of your eggs, yesterday," she stammered, "and these are to take the place of the ones I broke."

Uncle Darcy peered into the bag with a puzzled expression. He had not missed any eggs from the crock of bran. He didn't know what she was talking about. But before he could ask any questions the driver slapped the horse with the reins, and they were rattling off down street. Georgina stood looking after them a moment, then turned her head to listen. Somebody was calling her. It was Belle, who had come to the front door to say that dinner was ready.

Whenever Mrs. Triplett was at home, Belle made extra efforts to talk and appear interested in what was going on around her. She was afraid her keen-eyed Aunt Maria would see that she was unhappy. But alone with Georgina who shared her secret, she relapsed into a silence so deep it could be felt, responding only with a wan smile when the child's lively chatter seemed to force an answer of some kind. But to-day when Georgina came to the table she was strangely silent herself, so mute that Belle noticed it, and found that she was being furtively watched by the big brown eyes opposite her. Every time Belle looked up she caught Georgina's gaze fastened on her, and each time it was immediately transferred to her plate.

"What's the matter, Georgina?" she asked finally. "Why do you keep staring at me?"

Georgina flushed guiltily. "Nothing," was the embarrassed answer. "I was just wondering whether to tell you or not. I thought maybe you'd like to know, and maybe you ought to know, but I wasn't sure whether you'd want me to talk to you about it or not."

Belle put down her tea-cup. It was her turn to stare.

"For goodness' sake! What are you beating around the bush about?"

"About the news from Danny," answered Georgina. "About the letter he wrote to the wild-cat woman and that got buried in the dunes too deep ever to be dug up again."

As this was the first Belle had heard of either the letter or the woman, her expression of astonishment was all that Georgina could desire. Her news had made a sensation. Belle showed plainly that she was startled, and as eager to hear as Georgina was to tell. So she began at the beginning, from the time of the opening of the pouch on the Green Stairs, to the last word of the wild-cat woman's conversation which Uncle Darcy had repeated to her only a few moments before under the willow.

Instinctively, she gave the recital a dramatic touch which made Belle feel almost like an eye witness as she listened. And it was with Uncle Darcy's own gestures and manner that she repeated his final statement.

"Jimmy Milford thought the liniment folks calling the boy Dave proved he wasn't the same as my Danny. But just one thing would have settled all doubts for me if I'd had any. That was what he kept a calling in his fever when he was out of his head: 'Belle mustn't suffer. Belle must be spared no matter what happens.'"

At the bringing of her own name into the story Belle gave a perceptible start and a tinge of red crept into her pale cheeks.

"Did he say that, Georgina?" she demanded, leaning forward and looking at her intently. "Are you sure those are his exact words?"

"His very-own-exactly-the-same words," declared Georgina solemnly. "I cross my heart and body they're just as Uncle Darcy told them to me."

Rising from the table, Belle walked over to the window and stood with her back to Georgina, looking out into the garden.

"Well, and what next?" she demanded in a queer, breathless sort of way.

"And then Uncle Darcy said that his saying that was the one thing that made him feel willing to keep still a while longer about—you know—what was in the rifle. 'Cause if Danny cared enough about sparing you to give up home and his good name and everything else in life he couldn't spoil it all by telling now. But Uncle Darcy said he lay awake nearly all last night thinking how he'd love to take that old bell of his and go ringing it through the town till it cracked, calling out to the world, 'My boy is innocent.'

"And when I said something about it's all coming out all right some day, and that Danny would weather the storms and come into port with all flags flying——" Here Georgina lowered her voice and went on slowly as if she hesitated to speak of what happened next—"he just put his old hat over his face and cried. And I felt so sorry——"

Georgina's voice choked. There were tears in her eyes as she spoke of the scene.

"Don't!" groaned Belle, her back still turned.

The note of distress in Belle's voice stilled Georgina's lively tongue a few seconds, but there was one more thing in her mind to be said, and with the persistence of a mosquito she returned to the subject to give that final stab, quite unconscious of how deeply it would sting. She was only wondering aloud, something which she had often wondered to herself.

"I should think that when anybody had suffered as long as Danny has to spare you, it would make you want to spare him. Doesn't it? I should think that you'd want to do something to sort of make up to him for it all. Don't you?"

"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Belle again, sharply this time. Then to Georgina's utter amazement she buried her face in her apron, stood sobbing by the window a moment, and ran out of the room. She did not come downstairs again until nearly supper time.

Georgina sat at the table, not knowing what to do next. She felt that she had muddled things dreadfully. Instead of making Belle feel better as she hoped to do, she realized she had hurt her in some unintentional way. Presently, she slowly drew herself up from her chair and began to clear the table, piling the few dishes they had used, under the dishpan in the sink. The house stood open to the summer breeze. It seemed so desolate and deserted with Belle upstairs, drawn in alone with her troubles and Tippy away, that she couldn't bear to stay in the silent rooms. She wandered out into the yard and climbed up into the willow to look across the water.

Somewhere out there on those shining waves, Richard was sailing along, in the party given for Mr. Locke, and to-morrow he would be going away on the yacht. If he were at home she wouldn't be up in the willow wondering what to do next. Well, as long as she couldn't have a good time herself she'd think of someone else she could make happy. For several minutes she sent her thoughts wandering over the list of all the people she knew, but it seemed as if her friends were capable of making their own good times, all except poor Belle. Probably she never would be happy again, no matter what anybody did to try to brighten her life. It was so discouraging when one was trying to play the game of "Rainbow Tag," for there to be no one to tag. She wished she knew some needy person, some unfortunate soul who would be glad of her efforts to make them happy.

Once she thought of slipping off down street to the library. Miss Tupman always let her go in where the shelves were and choose her own book. Miss Tupman was always so interesting, too, more than any of the books when she had time to talk. But that grim old word Duty rose up in front of her, telling her that she ought not to run away and leave the house all open with Belle locked in her room upstairs. Somebody ought to be within hearing if the telephone rang or anyone came. She went into the house for a book which she had read many times but which never failed to interest her, and curled up in a big rocking chair on the front porch.

Late in the afternoon she smelled burning pine chips and smoke from the kitchen chimney which told that a fire was being started in the stove. After a while she went around the house to the kitchen door and peeped in, apprehensively. Belle was piling the dinner dishes into the pan, preparatory to washing them while supper was cooking. Her eyes were red and she did not look up when Georgina came in, but there was an air of silent determination about her as forcible as her Aunt Maria's. Picking up the tea-kettle, she filled the dishpan and carried the kettle back to the stove, setting it down hard before she spoke. Then she said:

"Nobody'll ever know what I've been through with, fighting this thing out with myself. I can't go all the way yet. I can't say the word that'll let the blow fall on poor old Father Potter. But I don't seem to care about my part of it any more. I see things differently from what I did that first day—you know. Even Emmett don't seem the same any more."

For several minutes there was a rattling of dishes, but no further speech from Belle. Georgina, not knowing what to say or do, stood poised uncertainly on the door-sill. Then Belle spoke again.

"I'm willing it should be told if only it could be kept from getting back to Father Potter, for the way Dan's done does make me want to set him square with the world. I would like to make up to him in some way for all he's suffered on my account. I can't get over it that it was him that had all the bravery and the nobleness that I was fairly worshiping in Emmett all these years. Seems like the whole world has turned upside down."

Georgina waited a long time, but Belle seemed to have said all that she intended to say, so presently she walked over and stood beside the sink.

"Belle," she said slowly, "does what you said mean that you're really willing I should tell Barby? Right away?"

Belle waited an instant before replying, then taking a deep breath as if about to make a desperate plunge into a chasm on whose brink she had long been poised, said:

"Yes. Uncle Dan'l would rather have her know than anybody else. He sets such store by her good opinion. But oh, do make it plain it mustn't be talked about outside, so's it'll get back to Father Potter."

The next instant Georgina's arms were around her in a silent but joyful squeeze, and she ran upstairs to write to Barby before the sun should go down or Tippy get back from the Bazaar.