Early June came to Gould's Bluffs. The last of the blossoms fell from the apple and pear trees in the Phipps' orchard, there were young swallows in the nests beneath the eaves of the shed, and tulips and hyacinths gave color and fragrance to the flower beds in the front yard. Down in the village Ras Beebe began his twice-a-year window dressing, removing the caps, candy, sweaters, oil heaters, patent medicines and mittens to substitute bathing suits, candy, straw hats, toy shovels, patent medicines and caps. Small boys began barefoot experiments. Miss Tamson Black departed for Nantucket to visit a cousin. Mr. Raish Pulcifer had his wife resurrect his black-and-white striped flannel trousers from the moth chest and hang them in the yard. “No use talkin',” so Zach Bloomer declared, “summer is headin' down our way. She'll be here afore we know it.”

She was. One pleasant morning Galusha, emerging from the Phipps' “side door,” saw workmen about the premises of the Restabit Inn. For a week thereafter the neighborhood echoed with hammer blows and reeked with the smell of new paint. The Restabit Inn, shaking off its winter shabbiness, emerged scrubbed, darned, patched and pressed, so to speak, in its last—and several “lasts before that”—summer suit made over, ready to receive callers.

On the twentieth of the month the callers began to arrive. East Wellmouth broke out, as a child breaks out with the measles, in brilliant speckles, the disease in this instance being unmistakably a pronounced case of summer boarders. The “speckles” were everywhere, about the post office, in Ras Beebe's store, about the lighthouse, on the beaches, and far and wide over the hills and hollows. They picknicked in the pine groves, they giggled in the back seats on prayer meeting nights, they sang noisily on the way back to the hotel after evening mail sorting, they danced jazzily in the hotel parlor and on the porches.

Martha did not mind them; she said they were rather nice, on the whole, because they helped to remind her that all creation wasn't East Wellmouth. Galusha didn't object to them, except when they were TOO noisy at midnight or thereabouts and interfered with his slumbers. Primmie condescended to them and aired her knowledge of local celebrities and traditions. Captain Jethro ignored them utterly and Lulie was popular among them. Only Zacheus, the philosopher, seemed to find them unmitigated nuisances. Somehow or other the summer visitor got under Mr. Bloomer's hard shell and upon his salt-seasoned nerves.

“Blast 'em!” grumbled Zach, “I don't know why 'tis, but they rile me like fury. Prob'ly it's because I ain't never been much used to 'em the way I would have been if I'd been keepin' light ashore all my days. Out on the old Hog's Back we never had no visitors to speak of and we used to hanker for 'em. Here, by Godfreys, they don't give us no time to hanker for nothin'. And they ask such foolhead questions! One woman, she says to me yesterday, she says—I was showin' her the foghorn, and says she: 'Do you have to turn a crank to make it go?' Think of that! A hand crank to make the fourth highest-power foghorn on the coast blow! I lost my patience. 'No ma'am,' says I, 'a crank ain't necessary. I just put my mouth to the touch-hole,' I says, 'and breathe natural and she chirrups.' She believed it, too. I cal'late I'll catch thunder from Cap'n Jeth if he finds out what I told her, but I can't help it; there's limits, by Godfreys domino, limits!”

Galusha found, except for the slight annoyance of too many of these sojourners, that summer at Gould's Bluffs and vicinity was even more delightful than the fall and spring had been. His friends, the Halls, whose invitation to their cottage at Wellmouth had been the cause of his coming to the Cape, were not occupying that cottage this summer; they had rented it for the season and gone abroad. So he had no old friends to call upon. But his new friendships were enjoyable and dependable. His health improved steadily; he gained in strength, and the fear that his guilt in the affair of the Wellmouth Development stock might be discovered grew less and less. Only one thing troubled him, and that was so vague that it was scarcely a trouble. The Institute people had written him of some great plan for his professional services, a plan which was to develop in the fall. Now, by all that was right and proper, he should have been tremendously curious concerning that plan, should have been eagerly guessing what it might be and counting the days until the time came for his return to work and its immediate development. But he was not curious, he did not count the days; for some weird and unnatural reason—or for no reason whatever—he was not eager to return to work. He, Galusha Bangs, whose life had been devoted to his pet science, who had had no thought except for that science, had labored for it and in it every day for twenty years and had dreamed about it at night—he did not seem to care to go back to it. He did not seem to want to go anywhere. Contentment for him was apparently right there at Gould's Bluffs and nowhere else. Amazing but true. And no less disgraceful than amazing. It was a state of mind, of course, a psychological state due to physiological causes and doubtless was but temporary. Nevertheless, it troubled him a bit.

One morning in July he received a shock. Zacheus, returning from the post office, met him at the Phipps' gate and handed him a letter.

“Come in last night's mail,” explained Zach. “I happened to be cruisin' up to the village so I thought I might as well fetch it down to you, Mr. Bangs.”

Galusha thanked him and put the letter in his pocket. After dinner, having gone to his room, he was searching his pockets for a handkerchief; finding his handkerchief invariably entailed a search, because he was quite as likely to have put it in his waistcoat pocket as in those of his trousers, and just as likely to find it at last in the pocket of his overcoat downstairs on the rack. In this case he did not find it at all, having dropped it on the road, but he did find the letter. Still wondering where he could have put the handkerchief, he absently tore open the envelope and began to read, as follows:

“Professor Galusha C. Bangs, East Wellmouth, Mass.

“DEAR SIR:

“Mr. Augustus Cabot wishes me to inform you that he has returned to this office, having, so he feels, quite regained his health. He sends his regards to you and hopes that you, too, are getting on toward complete recovery.”

Galusha, having read so far, leaned back in his chair. Cousin Gussie well again! Back again at his Boston office! Why, this was unexpected news! He was gratified and pleased, of course. Nevertheless, coupled with the gratification was a slight feeling of uneasiness. Nevada—well, Nevada was such a long and safe way off; whereas Boston was so very and dangerously near. To a person with a guilty conscience, one with a secret to conceal, the advantages of Nevada as a residence for a possibly inquisitive relative were obvious. And was Thomas writing merely to impart the news of his employer's return? Or were there other reasons?

“You will remember” [began the next sentence of the letter], “writing him some time ago, while he and I were in Nevada, asking his advice concerning some corporation, the stock of which a friend of yours was considering, either as a purchase or sale, I do not remember which.”

Galusha closed his eyes and passed an agitated hand across his forehead. His question was answered; there WERE other reasons.

“You may not be aware” [the letter continued], “of the forest fire which, on April seventeenth, destroyed the sanitarium and camps in which Mr. Cabot and I were staying. The entire institution, including our own camp, was burned and with it were destroyed all my business records, letters received, copies of letters sent, etc. At the time we were not at all concerned with this loss, being fearful of the effect which the excitement might have upon Mr. Cabot's health. I am glad to say, however, that the effect, if any, was not injurious. But the loss of all correspondence, including that with you, is now causing some annoyance. My recollection is that I advised your friend not to buy any stock of the nature you described, or, if he owned any, not to attempt a forced sale. As we have heard nothing further from you since, and as neither our Mr. Minor nor Mr. Barbour report your consulting them on the subject, I take it your interest in the matter is closed.”

Again Galusha leaned back in his chair. But this time he drew a long breath of relief. Mr. Thomas “took it” that his interest in the matter was closed, did he? Well, it was, indeed it was. The sole interest he now had in the Wellmouth Development Company was to forget it utterly.

And yet, if it was not concerning the Development matter that Thomas was writing, what was it? The beatific smile which had followed the sigh of relief faded from his face and he began to read again.

“In looking over your affairs which, among others, have kept me very busy since my return, I find,” wrote Thomas, “that Mr. Barbour, at your request, sent you a check on March 13th, for fourteen thousand three hundred and ten dollars and thirty-eight cents, the same being your share of the Tinplate reorganization profits. On March 15th, you came personally to this office and exchanged that check for five thousand dollars in cash and another check for ninety-three hundred and ten dollars and thirty-eight cents. On March 24th, according to our records, you again came in person and exchanged this new check for eighty-two hundred dollars in cash and a third check for eleven hundred and ten dollars and thirty-eight cents. This third check we do not find has as yet been presented for payment nor has it been deposited to your account with us. Considering the lapse of time since the check was drawn, this seems somewhat unusual and so I am writing to ask concerning it. Mr. Cabot wishes me to add, also, that as thirteen thousand, two hundred dollars, the amount of cash drawn by you on the two occasions mentioned, is a large sum, he is, as your financial guardian—this is the term he requests me to use—a trifle anxious concerning it. He cannot, he says, conceive of a use to which you could put such a sum, particularly in your present location on the Cape. He wishes me to ask you to write him particulars in the matter. To his request I am adding my own concerning the missing check. A prompt reply will greatly oblige us both. Apologizing for the inconvenience which this may cause you, and with Mr. Cabot's sincere regards and good wishes, I am,

“Yours respectfully,

“GEORGE L. THOMAS.”

Mr. Bangs' smiles, beatific or otherwise, had so far vanished by this time that he could not summon them again that day. He attempted to appear cheerful during supper that evening and breakfast next morning, but it was a sorrowful cheer. Martha asked if he was sick. He said he was not, indeed no, really, but she looked as if she did not believe him. Primmie's suspicions of dropsy, or some equally distressing ailment, revived. She watched him for signs of relapse.

The letter requested an immediate reply. That reply was neither written nor sent. Mr. Bangs could not think of a reply which would embrace the two elements, safety and sanity. It was impossible to tell the truth and dangerous to attempt to tell anything else. So he did not answer the Thomas letter.

In a week he received a second one, asking if he had gotten the first. This simply HAD to be acknowledged, so he did so. He wrote that his friend was no longer interested in the stock concerning which he had inquired. Also he returned the check for the balance of the Tinplate payment—it had been lying in his bureau drawer ever since he brought it from Boston—but he made no mention of what he had done with the eighty-two hundred dollars in cash nor the five thousand which he had previously drawn. He did not refer to these sums at all. He requested that the check for the Tinplate balance be deposited to his account and sent it in the envelope with his letter to Thomas. Then he fearfully awaited the next blow.

It came, and in a new fashion, about a week later. He and Martha were in the sitting room after supper when the telephone bell rang.

“Pardon me, Miss Martha,” said Galusha, “but wasn't that our—I should say your ring?”

Martha smiled. “I didn't notice,” she said. “You're always thinkin' you hear our ring, Mr. Bangs. The last time you heard it and called me to the 'phone, it turned out to be Emulous Dodd, the undertaker. He said, 'I don't want you.' I told him I was thankful for that.”

Her lodger shook his head. “I'm very sorry,” he said. “These telephone calls down here—'Two long and three short' and—ah—the like—they do confuse me, I admit. I really can't seem to get accustomed to them. Now... Oh, but that IS your ring, isn't it, Miss Martha?”

It was. Martha took down the receiver.

“Yes... yes,” she said. “Yes, this is Phipps.... Oh, all right.... The girl says it's a long-distance call,” she added, turning to Galusha. “Who can be callin' ME from long distance?... Yes... yes.... This is Miss Phipps speakin' now.... Who?... Oh, Mr. Bangs? Yes, he's right here. It's for you, Mr. Bangs.”

Galusha took the receiver from her hand. “Ah—hello!” he hailed. The wire buzzed and sang. Then, in his ear and with surprising clearness and nearness, a voice said, brusquely: “Hello! Hello, there! Is that you, Loosh?”

Galusha recognized the voice. He had not heard it for a long time, but he recognized it at once. And, recognizing it, something like panic seized him.

“Hello!” shouted the voice again. “Hello, Galusha! Is that you?”

Galusha glanced fearfully over his shoulder. Martha was gazing at him. She looked alarmed.

“Oh, what is it, Mr. Bangs?” she asked. “It—it's not bad news, is it?”

“No—ah—no,” he faltered. “I—I—”

“Eh? What's that?” demanded the voice in the receiver, impatiently. “Hello! Who is this, anyway?”

“Is there somebody sick or—or anything?” asked Martha. “No—no, Miss Martha. It's all right, really. Yes, indeed, I—Oh, quite right. Yes.”

“But you look so frightened.”

“Do I? Oh, not in the least. That is, I... Yes, yes, I hear. Yes, this is Bangs speaking.”

“Oh, it is! Well, I'm glad you're speaking at last. You're Galusha Bangs, you say?”

“Yes. Yes, I—I think so.”

“You THINK so! That's good! Don't you know whether you are or not?”

“I meant I—I thought I said so. I am Galusha Bangs. Yes.”

“Good! Then we've settled so much. You know who I am, of course?”

Did he? Oh, if he only did not! He cast another alarmed glance in his landlady's direction. He wondered if the voice which was so distinctly audible in his ear could be heard and understood in the room. Oh, this was dreadful, dreadful!

“HELLO!” roared the voice again. “Hello, Bangs! Are you there?”

“Oh, yes—ah—yes. I am here. Quite so—yes.”

“Well, I'm glad. I thought you might have gone clamming or something. Well, I asked if you knew who this was? Do you?”

Galusha swallowed, shut his eyes, and then faced the inevitable.

“It—it is Cousin Gussie, isn't it?” he faltered.

He heard, or imagined that he did, a little gasp of surprise from Miss Phipps. He did not dare look again in her direction.

“That's right,” said the voice. “You're a good guesser. How are you, anyway?”

Galusha stammered that he was very well. He added that he was glad to see his relative. The relative promptly observed that his eyesight must be remarkably good.

“You know what I've called you up for, of course?” she added.

Martha had risen and was leaving the room on tiptoe.

“You and your cousin can talk better alone, I know,” she whispered. “I want to see Primmie a minute, anyway.”

Her lodger regarded her mutely. The expression of dumb misery on his face caused her to pause for an instant.

“You're SURE there's no bad news, Mr. Bangs?” she asked, anxiously.

He managed to smile, but the smile was not a convincing success. “Oh, yes—ah—quite, quite,” he protested. “It—it is—ah—extremely pleasant, really.... Yes—yes, Cousin Gussie, I am—I am still here.”

“Oh, you are! Fine! I thought probably you had gone to dig another quahaug. Why don't you answer letters?”

Galusha glanced desperately at the kitchen door. Thank heaven, it was closed.

“I answered yours,” he declared.

“You did not. You only half answered it. That idiot Barbour sent you a check for over fourteen thousand dollars. Of course, if I had been well and here he wouldn't have done any such fool thing. He says you told him to.”

“Ah—did I?”

“Did you? Don't you know whether you did or not? Well, never mind. You came up here on two separate occasions, so they tell me, and drew thirteen thousand of that in cash and took it away with you. Now what on earth did you do that for?”

Galusha did not answer. Cabot immediately demanded to know if he was still there. Assured of this, he repeated his question.

“I—I wanted it,” faltered Galusha.

“You WANTED it! Wanted thirteen thousand two hundred dollars in cash down there on the clam flats? What did you want it FOR?”

“I—I—Well, you see—you see—”

“No, I don't see. Now, look here, old man: I realize you're of age and that your money is your own, and all that. It isn't, legally speaking, one single bit my business if you take every cent you've got and sink it in the middle of Cape Cod Bay. But I promised your aunt before she died that I would try and see that you didn't do that kind of thing. She knew you couldn't take care of money; I knew it; why, confound it, you knew it, too! You and I talked that whole matter over and we agreed I wasn't to give you any large sums of your money, no matter how hard you begged for them, unless you told me why you wanted them and I was satisfied it was all right. Didn't we agree to that? Isn't that so?”

“Why—why, yes, Cousin Gussie. You have been very kind. I appreciate it, I assure you.”

“Oh, be hanged! I haven't been kind. I've only been trying to keep you from being TOO kind to people who work you for a good thing, that's all. Look here, Loosh: I know what you've done with that thirteen thousand dollars.”

Galusha shot one more pitiful glance in the direction of the kitchen.

“Ah—ah—do you?” he stammered.

“Yes. You've given it away, haven't you?”

“Well—well, you see—”

“You have? I knew it! And I know whom you've given it to.”

There was no answer to be made to this appalling assertion. Poor Galusha merely clung to the receiver and awaited his death sentence.

“You've given it to some mummy-hunter to fit out another grave-robbing expedition. Now, haven't you?”

“Why—why—”

“Be a sport now, Loosh! Tell me the truth. That's what you've done, isn't it?”

Galusha hesitated, closing his eyes, struggled with his better nature, conquered it, and faltered: “Why—why—in a way of speaking, I suppose—”

“I knew it! I bet Minor a dinner on it. Well, confound you, Loosh; don't you realize they're only working you for what they can get out of you? Haven't I told you not to be such an ass? You soft-headed old... Here! What's the matter with this wire? Hello, Central! Hello!...”

The Cabot oration broke off in the middle and was succeeded by a series of rattles and thumps and jingles like a barrel of kitchenware falling downstairs; this was followed by a startling stillness, which was, in turn, broken by an aggrieved voice wailing: “Say, Central, why can't I get that twenty-seven ring fourteen Bayport? I bet you you've given me every other d——number on Cape Cod!”

Galusha hung up the receiver. Then he sat down in the rocker and gazed at the opposite wall. His secret was safe. But that safety he had bought at the price of another falsehood—told to Cousin Gussie this time. He did not seem to be the same Galusha Cabot Bangs at all. That Galusha—the former Galusha—had considered himself a gentleman and would no more have told a lie than he would have stolen his neighbor's spoons. This one—his present self—lied not only once but twice and thrice. He told one untruth to cover another. He lived in an atmosphere of blackest falsehood and deception. The sole ray of light in the darkness was the knowledge that Martha Phipps did not know his real character. She considered him honest and truthful. In order that she might continue to think him so, he would go on prevaricating forever, if necessary.

It preyed upon his conscience, nevertheless. The thought uppermost in his mind was expressed in a reply which he made to a question asked by Mr. Bloomer on an afternoon of that week. Zach and Primmie were, as so often happened, involved in an argument and, as also so often happened, they called on him to act as referee.

“We was talkin' about names, Mr. Bangs,” explained Primmie. “He's always makin' fun of my name. I told him my name was pretty enough to get put into poetry sometimes. You know—”

“I told her,” broke in Zach, solemnly, but with a wink at Galusha, “that the only thing I could think of to rhyme with 'Primrose' was 'Jim Crows.'”

“I never said it rhymed,” protested Miss Cash, hotly. “You can have your name in poetry without its rhymin', I guess likely. You're always tellin' me about how 'Zacheus he, climbed up a tree—' Now if your name had to rhyme 'twould have to be—er—er—well, nothing',” triumphantly; “'cause nothin' COULD rhyme with Zacheus.”

Mr. Bloomer, solemn as ever, shook his head.

“Yes, it could,” he declared. “What's the name of that plant Lulie's got in the settin' room window over home? The one with the prickers on it. Cat-tailed—no, rat-tailed—um—”

“Cactus.” Galusha supplied the word.

“That's it,” said Zach. “That would do it.

Have to step lively, wouldn't he?” he added, with a chuckle.

Primmie sniffed. “Silly!” she retorted. “What was that pretty piece of poetry you told me the other day that had my name in it, Mr. Bangs? The one about it bein' so and so and not much else? You know the one.”

Galusha obliged.

“There!” said Primmie, triumphantly. “Do you hear that, Zach Bloomer? That's poetry, the real kind. And it's got my name in it, too.”

Zach shook his head.

“You ain't a yellow primrose, Posy,” he said. “You're a red one-red and speckled. Mr. Bangs,” he added, before the outraged Primmie could reply, “I think consider'ble about names, havin' such a out-of-common sort of a one myself. I never heard your name afore.... Galusha.... Godfreys! Was you named for somebody in the family?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Yes, yes. Most generally names like that, the tough ones, come out of the Bible in the fust place. Is your name in Scriptur' anywheres?”

“I don't know. I—ah—presume I should, but I don't.”

“Um-hm. Queer names in the Bible.... Um-hm. And some good ones, too.... I've always been a good deal interested in names. Used to set around hours at a stretch, when I was aboard the old lightship, and try to pick out what name in Scriptur' I cal'lated I'd ruther be called. Finally I got down to two—John and Paul. Both of 'em short and sensible, no frills to 'em. Of the two I figgered maybe Paul would fit me best. Paul, he was shipwrecked one time, you remember, and I've been wrecked no less'n three.... Paul.... Um-hm.... Say, Mr. Bangs, have you ever tried to fit yourself with a Bible name?”

Galusha smiled and said he never had. Primmie, who had been silent for almost three minutes, could remain so no longer.

“I think Solomon would be the right name for you, Mr. Bangs,” she cried, enthusiastically. “You know such a terrible lot—about some kinds of things.” This last a hasty addition.

Zach snorted. “Solomon!” he repeated. “Dan Beebe—Ras Beebe's cousin over to Trumet—named his boy Solomon, and last week they took the young-one up to the State home for feeble-minded. What name would you pick out of the Bible for yourself, Mr. Bangs?”

It was then that Galusha made the reply to which reference has been made. His smile changed and became what Primmie described as “one of his one-sided ones.”

“Ah—um—well—Ananias, perhaps,” he said, and walked away.

Zach and Miss Cash stared after him. Of course, it was the latter who spoke first.

“Ananias!” she repeated. “Why, Ananias was the feller that—that lied so and was struck down dead. I remember him in Sunday school. Him and his wife Sophrony. Seems to me 'twas Sophrony; it might have been Maria, though. But, anyhow, they died lyin'.”

“That so? I thought they lied dyin'.”

“Oh, be still! But what did Mr. Bangs pick out THAT name for—of all names? Can you tell me that?”

Zacheus could not, of course, nor did he attempt it. Instead, he rose and gazed sadly at his companion.

“He said it for a joke, Buttercups,” he observed. “Joke. YOU know, a joke. One of them things that—I tell you what: You look up 'joke' in the dictionary and then, after you've found out what 'tis, I'll lend you a patent-medicine almanac with one or two of 'em in it.... Well, I've got to be gettin' under way. So long, Posy.”

Possibly Primmie might have inquired further into the reasons which led the Phipps' lodger to select for himself the name of the person who “died lying,” but that very afternoon, while on an errand in the village, she heard the news that Nelson Howard had been offered a position as operator at the Trumet wireless station, had accepted and was already there and at work. Every professional gossip in East Wellmouth was talking about it, not only because of its interest as a piece of news, but because of the astonishing fact that no one but those intimately interested had previously known of the offer.

“Why in the world,” said Becky Blount, expressing the opinion of what Captain Jethro Hallett would have called her “tribe,” “he felt 'twas necessary to hide it as if 'twas something to be ashamed of, I don't see. Most folks would have been proud to be offered such a chance. But that Nelse Howard's queer, anyhow. Stuck-up, I call him; and Lulie Hallett's the same way. She nor him won't have anything to do with common folks in this town. And it'll be worse NOW.”

This was quite untrue, of course, for Lulie and Nelson were extremely friendly with all except the Blounts, Marietta Hoag, and a few more of their kind. The solid, substantial people in the village liked them, just as they liked and respected Martha Phipps. These people took pains to congratulate young Howard and to whisper a hope to Lulie that her father's unreasonable opposition to the former might be lessened by the news of his advancement.

Primmie, returning home with the sensation, was disappointed to find it no sensation at all. Lulie had told both Miss Phipps and Galusha shortly after Nelson told her. She had told her father also, but he had not expressed gratification. Instead, the interview between them had ended unpleasantly.

“The first thing he did,” said Lulie, when telling the story to her confidants at the Phipps' home, “was to ask me how I knew about it. I told him that Nelson told me.”

Martha lifted her brows. “My!” she exclaimed. “You did?”

“Yes, I did. I don't know why exactly. Somehow I felt just then as if I didn't care.”

“And what did he say?”

“He didn't say as much as I thought he would. He turned and stared at me under those big eyebrows of his, and then he said: 'When did you see him?' I said, 'Yesterday.' 'When did you see him before that?' I said, 'About a week ago. Nelson and I usually see each other about once a week, father,' I told him.”

“My!” exclaimed Martha, again. “That was plain enough, to be sure.”

“Yes, wasn't it? I wonder now that I had the courage. He didn't flare up as I expected he would, as I am sure he would have done last fall, for instance. He just looked and looked at me. Then he said: 'Are you really planning to marry that fellow, Lulie?' I thought that as I had gone so far, I might as well go the rest, so I said: 'Yes, father, some day. Not as long as you want me or need me, but some day, if he is willing to wait for me.' He just kept on pulling his beard and looking at me. At last, when he did speak, he asked, 'In spite of me and—and your mother?' It made me feel dreadfully wicked; I almost cried, I guess. But I had to go through with it then, so I said: 'I don't want to marry “in spite” of any one, father. You know I don't. And I shall never leave you—never. But can't you PLEASE see Nelson as he is and not—and not—' He interrupted me there; in fact, I doubt if he heard me. 'Your mother has warned me against that young fellow,' he said. 'You know she has, Lulie.' 'I know you THINK she has, father,' I said.”

Martha's hands fell in her lap. Galusha shook his head.

“Dear me!” he observed. “Dear me!”

Lulie nodded. “Yes, I know,” she said. “As soon as I said it I thought 'Dear me,' too. But I don't believe he heard that, either. He seemed to be thinking and didn't speak for ever so long. Then he said, 'The revelations from above ain't to be set aside. No, no, they lay a duty on us.' Then he stopped again and turned and walked away. The last words he said, as he was going out of the room, were, 'Don't let me ever see that Howard around this house. You hear me?' And that is the way it ended. He hasn't mentioned the subject since. But, at least,” said Lulie, with an attempt at a smile, “he didn't call Nelson a 'swab.' I suppose that is some comfort.”

Martha and Galusha agreed that it was. The latter said: “It seems to me that you may consider it all quite encouraging, really. It is only the—ah—spirits which stand in the way now.”

“Yes, but oh, Mr. Bangs, they always will stand in the way, I'm afraid. Other things, real things or real people we might change or persuade, but how can you change a—a make-believe spirit that isn't and never was, except in Marietta Hoag's ridiculous imagination? Oh, Martha,” she added, “you and Mr. Bangs don't think I'm horrid to speak like this, do you? Of course, if I believed, as father does, that it was really my mother's spirit speaking, I should—well, I should be.... But what is the use? I CAN'T believe such a thing.”

“Of course you can't, child,” said Martha. “I knew your mother and if she was comin' back to this earth she wouldn't do it through Marietta Hoag's head. She had too much self-respect for that.”

Galusha stroked his chin. “I suppose,” he said, “if there were some way in which we might influence that imagination of Miss—ah—Hoag's, a change might be brought about. It would be difficult to reach the said imagination, however, wouldn't it? I once found a way to reach a tomb of the XIIIth Dynasty which had been buried for thousands of years under thirty-three feet of rock and sand. I located it by accident—that is, in a way, it was an accident; of course, we had been searching for some time. I happened to strike the earth at a certain point with my camera tripod and it sounded quite hollow. You see, there was a—ah—sort of shaft, as one might say, which came quite close to the surface at that point. It sounded surprisingly hollow, like a—like something quite empty, you know. Yes.”

Martha nodded. “If you struck Marietta's head anywhere,” she observed, “it would sound the same way. She's got about as much brains as a punkin lantern.”

“Yes—ah—yes, but I fear we should gain little by doing that. We shouldn't get at our 'spirit' that way. But perhaps we may find a way. There are obstacles, but there were obstacles above and about that tomb also. Dear me, yes. We must consider, Miss Lulie; we must, so to speak, consider.”

His advice to Nelson was similar.

“I should say the situation was a bit more encouraging, Mr. Howard,” he said. They had been discussing Lulie's talk with her father. Nelson nodded.

“Perhaps it is, a little bit,” he admitted. “It seems barely possible that the old man is not quite as bitter against me as he was. For instance, I met him yesterday at the post office and said 'Good-morning, Cap'n Jeth.' I always speak to him whenever I meet him, make it a point to, but he never speaks to me. He didn't speak yesterday, but he did bow. It was more of a bob than a bow and he looked savage enough to bite me; but, at least, he went so far as to show he knew I was on earth. That was rather funny, too, his doing that. I wonder why he did.”

Galusha reflected a moment. Then he said: “I shouldn't be greatly surprised if your new position at the radio station may be the cause, Captain Hallett is—ah—not unmindful of success in business. Miss Mar—ah—that is, Miss Phipps says he is a very shrewd business man. My own experience,” he added, meditatively, “would lead me to that conclusion, also.”

Nelson was surprised.

“Have you had business dealings with the cap'n?” he asked. “I never thought of you as a business man, Mr. Bangs.”

Galusha started and seemed embarrassed.

“Oh—ah—ah—I'm not, Mr. Howard,” he declared, hastily. “Indeed, no.”

“But you spoke of your business experience with Cap'n Jeth; or I thought you did.”

The little archaeologist looked very solemn.

“Such experiences as I have had with Captain Hallett,” he observed, “have been—ah—most unbusinesslike.”

They parted a few minutes later. Said Nelson, gloomily:

“I'm afraid the situation hasn't changed a whole lot, after all, Mr. Bangs. Cap'n Jeth may think more of my new job than he did of my old one, but he doesn't think any better of me as a son-in-law. And he won't, so long as he believes in that fool spirit stuff.”

Galusha stroked his chin. “We must consider those spirits, Mr. Howard,” he said. “Dear me, yes; we must seriously consider those spirits.”