Uncle Israel was securely locked in for the night, and was correspondingly restless. He felt like a caged animal, and sleep, though earnestly wooed, failed to come to his relief. A powerful draught of his usual sleeping potion had been like so much water, as far as effect was concerned.

At length he got up, his lifelong habit of cautious movement asserting itself even here, and with tremulous, withered hands, lighted his candle. Then he put on his piebald dressing-gown and his carpet slippers, and sat on the declivity of his bed, blinking at the light, as wide awake as any owl.

Presently it came to him that he had not as yet made a thorough search of his own apartment, so he began at the foundation, so to speak, and crawled painfully over the carpet, paying special attention to the edges. Next, he fingered the baseboards carefully, rapping here and there, as though he expected some significant sound to penetrate his deafness. Rising, he went over the wall systematically, and at length, with the aid of a chair, reached up to the picture-moulding. He had gone nearly around the room, without any definite idea of what he was searching for, when his questioning fingers touched a small, metallic object.

A smile of childlike pleasure transfigured Uncle Israel’s wizened old face. Trembling, he slipped down from the chair, falling over the bath cabinet in his descent, and tried the key in the lock. It fitted, and the old man fairly chuckled.

“Wait till I tell Belinda,” he muttered, delightedly. Then a crafty second thought suggested that it might be wiser to keep “Belinda” in the dark, lest she might in some way gain possession of the duplicate key.

“Lor’,” he thought, “but how I pity them husbands of her’n. Bet their graves felt good when they got into ’em, the hull seven graves. What with sneerin’ at medicines and things a person eats, it must have been awful, not to mention stealin’ of keys and a-lockin’ ’em in nights. S’pose the house had got afire, where’d I be now?” Grasping his treasure closely, Uncle Israel blew out his candle and tottered to bed, thereafter sleeping the sleep of the just.

Mrs. Dodd detected subdued animation in his demeanour when he appeared at breakfast the following morning, and wondered what had occurred.

“You look ’s if sunthin’ pleasant had happened, Israel,” she began in a sprightly manner.

“Sunthin’ pleasant has happened,” he returned, applying himself to his imitation coffee with renewed vigour. “I disremember when I’ve felt so good about anythin’ before.”

“Something pleasant happens every day,” put in Elaine. The country air had made roses bloom on her pale cheeks. Her blue eyes had new light in them, and her golden hair fairly shone. She was far more beautiful than the sad, frail young woman who had come to the Jack-o’-Lantern not so many weeks before.

“How optimistic you are!” sighed Mr. Perkins, who was eating Mrs. Smithers’s crisp, hot rolls with a very unpoetic appetite. “To me, the world grows worse every day. It is only a few noble souls devoted to the Ideal and holding their heads steadfastly above the mire of commercialism that keep our so-called civilisation from becoming an absolute hotbed of greed—yes, a hotbed of greed,” he repeated, the words sounding unexpectedly well.

“Your aura seems to have a purple tinge this morning,” commented Dorothy, slyly.

“What’s a aura, ma?” demanded Willie, with an unusual thirst for knowledge.

“Something that goes with a soft person, Willie, dear,” responded Mrs. Holmes, quite audibly. “You know there are some people who have no backbone at all, like the jelly-fish we saw at the seashore the year before dear papa died.”

“I’ve knowed folks,” continued Mrs. Dodd, taking up the wandering thread of the discourse, “what was so soft when they was little that their mas had to carry ’em around in a pail for fear they’d slop over and spile the carpet.”

“And when they grew up, too,” Dick ventured.

“Some people,” said Harlan, in a polite attempt to change the conversation, “never grow up at all. Their minds remain at a fixed point. We all know them.”

“Yes,” sighed Mrs. Dodd, looking straight at the poet, “we all know them.”

At this juncture the sensitive Mr. Perkins rose and begged to be excused. It was the small Ebeneezer who observed that he took a buttered roll with him, and gratuitously gave the information to the rest of the company.

Elaine flushed painfully, and presently excused herself, following the crestfallen Mr. Perkins to the orchard, where, entirely unsuspected by the others, they had a trysting-place. At intervals, they met, safely screened by the friendly trees, and communed upon the old, idyllic subject of poetry, especially as represented by the unpublished works of Harold Vernon Perkins.

“I cannot tell you, Mr. Perkins,” Elaine began, “how deeply I appreciate your fine, uncommercial attitude. As you say, the world is sordid, and it needs men like you.”

The soulful one ran his long, bony fingers through his mane of auburn hair, and assented with a pleased grunt. “There are few, Miss St. Clair,” he said, “who have your fine discernment. It is almost ideal.”

“Yet it seems too bad,” she went on, “that the world-wide appreciation of your artistic devotion should not take some tangible form. Dollars may be vulgar and sordid, as you say, but still, in our primitive era, they are our only expression of value. I have even heard it said,” she went on, rapidly, “that the amount of wealth honestly acquired by any individual was, after all, only the measure of his usefulness to his race.”

“Miss St. Clair!” exclaimed the poet, deeply shocked; “do I understand that you are actually advising me to sell a poem?”

“Far from it, Mr. Perkins,” Elaine reassured him. “I was only thinking that by having your work printed in a volume, or perhaps in the pages of a magazine, you could reach a wider audience, and thus accomplish your ideal of uplifting the multitude.”

“I am pained,” breathed the poet; “inexpressibly pained.”

“Then I am sorry,” answered Elaine. “I was only trying to help.”

“To think,” continued Mr. Perkins, bitterly, “of the soiled fingers of a labouring man, a printer, actually touching these fancies that even I hesitate to pen! Once I saw the fair white page of a book that had been through that painful experience. You never would have known it, my dear Miss St. Clair—it was actually filthy!”

“I see,” murmured Elaine, duly impressed, “but are there not more favourable conditions?”

“I have thought there might be,” returned the poet, after a significant silence, “indeed, I have prayed there might be. In some little nook among the pines, where the brook for ever sings and the petals of the apple blossoms glide away to fairyland upon its shining surface, while butterflies float lazily here and there, if reverent hands might put the flowering of my genius into a modest little book—I should be tempted, yes, sorely tempted.”

“Dear Mr. Perkins,” cried Elaine, ecstatically clapping her hands, “how perfectly glorious that would be! To think how much sweetness and beauty would go into the book, if that were done!”

“Additionally,” corrected Mr. Perkins, with a slight flush.

“Yes, of course I mean additionally. One could smell the apple blossoms through the printed page. Oh, Mr. Perkins, if I only had the means, how gladly would I devote my all to this wonderful, uplifting work!”

The poet glanced around furtively, then drew closer to Elaine. “I may tell you,” he murmured, “in strict confidence, something which my lips have never breathed before, with the assurance that it will be as though unsaid, may I not?”

“Indeed you may!”

“Then,” whispered Mr. Perkins, “I am living in that hope. My dear Uncle Ebeneezer, though now departed, was a distinguished patron of the arts. Many a time have I read him my work, assured of his deep, though unexpressed sympathy, and, lulled by the rhythm of our spoken speech, he has passed without a jar from my dreamland to his own. I know he would never speak of it to any one—dear Uncle Ebeneezer was too finely grained for that—but still I feel assured that somewhere within the walls of that sorely afflicted house, a sum of—of money—has been placed, in the hope that I might find it and carry out this beautiful work.”

“Have you hunted?” demanded Elaine, her eyes wide with wonder.

“No—not hunted. I beg you, do not use so coarse a word. It jars upon my poet’s soul with almost physical pain.”

“I beg your pardon,” returned Elaine, “but——”

“Sometimes,” interrupted the poet, in a low tone, “when I have felt especially near to Uncle Ebeneezer’s spirit, I have barely glanced in secret places where I have felt he might expect me to look for it, but, so far, I have been wholly unsuccessful, though I know that I plainly read his thought.”

“Some word—some clue—did he give you none?”

“None whatever, except that once or twice he said that he would see that I was suitably provided for. He intimated that he intended me to have a sum apportioned to my deserts.”

“Which would be a generous one; but now—Oh, Mr. Perkins, how can I help you?”

“You have never suspected, have you,” asked Mr. Perkins, colouring to his temples, “that the room you now occupy might once have been my own? Have no poet’s dreams, lingering in the untenanted spaces, claimed your beauteous spirit in sleep?”

“Oh, Mr. Perkins, have I your room? I will so gladly give it up—I——”

The poet raised his hand. “No. The place where you have walked is holy ground. Not for the world would I dispossess you, but——”

A meaning look did the rest. “I see,” said Elaine, quickly guessing his thought, “you want to hunt in my room. Oh, Mr. Perkins, I have thoughtlessly pained you again. Can you ever forgive me?”

“My thoughts,” breathed Mr. Perkins, “are perhaps too finely phrased for modern speech. I would not trespass upon the place you have made your own, but——”

There was a brief silence, then Elaine understood. “I see,” she said, submissively, “I will hunt myself. I mean, I will glance about in the hope that the spirit of Uncle Ebeneezer may make plain to me what you seek. And——”

“And,” interjected the poet, quite practical for the moment, “whatever you find is mine, for it was once my room. It is only on account of Uncle Ebeneezer’s fine nature and his constant devotion to the Ideal that he did not give it to me direct. He knew it would pain me if he did so. You will remember?”

“I will remember. You need not fear to trust me.”

“Then let us shake hands upon our compact.” For a moment, Elaine’s warm, rosy hand rested in the clammy, nerveless palm of Harold Vernon Perkins. “Last night,” he sighed, “I could not sleep. I was distressed by noises which appeared to emanate from the apartment of Mr. Skiles. Did you hear nothing?”

“Nothing,” returned Elaine; “I sleep very soundly.”

“The privilege of unpoetic souls,” commented Mr. Perkins. “But, as usual, my restlessness was not without definite and beautiful result. In the still watches of the night, I achieved a—poem.”

“Read it,” cried Elaine, rapturously. “Oh, if I might hear it!”

Thus encouraged, Mr. Perkins drew a roll from his breast pocket. A fresh blue ribbon held it in cylindrical form, and the drooping ends waved in careless, artistic fashion.

“As you might expect, if you knew about such things,” he began, clearing his throat, and all unconscious of the rapid approach of Mr. Chester, “it is upon sleep. It is done in the sonnet form, a very beautiful measure which I have made my own. I will read it now.

His voice broke at the end, not so much from the intrinsic beauty of the lines as from perceiving Mr. Chester close at hand, grinning like the fabled pussy-cat of Cheshire, except that he did not fade away, leaving only the grin.

Elaine felt the alien presence and looked around. Woman-like, she quickly grasped the situation.

“I have been having a rare treat, Mr. Chester,” she said, in her smoothest tones. “Mr. Perkins has very kindly been reading to me his beautiful Sonnet on Sleep, composed during a period of wakefulness last night. Did you hear it? Is it not a most unusual sonnet?”

“It is, indeed,” answered Dick, dryly. “I never before had the privilege of hearing one that contained only twelve lines. Dante and Petrarch and Shakespeare and all those other ducks put fourteen lines in every blamed sonnet, for good measure.”

Hurt to the quick, the sensitive poet walked away.

“How can you speak so!” cried Elaine, angrily. “Is not Mr. Perkins privileged to create a form?”

“To create a form, yes,” returned Dick, easily, “but not to monkey with an old one. There’s a difference.”

Elaine would have followed the injured one had not Dick interfered. He caught her hand quickly, a new and unaccountable lump in his throat suddenly choking his utterance. “I say, Elaine,” he said, huskily, “you’re not thinking of hooking up with that red-furred lobster, are you?”

“I do not know,” responded Elaine, with icy dignity, “what your uncouth language may mean, but I tolerate no interference whatever with my personal affairs.” In a moment she was gone, and Dick watched the slender, pink-clad figure returning to the house with ill-concealed emotion.

All Summer, so far, he and Elaine had been good friends. They had laughed and joked and worked together in a care-free, happy-go-lucky fashion. The arrival of Mr. Perkins and his sudden admiration of Elaine had crystallised the situation. Dick knew now what caused the violent antics of his heart—a peaceful and well-behaved organ which had never before been so disturbed by a woman.

“I’ve got it,” said Dick, to himself, deeply shamed. “Moonlight, poetry, mit-holding, and all the rest of it. Never having had it before, it’s going hard with me. Why in the devil wasn’t I taught to write doggerel when I was in college? A fellow don’t stand any show nowadays unless he’s a pocket edition of Byron.”

He went on through the orchard at a run, instinctively healing a troubled mind by wearying the body. At the outer edge of it, he paused.

Suspended by a singularly strong bit of twine, a small, grinning skull hung from the lower branch of an apple tree, far out on the limb. “Cat’s skull,” thought Dick. “Wonder who hung it up there?”

He lingered, idly, for a moment or two, then observed that a small patch of grass directly underneath it was of that season’s growth. His curiosity fully awake, he determined to dig a bit, though he had dug fruitlessly in many places since he came to the Jack-o’-Lantern.

“Uncle couldn’t do anything conventional,” he said to himself, “and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want any of his relations to have his money. Here goes, just for luck!”

He went back to the barn for the spade, which already had fresh earth on it—the evidence of an early morning excavation privately made by Mrs. Smithers in a spot where she had dreamed gold was hidden. He went off to the orchard with it, whistling, his progress being furtively watched with great interest by the sour-faced handmaiden in the kitchen.

Back in the orchard again, he worked feverishly, possessed by a pleasant thrill of excitement, somewhat similar to that conceivably enlivening the humdrum existence of Captain Kidd. Dick was far from surprised when his spade struck something hard, and, his hands trembling with eagerness, he lifted out a tin box of the kind commonly used for private papers.

It was locked, but a twist of his muscular hands sufficed to break it open. Then he saw that it was a spring lock, and that, with grim, characteristic humour, Uncle Ebeneezer had placed the key inside the box. There were papers there—and money, the coins and bills being loosely scattered about, and the papers firmly sealed in an envelope addressed “To Whom it May Concern.”

Dick counted the coins and smoothed out the bills, more puzzled than he had ever been in his life. He was tempted to open the envelope, but refrained, not at all sure that he was among those whom it concerned. For the space of half an hour he stood there, frowning, then he laughed.

“I’ll just put it back,” he said to himself. “It’s not for me to monkey with Uncle Ebeneezer’s purposes.”

He buried the box in its old place, and even cut a bit of sod from a distant part of the orchard to hide the traces of his work. When all was smooth again, he went back to the barn, swinging the spade carelessly but no longer whistling.

“The old devil,” he muttered, with keen appreciation. “The wise old devil!”