“Why not?” Norma’s voice rose. “It’s our war. We’re all in it. One woman gave up a $20,000 a year job to join the WACs. We have several girls who won the Croix de Guerre driving ambulances before France fell. Yes, and some of the girls joined us because their young husbands died at Pearl Harbor, or North Africa. Don’t you think that’s really wonderful?”

“I salute the WACs.” Major Fairchild saluted the girl and she returned it in proper form. And he was not joking either. She could read that in his eyes.

And then Tom McCarthy said, “Get ready. There’s the signal. They are about to fire.”

“Here.” The Major pressed balls of cotton into Norma’s hand. “Put these in your ears. Then take these—” He held out a pair of powerful field glasses. “Watch the target. See if they miss. Your eyes are as good as mine.”

The terrific flash and the roar of the big gun, together, made the rocks shudder! Norma felt her knees tremble but she held her glasses on the target and was rewarded by a black spot that appeared almost as if by magic on the white square.

“Good! Almost perfect!” she exclaimed. “A little to the right, that’s all!”

“And how far from the surface of the sea?” the Major asked.

“Almost on the sea,” was the quick response.

“This is important,” said the young Major.

“It meant that this shot would have destroyed a submarine if it had been in the place of the target,” Norma suggested.

“Good girl! Go to the head of the class,” he exclaimed.

“Give the credit to my father,” she replied modestly. “He was a major in the last war. He knows a great deal and since I was his only son, he taught me about them.”

“Oh! Then we belong to the same tribe,” exclaimed the Major. “My father was an officer, too. Very often officers are born and not made. You too will be an officer in time.”

“When I’m made an officer,” she said with a proud smile, “I’ll bring my bars to you and you shall pin them on my shoulders.”

“That,” he said, “will be a privilege and an honor.”

“They invited me to stay in Des Moines and train in the officer’s school,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

“And why not?” he asked.

“I wanted some actual service first.”

“Well, you’re getting it.” He smiled. “And unless I read the signs wrong, you are going to get your experience in overdoses from now on.”

“Oh! Do you think so?”

“I’m sure of it. There are things I can’t tell you. Keep your eyes and ears wide open and don’t miss any bets. You’ll get your bars sooner than you think.

“And now,” he handed her the glasses again, “plug up your ears. Here they go.”

This time she took things more calmly. But the hit was hard to spot.

“Right at the water’s edge,” she exclaimed at last.

“Getting better. That’s real sub shooting.”

“But if the sub comes in the night?” she suggested.

“Then you’ll have to get out there in a plane and spot the sub for us with a spotlight.”

“That,” said Tom, with a good-natured grin, “is my job.”

“And I’ll fly the plane for you,” Rosa volunteered.

“You fly my plane?” Tom gave vent to a roaring laugh.

Rosa’s face crimsoned. For a time she did not speak. Then in a slow, even tone, she said: “Try me!”

“All right, I will.” This time Tom did not laugh.

“All right, Rosa,” Tom said, when their jeep drew up to the fisherman’s dock, off which the Seagull lay at anchor, “the plane is yours, if you can fly her.”

“You don’t mean that!” Norma said in a low tone, as Tom bent over to untie his skiff.

“Sure I do!” he replied promptly. “Give everyone a chance to show what he can do, that’s my motto. Climb in. The back seat is wide enough for you and me. We’ll have Rosa for our sky pilot.”

Norma hung back. “Come on,” he urged. “I’ll guarantee that no harm will come of it.”

Ten minutes later Norma found herself beside Tom in the rear seat. Lines had been cast off and Rosa was warming up the motor. Norma, uneasy, heaved a sigh of relief when she noticed that Tom too could work the controls from where he sat.

As they taxied out from behind the dock, Norma noted that the water was a bit rough but she clenched her hands and said never a word.

The motor began to roar in earnest. Behind them raced the white foam. The plane appeared to skip from wave to wave. Then Tom said:

“Up!”

And up they rose.

Climbing steadily, they rose a thousand feet, two, three, four, five, six thousand. There above the bumpy clouds the plane leveled off and they headed straight for Black Knob.

Tom looked first at Rosa, then at Norma. Then he grinned as he formed the words with his lips, “Great stuff!”

Before they knew it they were over Black Knob and soaring down for a landing.

Near the tiny dock and harbor the water was calm. With real skill Rosa taxied the ship right to the dock where they were greeted with joyous shouts by Betty, Millie, Mary, Grandfather, Patsy, and all the rest.

“Norma,” Betty exclaimed when the two were alone, “Rosa wasn’t really flying the plane, was she?”

“She certainly was!” Norma’s tone was impressive. “She took off, climbed high, spiraled down, and all the rest!”

“Then that explains—”

“What?” Norma asked.

“Oh! A lot of things.”

Norma’s mind was too busy to carry this thought through for, as they wandered over the island, she felt like a general looking over a battlefield where the enemy might attack on the morrow. She noted low spots among the rocks where men might land from a plane or a rubber boat, tried to find the marks of high tide and studied with great care the narrow beach beside the harbor.

Why was she doing all this? Perhaps she could not have told herself. She just did, that was all.

After a delicious lunch served at the small hotel that had been made a barracks, they prepared for the return trip.

Again Rosa took the controls and once more she made a perfect take-off.

It was growing dusk now and, as they circled above the island, Norma turned on the spotlight allowing it to play upon the dark clusters of pines, the gray rocks and the cottage roofs. She was astonished to see how clearly everything stood out.

“An enemy plane could bomb it to bits,” she said.

“Sure, but why?” Tom asked.

“It’s an outpost and so dangerous to approaching enemy ships or planes.”

“You mean it could be,” Tom corrected. “Just now the few who are here could perhaps protect the island itself. That’s about all. But, I say!” he exclaimed. “You’re really good with that light!”

“Oh! Sure!” she laughed. “Rosa and I, we’re a great team!”

Oddly enough, at that moment she had the feeling of one who acts a part in a drama, a part she is sure to act again. It was strange.

“Rosa,” Norma said when at last they were back at Indian Point, headed for Harbor Bells and a good dinner, “I never dreamed you could fly a plane.”

“Fly a plane,” Rosa threw back her plump shoulders and laughed. “My father is a flier; he is also a guide. In summer he takes hunting and fishing parties deep into the wilds of Canada. Ah! That is the life, to come dropping from the skies like a wild duck and to light on a perfect spot of blue water where almost no one has ever been.

“And,” she paused to look into her companion’s eyes, “will you believe me? I have done that, too, since I was seventeen years old. Fly!” she exclaimed. “I know you thought I was crazy in Des Moines. And, yes, I was crazy. Crazy to feel the stick in my hands, to hear the motor and feel a plane move.

“Yes, I was crazy. But those boys who made fun of me, those young fliers—I could have flown circles around every one of them. But you, you were very kind to get me out of it so very well. I have you to thank for that. And we’ll fly again some time maybe, huh? What do you think?”

“Rosa,” said Norma, “you are a dear. And if we do fly again, I shall not be afraid.”

After dinner Norma made a call. In her own village she had discovered a bearded veteran of the photographic world, who still did a little work in his own home. He was a picturesque character who, only two years before, had moved from Portland to Indian Harbor.

To this man she had entrusted the pictures she had taken of the poor fisherman’s wife.

“How did they come out?” she asked as she entered his small, crowded room.

“Excellently, my dear.”

He held up some fairly large prints he had made.

“Oh! You’ve done them so well!” she exclaimed. “Won’t she be pleased!”

“She will,” he agreed. “I have a son who works on a Portland paper. With your consent I should like to send him some prints of these studies. They should show up well in the roto.”

“So little Norma makes the roto,” she laughed. “That would be something. Wouldn’t Carl Langer open his eyes!”

“What’s that pig got to do with it?” the old man demanded.

“He refused to take her picture. Said he couldn’t waste his time.”

“My dear,” said the old man, “time spent in bringing happiness to those who have very little of this world’s goods is never wasted.”

“That’s right,” Norma agreed, “but have you seen Carl Langer’s estate? It is truly beautiful.”

“Yes, I have seen it. It is attractive. However, Carl Langer did nothing to it. He only bought it.”

“Bought it? He told me he inherited it from his father who lived in Portland.”

“Neither Carl Langer nor his father lived in Portland. I was there for fifty years. I know. He purchased his estate from the heirs of old Judge Clark. Where he got the money I don’t know. But I could make a good guess.”

“Ah!” Norma thought as she walked slowly back to Harbor Bells. “So someone else is suspicious! I wonder why Carl Langer lied to me about his estate.”

She found herself hoping that Lieutenant Warren would go with her to visit that estate and to look at the picture, the masterpiece, very soon. Yet she found herself dreading it and shuddering a little.