"Where is Philip?"

Margaret put the question in a low, tense voice to Mrs. Pennybacker who had followed her.

"He was down there at the spring just a moment ago."

He was not there now, and Margaret went quickly down the steps and looked up and down the avenue in front of the hotel and down to the pier. He was nowhere in sight. She turned into the walk leading west, motioning Mrs. Pennybacker to take the other direction.

"Well, my audience seems to have melted away. What's the occasion, I wonder. I have almost lost the thread of my discourse."

"You were talking about the Pinkertons," said Bess, who was herself consumed with anxiety, but kept up her end of the log bravely. "I think they are looking for Philip." It had been a relief to them all to drop his aliases. "Suppose we walk up towards the station. Perhaps he is there."

Mr. Harcourt's little piece of news had thrown Margaret into the greatest alarm. What but a purpose, and that a menacing one, would bring a detective from Washington to We-que-ton-sing? She had no faith in Smeltzer's change of residence. She was wondering as she hurried on whether she would know him if she should come upon him. There was nothing she could recall about his appearance except that he wore a gray suit and had a big mustache—black, she thought.... Where was Philip? What if this man should have spirited him away already?

Her fears proved groundless, however, for as she peered anxiously up the first grass-grown avenue on which foot of beast was not allowed to step, there just beyond where the spring—set round with ferns—bubbles from its cement confines, she saw him standing in front of a tiny bungalow. It was a modest, unpretentious place, but she had noticed it before, for such a luxuriance of plant life enveloped it that it stood out with a distinction all its own, even in this place of beautiful homes.

A curtain of climbing nasturtiums veiled the south end of the piazza, a riotous growth of scarlet geraniums and foliage plants and trailing green things made a hanging garden round the porch, and the delicate Alleghany vine twined itself about a hardier colleague and ran races with it up the posts and round the eaves, and then—grown tired—dropped down again in graceful sprays that responded to every wooing breeze.

"Those flowers grow in an atmosphere of love," Mrs. Pennybacker had said the day before in passing by, "and if I am not mistaken their roots are planted in the soil of patient care and intelligent plant knowledge."

By the side of this porch garden stood a little lady in a red shawl which glowed among her greens and matched her geraniums, and at her side, his hands full of flowers, was Philip.

"Why, dearest!" cried Margaret across the lawn. Then in apology to the lady, "I hope my little one has not troubled you."

"Not in the least. She stood and looked so longingly at the flowers that I called her in. Even then she only said, 'Do you think you could spare me just one?'"

Margaret laughed. "That was modest, certainly, but a little suggestive. The child is really unusually fond of flowers."

"I thought so. I can always tell when the true love is there. I often hear grown people say, 'I am fond of flowers, but I don't know much about them.' I say to myself, 'You haven't the true love or you would know.'" Then looking down at the child, "I am always glad to share with those who have it, especially little girls that ask so nicely for them. It is when they come and pick them without asking that I don't like it. You wouldn't do that, would you, little girl?"

Philip shook his head and looked pleadingly at his mother. The look being interpreted said, "This seems to be a very pleasant lady. Couldn't I just tell her?"

Her eyes denied him.

"You have a beautiful location here. And I think it must be your own home."

"It is. I come early and stay late."

"We-que-ton-sing is a lovely spot. These glimpses of the water are charming."

As they looked down toward the bay, her grasp on Philip's hand tightened. He looked up at her in wonderment and tried to draw away, but she held him as in a vise. At the entrance to the avenue, just turning into it was a man with a big mustache and a gray suit. She was sure it was the one she had seen at the Island House. He was headed toward her.

"Come, dearest! We must go. No, not that way." And with a hasty word to their surprised acquaintance of the bungalow, she hurried him down the walk leading to the railroad tracks, stopping to cast a glance behind her as she turned east. The man was sauntering up the walk, just as everybody did when they first came here—there was really nothing to alarm her—it was foolish of her to suppose that he was after them—but still, the corner turned she made Philip run to keep up with her in her haste. At the corner where the post office stands she turned down toward the hotel, but the boy seeing a squirrel across the street escaped from her grasp and ran after it. Calling him sharply Margaret followed. A glance back showed through the trees a glimpse of the gray suit and she hurried on.

As she caught up with Philip she found herself in front of a pretty cottage close to the walk with hanging baskets and rustic boxes filled with ferns around its many porches. A sweet-faced woman was sitting at a table writing. She looked up at the child with a smile, such a kind, gracious smile, that for a moment Margaret contemplated throwing herself on her mercy and begging shelter. But just then others came out upon the porch and the opportunity was past.

They had come now to the back of the yellow, square-built house that Mr. Harcourt had pointed out to her as a pioneer. She had noticed it often since. Philip, again catching sight of the squirrel in the clump of birches with the hemlock growing sociably in their midst, dashed after it, and Margaret after him. As she turned into the yard under the spreading beech trees and dodged behind them, a backward look showed her the man in the gray suit standing on the post office corner, looking as if he had lost a clue.

A tall lattice divided the back of this place from the front. In an instant Margaret had caught up Philip and dashed to the other side of it. She was leaning weakly against it and Philip saying, "Why, mama! what's the matter?" when a door opened in front of her and a tall lady in black appeared.

"Well?" she said in surprised interrogative which was not in the least aggressive. It was as if she only meant to understand before she passed judgment.

"I beg your pardon, madam, but my little b—my little girl ran into your yard after a squirrel and I came to get her. I—I feel very faint. Would you mind my sitting down?"

"Certainly not. Come in." She opened the door through which she had come out and Margaret, who had supposed the door led into the house, found herself on a long, broad porch at the side of the house and looking out upon the bay in front. There were curtains on the east side, and it was a homelike place with rugs and rocking chairs and tables and books. But to Margaret's excited imagination it was but a place where one could be spied out and trapped.

"You will find it more pleasant here nearer the front," the lady said, but the girl drew a chair into the furthest corner, saying something about the wind, and sat down with Philip held tightly in her arms. Then desperate with the fear that any moment might bring her enemy upon her, she asked in a choking voice,

"Is—is there a place that I could lie down?"

"Why, certainly, come right in and lie down on my sofa."

Inside the room which had a glazed door and a broad window looking out over the water, Margaret hesitated and then, instead of lying down on the old-fashioned mahogany sofa, drew close to her rescuer.

"I am not ill," she said, seizing the soft hand of the elder woman and speaking quickly, "it was only an excuse to get inside. But I am in deep trouble. Will you not help me?"

"How can I help you, my child? What is your trouble?"

"A man is following me—is trying to get my child. I don't know whether he saw me come in here or not, but if he comes—oh, do not let him get us!"

"He shall not see you if you do not wish to be seen."

"But if he should force himself in?"

"He will not try that, I think." Then, with gentle, courteous directness, "Is this man your husband? Has he any right to the child?"

"Oh, no—no. My husband—" She hesitated, took one more look into the strong, forceful face before her, and trusted it. "My husband is dead. I haven't time to explain, but his brother is trying to get my child. Oh! there's that man now!"

For a step was heard on the west porch and coming around to the glazed door.

"Go into that bedroom," said the lady quickly, pointing to an open door. "And don't be afraid."

It proved to be a boy distributing notices. As the lady went outside to pick the paper up she looked around casually. The ferry-boat was nearly in and several persons were hurrying down the pier to meet it. A man in a gray suit was standing on the sidewalk but a few feet from her west porch, looking as if he were undecided about something. As she turned to go in he raised his hat and spoke.

"I beg your pardon, madam, but I am looking for a lady and a little boy, friends of mine that I have got separated from. Perhaps you have—"

"I saw a lady and a little child pass here a few minutes ago," she said quietly. "Are they the ones down there on the pier? I don't see very well."

He looked in the direction indicated. A woman about Margaret's build with a child was hurrying toward the boat. With hasty thanks he started after them.

When Margaret, trembling, came out from the inner room the lady had taken a glass that she always kept on her window ledge and turned it on the man hurrying to the dock.

"What sort of looking man was this?" There was something about her quiet manner with its reserve force that quieted the frightened girl.

"He had a black mustache—a very long one—and wore a gray suit. I can't remember anything else."

"This is the one, I am sure. Well,—he asked me for information and I gave it to him. I should not have volunteered it ... Still, I am not sure but it was a falsehood, though it was the truth. I really suppose a thing can sometimes be both, don't you?... Here, your eyes are younger than mine—take the glass. Can you see him?"

"Yes," cried Margaret, excitedly. "The boat has stopped and he is running to make it. Oh, he won't get there! They are taking in the plank!... No, they are waiting for him. He has got on! The boat is pushing off and there isn't a soul left on the dock!"

"Then you are safe for a while at least. It will take him the best part of an hour to get back. What are you going to do now?"

"I must leave this place—at once!" cried Margaret. "Can you tell me about the trains?"

"Yes. They go to Petoskey every half hour. But this is a dummy line and ends at Petoskey. Shall you risk staying there? The place is very accessible from We-que-ton-sing."

"No, I shouldn't dare to do that. We will go back to Mackinac as soon as we can get a train out of Petoskey."

"I should lose no time. You could hardly be ready for the next train, which comes in fifteen minutes, but if you make the one following it will connect you with the G. R. and I. for Mackinac."

"Oh, thank you so much. It is such a help to know this."

At parting, Margaret pressed her lips to the elder woman's soft cheek. "You have been so good to me! I knew I could trust you!"

On the porch Philip turned back. A chipmunk had just run up the steps and stood looking at them. "Are the squirrels your children?" he asked politely.

"My children?" She was not used to the fanciful vagaries of a child's brain. "No, my dear, I haven't any children."

"Oh!" said Philip, disappointed. "The other lady said the flowers were her children, and I thought maybe the squirrels were yours ... Goodby!"

When Margaret got to the hotel Mrs. Pennybacker was partly packed. She had foreseen what the next move would be. John Harcourt swore softly.

"She is the most capricious woman I ever saw!" he declared to Bess on the dummy. "Now we're cheated out of that inland trip again!"

"Suppose you stay over and take the inland trip alone," she suggested. "Then you could make sure of it. We haven't any baggage that needs attending to."

"I suppose I am needed only in the capacity of baggage tender," he reproached her.

At Petoskey, after putting them on the train, he stepped outside and delayed his coming back until Bess began to wonder if he had taken her at her word. But he swung himself on as the train started.

"I've just seen Smeltzer out on the platform. Funny how I run across that fellow! He's on his way to Chicago. Says We-que-ton-sing is too slow for him. Had to go to Harbor Springs to get a drink."

Margaret, in her safe corner, with Philip close beside her and the train speeding away from Smeltzer, was thinking, "I wonder if that could all have been imagination. Perhaps he wasn't the man at all!"