"It's not true, not one word of it," exclaimed Alice angrily, "and if you care for me one bit, I wish you would tell everybody I said so."

She waited to hear no more, nor for Aunt Susan, who had lingered to chat with some one, but walked home alone and hurriedly, as if to hide herself. Once in the silent house, she began to cool off.

"I won't believe he told Amos he was worth a million," she said to herself,—"he isn't so stupid as that; but I am afraid the silly boy did give him five dollars, which has started all this gossip."

When Aunt Susan came in she fairly pounced upon her. "Why haven't you told me, auntie, about all this gossip that's going the rounds regarding Mr. Nason and myself? I know you have heard it."

"It's all nonsense, Alice," answered that lady rather sharply, "and you are foolish to listen to 'em. I've heard it, of course, but so long as it's no discredit to you, why, let it go into one ear and out t'other, same as I do! Folks must talk in this town, an' what they're sayin' 'bout you ought to make you feel proud—that a young fellow like him, and worth money, wanted to come courtin', an' he certainly showed he did, or I'm no judge."

It was homely advice, and from the standpoint of Aunt Susan, as well as most of the world-wise matrons of Sandgate, it was good advice.

"He's got Aunt Susan on his side as well as Bert," Alice thought, "and I am glad I kept him at a distance now, just to pay him for being so silly with his money."

Late that afternoon Alice called upon Abby Miles, and talked about everything except the subject she most wanted to talk about, and then, as Abby usually had a Sunday evening caller, Alice came home at dusk. Never before had the house seemed so lonesome, and as she sat on the porch and tried to talk with Aunt Susan her thoughts were elsewhere.

When the lights across the valley, which served as curfew by saying bed-time when they went out, had disappeared, she came in, and seating herself in the dark at the piano softly played the chords and hummed the words of a song which need not be mentioned.

"It'll come out all right," said Aunt Susan to herself, and she waited till Alice called to her to come in and go to bed.



CHAPTER XIX

PLOTS AND PLANS

"The best laid schemes o' mice and men," etc., proved itself true in Frank Nason's case. He had consoled himself during the many months of hard study with visions of a yachting-trip in July and August, when perhaps in some manner Alice Page could be induced to come, with his mother and sisters to chaperone her, and her brother and some other friends to complete the party.

He had the "Gypsy" put in first-class shape and all her state-rooms refurnished, and one in particular, which he intended Alice should occupy, upholstered in blue. So well formed were his plans that he timed the start so as to utilize the July moon for the first ten days, and mapped out a trip taking in all the Maine coast, spending a week at Bar Harbor and then a run up as far east as Annapolis Bay and the coast of Acadia.

He had described all the charms of this trip to Alice and extended to her the most urgent invitation. He had obtained her brother's promise to supplement it and also to make one of the party, and he had persuaded his sister Blanch to aid him with his mother, but he had met discouragement on all sides. In the first place, Alice wrote it was doubtful if she could go. It would be a delightful outing, and one she would enjoy, but it would not be right to leave Aunt Susan alone for so long, and then as her school did not close until the last of June, she would have no time to get ready. These were not the sole reasons for her reluctance, and in fact she made no mention of what was her principal reason. He did not understand that Alice Page was too proud-spirited to appear willing to put herself in his way and accept an invitation having for its ultimate object the giving of an opportunity to him to court her. Then to accept his family's protectorship and hospitality for that same end was even more obnoxious. With true feminine discretion she did not dare confide this reason to her brother, and perhaps it was wise she did not.

To cap the climax of Frank's discomfiture, when July came his mother announced that she had decided to go to the mountains for the summer, and then he saw his nicely laid plans were to be an utter failure.

"It's no use, Bert," he said to his friend one evening, "I wanted your sister to go to Maine with us, and mother and the girls and a few more to make a party, but it's no go. I can't induce your sister to join us, and it's no use if she would, for mother has determined to go to Bethlehem, and that settles it. I feel like going out and getting full. If you and I have any outing on the yacht, we must make up a gander party."

"That suits me just as well as, and in fact better than, the other plan," replied Albert consolingly. "If we have a lot of ladies along we must dance attendance upon them, and if not we can fish, smoke, play cards, sing, or go to sleep when we feel like it. I tell you, Frank," he continued, evidently desiring to cheer up that young man, "girls are all right as companions at home or at balls and theatres, but on a yacht they are in the way. Not only are they liable to seasickness, but at every bit of rough water they will get scared and make no end of trouble."

It was very good philosophy and to a certain extent true, although it did not agree with Frank's feelings, but then it must be remembered that he was suffering from the pangs of love, while his mentor was not.

A week afterward, and early one bright morning, the "Gypsy," with skipper, crew, and a party of eight jolly young men on board, sailed out of Boston and that night dropped anchor under the lee of an island in Casco Bay. She remained there one full day and the next ran to Boothbay and found shelter in a landlocked cove forming part of the coast line of Southport Island. It was after dinner next day, and while the rest of the party were either playing cards or napping in hammocks under the awning, that Albert Page took one of the boats, his pipe, and sketch book, and rowed down the coast a mile to an inlet he had noticed the day before. The outer point of this was formed by a bold cliff that he desired to sketch, and pulling the boat well up behind the inner point, tying the painter to a rock and taking the cushions along, he found a shady spot and sat down. The sloping rock he selected for a seat was a little damp, but he thought nothing of it, and lighting his pipe began sketching. He worked for an hour, putting the weed-draped rocks and long swells that broke over them into his book, and then, lulled perhaps by the monotonous rhythm of the ocean, lay back on the cushions and fell asleep. The next he knew he was awakened by a cold sensation and found the tide had risen until it wet his feet. Hastily getting up, he took the cushions and returned to where he had left the boat, only to find it had disappeared. The rising tide had lifted the boat and painter from the rocks, and it was nowhere to be seen.

"There must be some road back up on the island," he thought, "that will lead me near the cove where the 'Gypsy' is," and still retaining the cushions, he started to find it. But he was a stranger to Southport Island and the farther away from the sea he got, the thicker grew the tangle of scrub spruce and briers. It was too thick to see anywhere, and after a half hour of desperate scrambling, the afternoon sun began to seem about due east! He had long since dropped the cushions, and finally, in sheer exhaustion, sat down on a rock to collect himself. "It looks as though I'm billed to stay here all night," he thought, as he noted the lowering sun, "and nobody knows how much longer! There must be a road somewhere, though, and I'm going to find it if the light lasts long enough." He started once more and had not gone ten rods ere he came to one, and then he breathed easier. His clothes were torn, his hands and face scratched by briers, and to save himself he couldn't make it seem but that the sun was setting in the east! He sat down to think. All sound of the ocean was gone and a stillness that seemed to crawl out of the thicket was around him. He rested a few moments more, and then suddenly heard the sound of wheels and presently saw, coming around the curve, an old-fashioned carryall, worn and muddy, and, driving the horse at a jog trot, a man as dilapidated-looking as the vehicle. Gladdened at the sight, he arose, and holding up his hand as a signal, halted the team. "Excuse me, sir," he said to the man, who eyed him curiously, "but will you tell me where I am?"

"Wal," was the answer in a slow drawl, "ye'r' on Southport Island, and 'bout four miles from the jumpin' off place. Whar might ye be goin'? Ye look bushed."

"I am," answered Page, "and badly bushed too. I lost my boat over back here on the shore, and have had a cheerful time among the Mohawk briers. I belong to a yacht that is anchored in a cove of this island, I can't tell where, and if you will take me to her I'll pay you well."

The man in the wagon laughed.

"Say, stranger," he observed with a chuckle, "you 'mind me o' the feller that got full and wandered round for a spell till he fetched up to a house, an' sed to the man that cum to the door, 'If you will tell me who I am, or whar I am, or whar I want ter go, I'll give ye a dollar!'"

Page had to laugh in spite of his plight, for the humorous twinkle in the old man's eyes as he uttered his joke was infectious.

"I'd like ter 'commodate ye," he added, "but as I'm carryin' Uncle Sam's mail, an' must git home an' tend the light, and as ye don't know whar ye want ter go, ye best jump in an' go down to Saint's Rest, whar I live, an' in the mornin' we'll try an' hunt up yer boat."

It seemed the only thing to do, and Albert availed himself of the chance.

"Can you tell the spot where you found me?" he said to the man as they started on. "I'd like to go back there to-morrow and find my cushions."

"Wal," was the answer, "as I've druv over this road twice a day for nigh onto thirty year, I'm tolerable familiar with it. My name's Terry, an' I'm keeper o' the light at the Cape, an' carry the mail to sorter piece out on. Who might ye be?"

"My name's Page, and I'm from Boston, and a lawyer by profession," replied Albert.

Uncle Terry eyed him rather sharply.

"I wouldn't 'a' took ye fer one o' them dern pickpockets," he said, "ye look too honest. I ain't much stuck on lawyers," he added, with a chuckle. "I've had 'sperence with 'em. One of 'em sold me a hole in the ground onct, an' it cost me the hull o' twenty years' savin's! You'll 'scuse me fer bein' blunt—it's my natur."

"Oh, I don't mind," responded Albert laughingly; "not all of my profession are thieves, though some are. You mustn't judge us all by one rascal."

They drove on, and as they jogged up and down the sharp hills he caught sight here and there of the ocean, and alongside the road, which consisted of two ruts, a path, and two grass-grown ridges, he saw wild roses in endless profusion. On either hand was an interminable thicket. In the little valleys grew masses of rank ferns, and on the ridges, interspersed between the wild roses, clusters of red bunch-berries. The sun was almost down when they reached the top of a long hill and he saw at its foot a small harbor connected with the ocean by a narrow inlet, and around it a dozen or more brown houses. Beyond was a tangle of rocks and, rising above them, the top of a white lighthouse. Uncle Terry, who had kept up a running fire of questions all the time, halted the horse and said:

"Ye can now take yer first look at Saint's Rest, otherwise known as the Cape. We ketch some lobsters an' fish here an' hev prayer-meetin's once a week." Then he chirruped to the horse and they rattled down the hill to a small store where he left a mail pouch, and then followed a winding road between the scattered houses and out to the point, where stood a neat white dwelling close beside a lighthouse.

"I'll take ye into the house," said Uncle Terry as the two alighted, "an' tell the wimmin folks to put on an extra plate, an' then I'll put up the hoss."

"I'm afraid I'm putting your family to some inconvenience," responded Albert, "and as it is not dark yet, I will walk out on the point. I may see the yacht and save you all trouble."

The sun, a ball of fire, was almost at the horizon, the sea all around lay an unruffled expanse of dark blue, undulating with the ground swells that caught the red glow of the sinking sun as they came in and broke upon the rocks. Albert walked on to the highest of the shore rocks and looked about. There was no sign of the "Gypsy," and only one boat was visible, and that a dory rowed by a man standing upright. Over the still waters Albert could detect the measured stroke of his oars. That and the low rumble of the ground swells, breaking almost at his feet, were the only sounds. It was like a dream of solitude, far removed from the world and all its distractions. For a few moments he stood contemplating the ocean alight with the setting sun's red glow, the gray rocks at his feet and the tall white lighthouse towering above him, and then started around the point. He had not taken ten steps when he saw the figure of a girl leaning against a rock and watching the setting sun. One elbow was resting on the rock, her face reposing in her open hand and fingers half hid in the thick masses of hair that shone in the sunlight like burnished gold. A broad sun-hat lay on the rock, and the delicate profile of her face was sharply outlined against the western sky.

She had not heard Albert's steps, but stood there unconscious of his scrutiny. He noted the classic contour of her features; the delicate oval of her lips and chin; and his artist eye dwelt upon and admired her rounded bosom and perfect shoulders. Had she posed for a picture, she could not have chosen a better position, and so alluring, and withal so sweet and unconscious, that for a moment he forgot all else, even his own rudeness in standing there and staring at her. Then he recovered himself, and turning, softly retraced his steps so as not to disturb her. Who she was he had no idea, and was still wondering, when he met Uncle Terry, who at once invited him into the house.

"This 'ere's Mr. Page, Lissy," he said, as they entered, and met a stout, elderly, and gray-haired woman; "I found him up the road a spell, an' wantin' to know whar he was!"

Albert bowed, and was surprised to see her advance and greet him with a cordial handshake.

"I am sorry to intrude," he said, "but I had lost my boat, and all points of the compass, when your husband kindly took me in charge."

He started to say he would pay for all trouble, but fortunately did not, and then being offered a chair, sat down and was left alone. For ten minutes, that seemed longer, he surveyed the plainly furnished sitting-room, with open fireplace, a many colored rag-carpet on the floor, old-fashioned chairs, and dozens of pictures on the walls. They caught his eye at once, mainly because of the oddity of the frames, which were evidently home-made, for it was too dark to see more, and then a door was opened, and Uncle Terry invited him into a lighted room where a table was set. The elderly lady was standing at one end of it, and beside her a younger one, and as Albert entered he heard Uncle Terry say: "This is our gal Telly, Mr. Page," and as he bowed he saw, garbed in spotless white, the girl he had seen leaning against the rock and watching the sunset.



CHAPTER XX

A PAIR OF BLUE EYES

Some men have their fancy caught by a woman's face or form, or both; others by a look, a word, a smile. A witty reply to some masculine jest has tipped many an arrow for Cupid and won for a maiden a lover.

The appealing yet wondering glance that Albert Page met as he bowed to the girl standing beside the table that evening was one he never afterwards forgot. It was only one, for after that, and during the entire meal, her blue eyes were kept veiled by their long lashes, or modestly directed elsewhere.

"It's a charming spot down here," he remarked soon after the meal began, "and so hidden away that it is a surprise. I noticed the light as we came in, but did not see the village."

"Wal, ye didn't miss anything," responded his host; "none o' the houses are much for style, an' mebbe it's lucky they're hid behind the rocks."

"I thought them quaint and comfortable," observed Albert; "but what an odd name you have for the place! Why do you call it Saint's Rest?"

"Chiefly 'cause none o' the people have any chance to become sinners, I reckon," was the answer; "it's a trifle lonesome in the winter, though."

"I suppose fishing is your principal occupation here," continued Albert, seeing that sentiment was not considered by Uncle Terry; "your land does not seem adapted for cultivation."

"There ain't much chance for tillin'," he replied; "the land's wuss'n whar I was brung up down in Connecticut, an' thar we had ter round up the sheep once a week an' sharpen thar noses on the grin'stun! We manage ter raise 'nough ter eat, though."

When the meal was over Uncle Terry said, "It's nice an' cool out on the rocks, and thar's some seats out thar; if ye enjoy smoking we best go out while the wimmin are doin' the dishes."

The moon that Frank had planned to use was nearing its full, and high overhead, and as the two men, so widely separated in all respects, sought congeniality in tobacco out on that lonesome point, Albert could not curb his admiration for the scene. His offer of a cigar to his host had been accepted, and as that quaint man sat quietly enjoying an odor and flavor he was certainly unaccustomed to, Albert said:

"This experience has been a surprise to me from the moment I met you. I had an ugly hour's scramble over the rocks and through a tangle of scrub spruce and briers until I was utterly lost and believed this island an impassable wilderness. Then you came along and brought me to one of the most beautiful spots I ever saw. I should like to stay here all summer and do nothing but look at this magnificent ocean view and sketch these bold shores."

"Do you paint picturs too?" queried Uncle Terry, suddenly interested. "Telly's daft on doing that, an' is at it all the time she can git!" Then he added with a slight inflection of pride, "Mebbe ye noticed some o' her picturs in the sittin'-room?"

"I saw a lot of pictures there," answered Albert, "but it was too dark to see them well. I should like to look at them in the morning."

"Ye'll hev plenty o' time," was the reply, "I must pull my lobster traps fust, an' after that I'll take ye in my dory an' we'll go an' find yer boat. I guess she must be lyin' in Seal Cove, the only openin' 'twixt here an' the head she'd be likely ter run into."

"And so your daughter is an artist, is she?" asked Albert, indifferent now as to where the "Gypsy" was or when he was likely to return to her. He came near adding that that fact was another surprise, but did not. Instead he said, "Has she ever taken lessons?"

"No, it comes nat'ral to her," replied Uncle Terry; "she showed the bent o' her mind 'fore she was ten years old, an' she's pestered me ever since ter git her canvas an' paints an' sich. But then, I'm willin' ter," he added in a tender tone. "Telly's a good girl and Lissy and me set great store by her. She's all we've got in the world;" then pointing to a small white stone just to the right of where they were, he added, "Thar's whar the other one's been layin' fer mor'n twenty years."

"This one has grown to be a very beautiful girl," said Albert quietly, "and you have reason to be proud of her."

Uncle Terry made no reply, but seemed lost in a reverie, and Albert slowly puffed his cigar and looked out on the ocean, and along the ever-widening path of moonlight. He very much wished that this fair girl, so quaintly spoken of, were there beside him, that he might talk to her about her art. And as he grew curious and a bit surprised at the sort of people he had unexpectedly come upon, a little desire to know at least one of them a good deal better came to him. How it could be managed, and what excuse to give for remaining longer than the morrow, he could not see, and yet very much wished to find one. He looked toward the house, white in the moonlight, with the tall lighthouse and its beacon flash just beyond, and wondered if he should see the girl again that night. He hoped he might, and was on the point of suggesting they go in and visit a little with the ladies when Uncle Terry said:

"I believe ye called yerself a lawyer, Mr. Page, an' from Boston. Do ye happen to know a lawyer thar that has got eyes like a cat, an' a nose like a gentleman from Jerusalem, an' rubs his hands as if he was washin' 'em while he's talkin'?"

Albert gave a start. "I do, Mr. Terry," he answered, "I know him well. His name is Frye, Nicholas Frye."

"An' as you're a lawyer, an' one that looks to me as honest," continued Uncle Terry, "what is your honest opinion o' this Mr. Frye?"

"That is a question I would rather not answer," replied Albert, "until I know why you ask it, and what your opinion of Mr. Frye is. Mine might not flatter him, and I do not believe in speaking ill of anybody unless forced to."

Uncle Terry was silent, evidently revolving a serious problem in his mind. "I am goin' ter beg yer pardon, Mr. Page," he said at last, "fer speakin' the way I did regardin' lawyers in gineral. My 'sperence with 'em has been bad, an' naterally I don't trust 'em much. I've had some dealin's with this ere Frye 'bout a matter I don't want to tell 'bout, an' the way things is workin' ain't as they should be. I b'lieve I'm robbed right along, an' if ye'r' willin' ter help me I shall be most tarnally grateful, an' will give ye my word I'll never let on ter anybody what ye say—an' Silas Terry never yit broke his promise."

Albert silently offered his hand to Uncle Terry, who grasped it cordially. "I will tell you, Mr. Terry," he said after the handshake, "all I know about Mr. Frye and what my opinion is of him. What your business with him is, matters not. I am certain you are an honest man and will keep your word. I recently worked for Mr. Frye six months and left him to open an office for myself. He offered me more than double what he had been paying to remain, but no money would tempt me to do it. In that six months I became satisfied Nicholas Frye was the most unprincipled villain ever masked under the name of lawyer. If all those you have had business with were like him I don't wonder at your remark to-day."

Uncle Terry leaned forward with elbows on his knees, resting his face in the palms of his hands, and ejaculated: "I knew it! I knew it! I'm a blamed old fool an' ought ter hev a keeper put over me!" Then turning to Albert he added, "I've paid that dum thief over four hundred dollars this year an' hain't got a scrap o' paper ter show fer't, and nothin's been done so fer as I kin see 'bout the business." He meditated a few moments, and then turning around suddenly added, "My wife an' Telly don't know nothin' 'bout this, and I don't want they should. Thar's a sucker born every minit and two ter ketch him, an' I b'lieve it! I've been ketched an' skinned fer dead sure! I want ter sleep on't, an' mebbe in the mornin' I'll tell ye the hull story, an' how I've been made a fool of. I'm beginnin' ter think I kin trust ye."

"I thank you for your good opinion," answered Albert, "and if I can help you any way I will."

When the two returned to the house Albert was shown to a room that reminded him of his boyhood home, the old-fashioned bed, spotless counterpane, and muslin curtains all seemed so sweet and wholesome. A faint odor of lavender carried him back to the time when his mother's bed linen exhaled the same sweet fragrance. He lighted a cigar and sat down by a window where crisp salt sea air came in, and tried to fathom what manner of business Uncle Terry could have with Frye. It was an enigma, and as he looked out on the wide expanse of moonlit ocean where every wave sparkled with silvery light, and listened to the ceaseless rhythm of the long swells breaking upon the rocks almost under his window, he could not solve it. That the odd-spoken old man was in sore distress was evident, and for an hour Albert watched the sparkling sea in vain imaginings as to what Uncle Terry's business with Frye could be. And into his meditation also crept the face and form of the girl he had first seen watching the sunset.



CHAPTER XXI

A NEW CLIENT

When Albert arose the next morning the sun was just appearing round and red out of the ocean, and a crisp breeze blowing into the open windows. He heard the stir of some one below, and, dressing quickly, descended to the sitting-room. No one was there, and he stood for a moment looking at the curiously framed paintings that almost covered the wall.

One in particular caught his eye. It was a ship careened on the ocean with waves breaking upon her. She was resting on rocks that barely showed beneath, and in her rigging, heavily covered with ice, were five men. All around was the sea, tossed into giant waves, curling and breaking about the stranded vessel. He noted the life-like shading of the green and white billows; the ice that covered every shroud and rope and spar; and peering out of a cabin door was a woman holding a babe in her arms. In a way it was a ghastly picture, and one that held his attention from all the rest.

It was framed in a broad flat moulding covered with shells. He was still gazing at it when he heard Uncle Terry's voice bidding him good morning.

"Ain't ye up a little arly?" said that worthy; "I hope ye slep' well. I ginerally roust out by day-light an' put out the light an' then start a fire, but thar was no need o' you gittin' out so soon."

"I think the waves woke me," replied Albert, "and the morning is so beautiful I couldn't waste it in bed."

"I'm goin' over to the cove to mend a trap," continued Uncle Terry, "an' if ye'r' willin', I'd like ter hev ye go along too. The wimmin'll hev breakfast ready by that time, an' then I'll take ye up to Seal Cove an' see if yer boat's thar."

He seemed depressed and not inclined to talk, and as Albert sat on an overturned dory and watched him puttering away over a lobster trap, he began to feel sorry for him. His hat had fallen off and the sea winds blew his scant fringe of gray hair over his bald head. His brown shirt was open at the throat, disclosing a bony neck, and his well-worn garments showed the outlines of a somewhat wasted form. What impressed Albert more than all this was the dejected manner of Uncle Terry. It was as if an unexpected sorrow had come upon him. When he finished fixing the trap he pulled a dory in that was moored out in the cove and carefully bailed and wiped it clean. When this was done he said almost wistfully: "I've worried a good deal 'bout what you told me last night, an' I'd like ter have a good talk with ye. I s'pose ye'r' anxious ter see yer friends an' let 'em know ye'r' all safe, an' I'll take ye up the island the fust thing an' then go an' pull my traps, and then if ye'r' willin' we'll sot down, if it ain't askin' too much o' ye ter wait," he added almost pathetically. "I'll get Telly to show ye her picturs, and mebbe ye can give her some pints as'll help her."

"I shall be more than glad to do so," replied Albert, "but if that shipwreck scene is hers, she needs no advice from me."

Uncle Terry looked pleased, but made no answer. On the way back to the house he said: "I'd ruther ye'd make no mention to the wimmin of our hevin' any talk."

At the breakfast table he seemed in better spirits, and more like himself.

"I think ye told me last night," he remarked, addressing Albert, "that ye painted picturs yerself some." And then turning to Telly he added: "Mr. Page is comin' back here bimeby, jest to look 'round, an' mebbe he'd like ter look at some o' yourn."

Telly's face flushed slightly. "I shall be delighted," added Albert, "if Miss Terry will favor me. Will you?" he added in a persuasive tone.

"I do not feel that my pictures are good enough to show to strangers," she answered in a low voice; "I have never had any lessons or any one to show me."

"From what I've noticed in your sitting-room," responded Albert quickly, "you need not be ashamed to show them to an artist. I am not one. I only sketch a little, just as a remembrance of places I visit, but I love pictures even better than music."

"I will gladly show you what I have done," replied Telly simply, and there the conversation ended. When the meal was over Albert observed: "With your permission, Mrs. Terry, I would like to make a sketch of your home and the lighthouse, and after Mr. Terry has helped me find my friends I am coming back." Then turning to Telly he added: "I can then feel easy in my mind, and shall enjoy looking over your paintings."

"Won't ye stop to dinner with us?" asked Aunt Lissy, as Albert thanked her for her hospitality; "we'll be glad to have ye."

"I will, thank you," replied Albert; "this point, and in fact this village, was such a surprise to me, and is so charming, I am going to devote all my day to it." Then bidding the ladies good morning, he followed Uncle Terry over to the cove, where they boarded his dory and started out to find the "Gypsy."

Albert had spoken truly when he expressed surprise at the charms of the Cape and Uncle Terry's home, and not the least of it was the hospitality shown him in that home. But perhaps the greatest surprise of all was the finding of so fair a girl as Telly hid away, as it were, in an unheard-of corner of the world. "And she has the soul of an artist in her," he said to himself, as Uncle Terry pulled the dory out of the harbor and up the coast towards where he had been left stranded; "and what eyes, and what a perfect form!"

Then, as good luck would have it, when they rounded a point, there was the "Gypsy" following the island shore down to meet them. Albert stood up and waved his cap. He was answered by the whistle, and in an instant every one on board of her, even the crew, were out on her bows and waving caps lustily. The skipper kept the whistle blowing, and as the yacht slowed down and Uncle Terry pulled alongside, Albert was seized and almost dragged on board. Frank was so overjoyed he hugged him, and then gave vent to a war-whoop that might have been heard the entire length of Southport Island.

"We guessed what had happened to you," he said, "when we picked up your boat. It was almost dark when one of the crew saw an empty boat floating up the bay. We were all down in the cabin at that time, and had not noticed how late it was, when he called us. Two of the crew lowered the other boat, and when they got back with yours we nearly had a fit. The missing cushions and loop on the painter gave us a clue, and we half expected you would find your way back to the 'Gypsy' by land."

"I guess you're not much acquainted with the interior of Southport Island," put in Albert; and then going forward he brought back Uncle Terry, and introduced him to the crowd. By this time the "Gypsy" was almost down to the Cape, and under one bell, and the direction of Uncle Terry, she slowly steamed in. That worthy man had been looking over her, and his admiration was evident.

"A purty slick craft, boys," he said to the party, as the "Gypsy's" anchor ceased rattling out of the hawse-hole,—"a purty slick craft, an' must 'a' cost a heap o' money."

Then as he pulled his own weather-beaten dory that had been towing astern along to the gangway, Albert stepped up to him and said in a low voice:

"Will you excuse me a little while, Mr. Terry? I want to change my clothes, and in an hour or so I will come ashore, and not only thank you for all your kindness, but make you a visit."

When Uncle Terry had gone Albert related his experiences for the past eighteen hours to the party—that is, all but one incident, or rather surprise, and that he omitted for reasons best known to himself. Then nothing would do but they must all go ashore, and look the quaint little village over.

"I wish you would keep away from the lighthouse, boys," Albert said, as they were getting into their boat. "Mr. Terry's family are rather sensitive people and may not like to have a lot of us trooping around their place. I am going over there this afternoon to make a sketch, and then I'll ask permission, and we'll all go there some other day."

He had whispered to Frank to remain on the yacht, and when the rest were gone he said to him: "Frank, I am going to confide something to you, and I want you to promise me on your honor not to hint it to any of our friends." When that astonished young man had promised to keep mum, Albert continued, "The fact is, Frank, I've tumbled into an adventure, and fallen in love with a girl on sight, and without having exchanged ten words with her! She is Mr. Terry's daughter, and has eyes that take your breath away, and a form like the Venus of Milo. She paints pictures that are a wonder, considering she never has taken a lesson, and has a face more bewitching than any woman's I ever saw. It is like a painter's dream."

"Well, you have gone daft, old man," replied the astonished Frank, breaking into a laugh in which Albert joined, and then adding with mischief in his eyes, "Does she take good care of her teeth and fingernails, Bert?"

Albert frowned. "Don't for heaven's sake mention her in the same breath with those cigarette-smoking blemishes on their sex!" he answered; and then he added more pleasantly, "But you haven't heard it all yet. This unique old man, who saved me from sleeping all night in a thicket of briers, and who has opened his heart and home to me, has fallen into the clutches of—Nicholas Frye!"

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Frank, "and how on earth did he ever find Frye, or Frye find him? Was your old man of the island hunting around Boston for some one to rob him?"

"That I do not know yet," replied Albert; "all I know is that Mr. Terry has paid Frye about four hundred dollars, and, as he says, so far has nothing to show for it. What the business was I expect to learn later. Now what I am coming at is this: can't you manage to leave me here for the rest of the day, or, better still, make it two days? I'll tell the boys I've tumbled into a bit of law business, which is what I think will come out of it, and you can run down to Bar Harbor, or out to Monhegan and back here to-morrow night."

"Well, I'll do that gladly," replied Frank; and then he added with a droll smile, "It will give you a chance to say a few sweet things to this girl with the wondrous eyes, eh, Bert?"

"Please don't joke me about her before the rest of the crowd," said Albert; "remember your promise!"

"Well, you told the truth when you said you had fallen in love with her, I guess," observed Frank; "a fellow that feels that way about a girl must be in love."

"My dear boy," replied Albert, "what you say may be true, but I've not yet insisted upon her singing 'Ben Bolt' three times in one evening."



CHAPTER XXII

UNCLE TERRY'S GUEST

It was nearly noon when Albert left the yacht. He had exchanged his bedraggled yachting-suit for a neat gray one, and with a small satchel, his sketch-book, and a box of choice Havanas for Uncle Terry, he rowed ashore. For three hours the "Gypsy" had been the cynosure of all the Cape eyes, old or young, for a handsome two-hundred-ton yacht was a novelty in their little harbor. When she steamed slowly out, with Frank and his companions, in natty white duck suits, grouped on her stern, she was a pretty sight, and as she cleared the narrow entrance, the crew fired three guns and dipped her flag in honor of Albert, and then he picked his way over the rocks to the lighthouse. Uncle Terry had not returned from hauling his lobster traps, and Aunt Lissy and Telly met him at the door. It is likely that his being one of the yachting-party impressed them a little, for they were both dressed in their best. He was invited in, and then Aunt Lissy said: "Please excuse me, fur I have dinner to git, and Telly will entertain ye."

"And show me her pictures, I hope," put in Albert, with his most persuasive smile.

It was an awkward position for Telly, and one that she had never before been called upon to fill. Rather shy naturally, and her sole acquaintance with the usages of society limited to the few people among whom she had been brought up, to be called upon to entertain a smartly dressed and citified young man was a decidedly new experience. Albert saw her embarrassment, and with true gallantry at once set about making her feel at ease.

"Please do not feel that you must try to entertain me, Miss Terry," he said, "only show me your pictures and tell me about them."

"I am almost ashamed to," she replied timidly; "I have never taken any lessons and feel that I do not know anything about painting. Father says you are an artist yourself."

"Oh, no, Miss Terry," exclaimed Albert quickly, "he misunderstood me. I only sketch a little and once in a while make an effort to put a sketch that is of interest on canvas. All I can tell is when one looks life-like; for instance,"—pointing to it,—"that shipwreck scene. It is wonderfully well done. Did you paint it from a real wreck?"

Telly colored. "No, sir," she answered, "that was all done from father's description of a wreck that took place off the point one winter when I was a baby." Then, as if to check further questions, she stepped to a closet, brought him a small unframed picture, and added, "There is one I have just finished."

It was a view of a tall cliff with a low shelf of rock at its base, over which the waves were breaking. Albert recognized it at once. "Why, that is the very point," he exclaimed, "that I was sketching yesterday when my boat drifted away. Did you paint it from a broad flat rock on the west side of the cove?"

"Oh, yes, that is the spot," replied Telly, looking pleased. "It is shady there, and I used to row up and paint in the afternoon. It is strange you went to the same place."

The ice was broken now, and Telly's shyness was almost gone.

"Father told me about finding you," she said, "and that you were turned around. You must have had a hard tramp, for it's all of two miles from where you were to this cove, and an awful tangle all the way, he said."

"I was decidedly turned when he came to my rescue," Albert replied, "and the sun seemed to be setting in the east. It was very kind of your father to take care of me the way he has, and I shall never forget it."

It is not hard for two young people of opposite sex to get acquainted when each desires to entertain the other and they have at least one well-defined taste in common. In this case when the masculine one felt a sudden admiration for his companion and brought all his resource of tact and subtle flattery to bear, they were soon on the very best of terms. Albert did not talk much, but adroitly induced Telly to do most of it. In the hour they passed together he discovered that two impulses were nearest her heart—the first and strongest her devotion to Mr. Terry, and after that a desire to paint.

"I do not ever hope to do much," she admitted rather pathetically; "I never have taken lessons and maybe never shall. I would not think of asking father to let me go away, and all I can do is to work blindly. I often sit for hours trying to put things I see on canvas, only to fail utterly and begin all over again. I should not mind it if I could see that I made any progress, but I do not. I can't let it alone, though, for the most happy hours I have are when I'm painting."

"You certainly have perseverance," responded Albert encouragingly, "and the pictures you have shown me seem very life-like. I wish I could do as well. You have done good work for one self-taught as you are, and you have no reason to be discouraged."

Then Uncle Terry came in and announced dinner. It was rather a state affair for the Terry household, and the table bore their best dinner service, with a vase of flowers in the centre.

"I hope ye feel hungry," said Uncle Terry, as he passed a well-filled plate to Albert, "for we live plain, and it's good appetite as makes good vittles. I s'pose ye are used ter purty high livin'?"

"Whatever tastes good is good," replied Albert, and turning to Aunt Lissy he added, "This fried lobster beats anything I have tasted for a long time."

When the meal was over he handed the box of cigars he had brought to his host with the remark, "Please accept these, Mr. Terry, and when you smoke them, think of the forlorn fellow you found by the wayside."

"I've got ter leave ye ter th' tender marcies o' the wimmin folks," said Uncle Terry, after thanking Albert, "for I've got work to do, and to-night we'll have a visit. I hope you'll be willin' to stay with us a day or two," he added, "an' to-morrow I'll take ye out fishin'."

"I will stay until to-morrow, thank you," replied Albert, "and it will be a treat to me, I assure you."

It was a new departure for him to find so cordial a welcome among total strangers, and he could not quite understand it. He was not inclined to quarrel with fate, however, especially when it had thrown him into the society of such people. It is needless to say the "tender marcies" of at least one of them were quite to his taste.

"I should like to row up to where I was left boat-less yesterday," he said to Telly after Uncle Terry had gone, "and finish the sketch I began, and also try to find the cushions I dropped in the woods; may I ask you to go too?"

"I should be glad to if mother can spare me," she answered.

When he rowed out of the little harbor where he had left his boat, Telly sat in the stern holding the tiller ropes, and shading her winsome face was the same broad sun-hat he had seen on the rock beside her the evening before. It was a long four-mile pull, but he was unconscious of it, and when he helped his companion out and secured the boat he said, "Now I am going to ask a favor of you, Miss Terry. I want you to stand in just the position I first saw you and let me make a sketch of you. You were leaning on a rock and resting your head on one hand."

Telly looked puzzled.

"You did not know I saw you out on the point last evening, did you?" he added, smiling. "I stood and looked at you for five minutes and then walked away. I did not know who you were then, or that I should meet you later. If I had I would not have been so rude."

The color came to Telly's face at his evident admiration, but she did not say no to his proposal and stood patiently in the position he wished while he made the sketch. "There," he exclaimed when it was finished, "I shall transfer that to canvas when I go back, and whenever I look at it I shall recall this day and—you."

"Will you need the picture for that?" she replied with a smile. It was the first little coquettish word she had uttered, and it amused Albert. "That sounds like Alice," he said, and added hastily, "Alice is my only sister, and I think more of her than of any other woman living."

What these two young people, so rapidly becoming acquainted, had to say all that long summer afternoon need not be recorded. Telly sat on the boat's cushions in a shady nook and watched Albert finish his sketch and then listened to his talk. He told her all about his home and sister, and Frank as well. In a way they exchanged a good deal of personal history of interest to each other, but to no one else, so it need not be repeated. Then they gathered flowers, like two children, and Telly insisted on decorating the boat. When it was done she wanted him to make a sketch of it for her. "Draw yourself as holding the oars," she said, "and I will try to paint a picture from the sketch to remember you by," she added with a smile. Then, as the sun was getting low, they started for home. The breeze had all vanished and the sea was like glass. Only the long ground swells barely lifted their boat and made the shadows of the trees along the shore wave in fantastic undulations. When they reached the Cape Telly said, "You had better go around to the cove where father keeps his boats. It's nearer to the house, and there is a float there where you can pull your boat out."

She waited until he had done so, and then stooped and selected a few of the flowers with which they had decked the boat. "I am going to paint them," she said quietly, as she turned and followed Albert up to the house.



CHAPTER XXIII

A STRANGE STORY

Uncle Terry and Albert had just seated themselves on the point that evening when Telly came out with a thick gray shawl and wrapped it around her father's shoulders. "It's a little chilly to-night," she said, "and I think you need it." Then turning to Albert she added, "Wouldn't you like one too, Mr. Page?" He didn't in the least need any protection, but that made no difference. "I would, thank you," he answered, "if you have another to spare." He would have answered yes if she had asked him to put on woollen mittens. She returned to the house and came back, this time bearing a white zephyr wrap, and handed it to Albert. "I will bid you good-night, now," she said, "for I presume you will sit here long after bed-time."

Uncle Terry's eyes followed her back to the house, and then he turned to his guest.

"I s'pose ye'd rather be talking to Telly than me, out here in the moonlight," he said bluntly, "now that ye've got a little acquainted. It's the way o' young folks."

"I've had a very pleasant visit with your daughter this afternoon," responded Albert; "she was good enough to go with me to where I got left yesterday. I wanted to finish the sketch I began there." Uncle Terry made no answer, but sat puffing away at one of the cigars Albert had given him.

"We don't git cigars like this here," he said at last, "an' they must cost a lot o' money." Albert made no reply, but waited quietly for the revelation he felt was coming.

"Mr. Page," said Uncle Terry at last, "I've worried a good deal since last night 'bout what you told me, an' I've made up my mind to tell ye the hull story an' trust ye with what no one else knows. To begin with, it's 'bout twenty years ago last March when thar war a vessel got a-foul o' a ledge jest off'n the pint here in a snow-storm, an' all hands went down; that is, all but a little yearlin' baby that cum ashore tied up 'tween two feather-beds. I fished her out o' the surf, an' Lissy an' me has taken care on her ever since, an' to-day she's worth a thousand times more'n she cost. How much she thinks o' me I'll let ye jedge by the way she thought 'bout my comfort to-night. There was a few trinkets came ashore with her—picturs o' her father an' mother, we knew, an' a locket an' ring and some other things, so we knowed her name and whar she cum from. Since then we have never heard a word from no one regardin' her people, or whether any was livin', till last winter I cum across a notice in a paper sayin' information was wanted 'bout an heir to an estate in Sweden, and tellin' facts that made me sure Telly was the one wanted. The notice was signed by that lawyer, Frye, that I asked ye 'bout, an' I went to see him. He wanted proofs an' all that, an' I gave 'em to him, an' wussen that, he wanted money, an' I gave that to him. He's kept askin' fer money ever since, an' I, like a dum fool, kept sendin' it, in hopes, if Telly had anything comin', she'd git her dues. I've sent him the locket and things that belonged to her, and all I've got so far is letters askin' for more money an' tellin' 'bout expenses an' evidence an' witnesses' fees an' bonds to be filed. Lissy an' Telly know 'bout the case, but they don't know how much money I've paid out, an' I don't want they should. That's the hull story, an' now as you're a lawyer, an' I b'lieve an honest one, I ask ye what's best to be done."

For fully five minutes Albert said nothing. The story was so startling and opened such a wide horizon of possibilities that he was speechless. Then, perhaps, the distress in Uncle Terry's face and speech appealed to him, for he said: "I see now, Mr. Terry, why you distrust lawyers, and I do not wonder at it. To the best of my belief you have been swindled in the most outrageous manner by Frye. He no doubt is acting for some law firm who have instructed him to find an heir, if there is one, to this estate, and they would naturally advance all expense money. Do you know the vessel's name, where she sailed from, and who her master was?"

"She was a square-rigger, and the master's name was Peterson; in the newspaper piece the name was Neils Peterson who cum from Stockholm," answered Uncle Terry. "I've got it in my wallet now, an' on the locket was the letters E. P., an' on a piece o' paper that was pinned to the baby's dress was the name Etelka Peterson."

"And did you send these proofs to Frye?" asked Albert quickly.

"I sent 'em six months ago," was the reply, "an' I've jest 'bout made up my mind I was a fool to 'a' done it, an' a bigger one to keep sendin' money."

"It would have been all right," answered Albert after a pause, "if you had put them into an honest man's hands. As it is you are lame—in fact, utterly at the mercy of Frye, who is robbing you." Then after thinking a moment he added, "I will gladly do what I can to help you, Mr. Terry, and at no cost to you for my own services. The first step must be to get possession of these material proofs, the next to find what firm has employed Frye. That will be easier than to get the trinkets, as you call them, back. We might issue a writ of replevin and search Frye's office, but then we are not sure of finding them. They are so valuable in the case that you may be sure Frye has them safe in hiding and will deny possession. Even if we find who employ him and lay the matter before them, he will declare us impostors and block us at once. As I said, we are helpless until we get possession of those proofs."

"Ain't my word an' Lissy's as to savin' the baby no 'count?" asked Uncle Terry.

"Very good so far as it goes," answered Albert, "but really no proof that the child you saved is the one wanted for this inheritance. In the matter of a legacy the law is very exacting and demands absolute proof. No, the only way is to use duplicity and trick Frye, or ask him to name his price and pay it, and as the estate may be large, his price will naturally be extortionate."

Albert thought a moment and then added, "Has Frye ever written you admitting he has received or has those proofs in his possession?"

"Not a word," answered Uncle Terry; "all he writes is, 'Your case is progressing favorably. I need so much more money,' an' I send it an' lay 'wake nights worryin'."

"How long since he has sent for money?" asked Albert.

"'Bout a month, I reckon," replied Uncle Terry.

Albert leaned forward, resting his face on both hands and thinking. It was a hard case to solve, and knowing the manner of man Frye was, and how nearly impossible it would be to trick him, a past master in all kinds of duplicity, he was at his wits' end. The more he thought the matter over, the harder the problem seemed. "We might have you go into his office with one or two of your neighbors," he said, "to act as witnesses, and by some question get him to admit he has these articles, and then bring suit; but I do not think he would say anything before a third party. We might employ a detective, but Frye is too shrewd to be caught napping. I confess, Mr. Terry, I am stumped, and can see no way out of the dilemma." Then he lighted a fresh cigar and gazed meditatively upon the ocean where the ever-broadening path of moonshine stretched away. Only a little way out the ground swells were breaking upon a long narrow reef, and as it caught his eye there came to him the memory of the pictured wreck he had noticed in Uncle Terry's sitting-room that morning, and Telly's evident wish to avoid all questions regarding it. Then it dawned upon him that that subject might be a tender one with her, and maybe that in some way she felt her history was a cloud upon her life, or perhaps a humiliation. He turned to Uncle Terry again:

"How does your—I mean, how does Telly feel about this matter, Mr. Terry, for I suppose she knows the story?"

"That's suthin' I hate ter talk 'bout, but as ye'r' likely to see more o' us an' more o' Telly, it's better ye know it all. When she was 'bout ten we told her the story, and showed her the things we'd kep' locked up. She didn't seem ter mind it then, but as she's growed older it sorter shadders her life, as it were. We used ter ketch her lookin' at the things once in a while, an' cryin'. When I sent 'em to Boston she took on a good deal, an' ain't been the same sence. We try to keep her from thinkin' 'bout it all we can, but she's curis in her ways, and I've thought she was kinder 'shamed, an' mebbe broodin' over it makes it wuss."

This was a new phase of the trouble to Albert, and one he could not quite understand. "You do not mean that you fear she would make away with herself in a fit of melancholy, do you?" he asked.

"I dunno what to think," was the answer, "only I hate to have her out o' sight much, an' the more lovin' she is the more I worry. I've bin sorry at times I ever went to Frye, but it's too late ter back out now."

"One thing please promise me," said Albert when they had started for the house, "do not hint either to her or your wife that you have told me anything about this matter. I will do all that can be done, and consult only with you, in private."



CHAPTER XXIV

A WHISPER OF THE OCEAN

The next day was a red-letter one in Albert's history. In the morning he followed Uncle Terry around the circuit of his lobster traps in the "Gypsy's" boat, with Telly as a companion, and watched the old man hauling and rebaiting those elongated coops and taking out his hideous prizes. The day was a perfect one, the sea just ruffled by a light breeze, and as her first timidity had now worn away, he found Telly a most charming companion. She not only loved the ocean that in a way had been her playmate since childhood, but she had an artist's eye for all its beauties. How many features, new to Albert, she called to his attention, and how her naive observations, so fresh and delightful, each and all interested him, need not be quoted. It was an entirely new experience to him, and the four hours' pull in and out of the island coves and around isolated ledges where Uncle Terry set his traps passed all too quickly.

"Do you know," said Albert when they had returned to the little cove where Uncle Terry kept his boats, and as he sat watching him pick up his morning's catch and toss them one by one into a large car, "that the first man who thought of eating a lobster must have been almost starved. Of all creatures that grow in the sea, there is none more hideous, and only a hungry savage could have thought them fit for food."

"They ain't over hansum," replied Uncle Terry, "but fried in pork fat they go middlin' good if ye're hungry."

That afternoon Telly invited Albert to row her up to a cove, at the head of which was a narrow valley where blueberries grew in profusion. "I want to pick a few," she said, "and you can make a sketch of the cove while I do." It must be recorded that helping her picking berries proved more attractive, and when her pail was full, all he did in that line was to make a picture of her sitting in front of a pretty cluster of small spruce trees, with the pail beside her and her sun-hat trimmed with ferns.

"Your city friends will laugh at the country girl you found down in Maine," she remarked as she looked at the sketch, "but as they will never see me, I don't care."

"My friends will never see it," he answered quietly, "only my sister. And I am going to bring her down here next summer."

"Tell me about her," said Telly at once, "is she pretty?"

"I think so," replied Albert, "she has eyes like yours, only her hair is not so light. She is a petite little body and has a mouth that makes one want to kiss her."

"I should like to see her ever so much," responded Telly, and then she added rather sadly, "I've never had a girl friend in my life. There are only a few at the Cape of my age, and I don't see much of them. I don't mind it in the summer, for then I work on my pictures, but in winter it is so lonesome. For days I do not see any one except father and mother or old Mrs. Leach."

"And who is Mrs. Leach?" asked Albert.

"Oh, she's a poor old soul who lives alone and works on the fish racks," answered Telly, "she is worse off than I am." It was a little glimpse into the girl's life that interested Albert, and in the light of what he knew of her history, a pathetic one. Truly she was alone in the world, and except for the two kindly souls who made a home for her, she had no one to turn to.

"You will go away to-morrow, I suppose," she said with a faint tone of regret as they were rowing home. "Father said your boat was coming after you to-day."

He looked at her a moment, while a slight smile showed beneath his mustache. "I suppose I shall have to," he answered, "but I should like to stay here a month. I've not made a sketch of your house, even."

"I wish you would," she said with charming candor, "it is so lonesome here, and then maybe you would show me a little about painting."

"Could you endure my company every day for a month?" he asked, looking her full in the face.

"I don't believe you could endure ours," she replied, dropping her eyes, and then she added quickly, "There is a prayer-meeting to-night at the Cape; would you like to go?"

"Most certainly," he answered; "I can imagine it will be interesting."

Albert had expected to see the "Gypsy" in the harbor when they returned that afternoon, but was most happily disappointed. "I hope they will stay at Bar Harbor a week," he thought. And that evening when Telly appeared, ready to be escorted to the prayer-meeting, he was certain that no fairer girl was to be found at Bar Harbor, or anywhere else.

She was dressed in simple white, her masses of sunny hair half concealed by a thin blue affair of loosely knitted wool, and had a cluster of wild roses at her throat. It was a new and pleasurable experience to be walking beside a well-dressed young man whose every look and word bespoke enjoyment of her society, and she showed it in her simple, unaffected way. "I am afraid we shall disturb the meeting," she said with a smile, as they were walking over to the village. "The folks will be so curious to know who you are they will sing worse than ever. That's about all they do," she added by way of explanation,—"sing a few hymns, and Deacon Oaks will make a prayer and Mr. Gates another. They may call on you to give testimony," she continued, looking at Albert archly; "will you respond?"

"Hardly," was the reply. "I always respect people's religious feelings, but I must confess I belong to the great majority of sinners who have never had a change of heart."

That evening's gathering was a unique one in Albert's experience, and the religious observances such as he never forgot. The place was a little square, unpainted building, not larger than a country schoolhouse, and when Telly and he entered and seated themselves on one of the wooden settees that stood in rows, not over a dozen people were there. On a small platform in front was a cottage organ, and beside it a small desk. A few more entered after they did, and then a florid-faced man arose, and, followed by a short and stout young lady, walked forward to the platform. The girl seated herself at the organ, and the man, after turning up the lamp on the organ, opened the book of gospel hymns, and said in a nasal tone, "We will naow commence our sarvices by singin' the forty-third psalm, and all are requested to rise an' jine." In the centre of the room hung a large lamp, and two more on brackets at the side shed a weak light on the gathering, but no one seemed to feel it necessary to look for the forty-third selection. Albert and Telly arose with the rest, and the girl at the organ began to chase the slow tune up and down the keys. Then the red-faced man started the singing, a little below the key, and the congregation followed. To Albert's surprise, Telly's voice, clear and distinct, at his side joined with the rest. A long prayer, full of halting repetitions, by the man at the desk, followed, and then another hymn, and after that came a painful pause. To Albert's mind it was becoming serious, and he began to wonder how it would end, when there ensued one of the most weird and yet pathetic prayers he had ever listened to. It was uttered by an old lady, tall, gaunt, and white-haired, who arose from the end of a settee close to the wall and beneath one of the smoke-dimmed lamps. It could not be classed as a prayer exactly, for when she began her utterance she looked around as if to find sympathy in the assembled faces, and her deep-set piercing eyes seemed alight with intense feeling. At first she grasped the back of the settee in front with her long fleshless fingers, and then later clasped and finally raised them above her upturned face, while her body swayed with the vehemence of her feelings. Her garb, too, lent a pathos, for it was naught but a faded calico dress that hung from her attenuated frame like the raiment of a scarecrow. It may have been the shadowy room or the mournful dirge of the nearby ocean that added an uncanny touch to her words and looks, but from the moment she arose until her utterance ceased, Albert was spell-bound. So peculiar, and yet so pathetic, was her prayer, it shall be quoted in full as uttered:

"O Lord," she said, "I come to Thee, knowin' I'm as a worm that crawls on the airth; like the dust blown by the winds; the empty shell on the shore, or the leaves that fall on the ground. I come poor an' humble. I come hungry and thirsty, like even the lowliest of the airth. I come and kneel at Thy feet—believin' that I, a poor worm o' the dust, will still have Thy love and pertection. I'm old, an' weary o' waitin'. I'm humble, and bereft o' kin. I'm sad, and none to comfort me. I eat the crust o' poverty, an' drink the cup of humility. My pertector and my staff have bin taken from me, and yet, for all these burdens Thou in Thy infinite wisdom hev seen fit to lay on me, I thank Thee! Thou hast led my feet among thorns and stuns, and yet I thank Thee. Thou hast laid the cross o' sorrow on my heart, and the burden o' many infirmities for me to bear, and yet I bless Thee, yea, verily shall my voice be lifted to glorify and praise Thee day and night, for hast Thou not promised me that all who are believers in Thy word shall be saved? Hast Thou not sent Thy son to die on the cross for my sake, poor and humble as I am? An' fer this, an' fer all Thy infinite marcy an' goodness to me, I praise an' thank Thee to-night, knowin' that not a sparrer falls without Thy knowin' it, and that even the hairs of our heads are numbered.

"I thank Thee, O Lord, for the sunshine every day, and the comin' o' the birds and flowers every season. I thank Thee that my eyes are still permitted to see Thy beautiful world, and my ears to hear the songs o' praise. I thank Thee, too, that with my voice I can glorify and bless Thee fer all Thy goodness, and fer all Thy marcy. An' when the day of judgment comes an' the dead rise up then I know Thou wilt keep Thy promise, an' that even I, poor an' humble, shall live again, jinin' those that have gone before, to sit at Thy feet an' glorify Thee for life everlastin'. Fer this blessed hope, an' fer all Thy other promises, I lift my voice in gratitude an' thankfulness an' praise to Thee, my heavenly Father, an' to thy son, my Redeemer, to-night an' to-morrer an' forever an' forever. Amen."

To Albert, a student of Voltaire, of Hume, of Paine, and an admirer of Ingersoll, a doubter of scriptural authenticity, and almost a materialist in belief, this weird and piteous utterance came with peculiar effect. That she who uttered it had only told the tale of her own sad life and hope he understood at once, and what was of more force, that she believed and felt in her own heart that every word of her recital was heard by her Creator. Albert had heard prayers and religious exhortations without number; prayers that were incoherent, pointless, vague, or uttered to the hearers instead of God; prayers that contained advice to the Deity galore, but of supplication and thankfulness not a vestige; but never before one that reached his heart and touched his feelings as the strange and piteous supplication uttered by this weird old lady there in the dimly-lighted room with the sad and solemn dirge of the ocean whispering through the open windows.

The rest of the services were of little interest to him, except the fact that Telly's voice at his side, now a little bolder than at first, led the gospel hymns that followed. Old and time-worn they were, and yet rendered with a zest of feeling reflected, maybe, from the plaintive prayer of this old lady.

Our moods, and more especially our thoughts, are often turned from one groove into another by some single word or reference that, like a little rudder at the stern of a great ship, seems of no account. To Albert, who for a year had had no thought except to win success amid the hard, selfish scramble of life in a busy city, this episode, and more especially the utter self-abnegation and piteous appeal of this poor, ill-clad, and gaunt-faced old lady, was the tiny rudder that changed his thoughts and carried him back to the many times when he, a boy, exuberant in spirit, was made to kneel each night at bed-time and listen to a loving mother's prayer. Then, too, the memory of that mother's face, and even the very tones of her voice as she prayed that God would guide her boy's footsteps aright, came back to him now, and into the remembrance too was woven all of that mother's kind and patient acts; all her earnest and good advice; all her self-denials; all the pinchings and small economies she had endured to enable him to receive an education, and as each and all came trooping back like so many little hands tugging at his heart-strings and moistening his eyes, he realized that there was needed in this hurrying, selfish life of ours something deeper, and something beyond the skepticism of Voltaire and the materialism of Ingersoll. And there in that dim little room, with two dozen poorly clad and simple fisher-folk singing gospel hymns to the accompaniment of a wheezy cottage organ, he realized that while atheism and doubt might appeal to his intellect, it did not satisfy his heart, and that while materialism might be a good enough theory to live by, it was a cheerless belief to die by.

And then too, as he stole covert looks at the fair girl who stood by his side, joining her sweet voice in "Hold the Fort," "Pull for the Shore," "Gathering at the River," and all the other time-worn gospel songs, older than he was, into his heart came the first feeling, also, that she was the one woman he had ever met whose gentle, unaffected goodness and purity of thought was worthy of any man's devotion. But words are given us to conceal as well as to reveal our feelings, and when the unique little prayer-meeting was concluded with an oddly spoken benediction by Deacon Oaks, and Albert and Telly were on their way back to the point, his first words bore no disclosure of his feelings.

"Who was the poor old lady that prayed so fervently?" he asked; "I have never heard anything like it since I was a boy."

"Oh, that's the Widow Leach," Telly responded; "she always acts that way and feels so too, I guess. She is an object of pity here, and very poor. She has no relation living that she knows of, lives alone in a small house she owns, and works on the fish racks summers, and winters has to be helped. Her husband and two sons were lost at sea many years ago, and father says religion is all the consolation she has left."

"Does she always pray as fervently as she did to-night?" was Albert's next query.

"Oh, yes, that's her way," was the answer; "father says she is a little cracked about such matters. He pities her, though, and helps her a good deal, and so does 'most every one else here who can. She needs it." Then after a pause she added, "How did you enjoy the meeting, Mr. Page?"

"Well," replied Albert slowly, and mentally contrasting it with many Sunday services when he had occupied a pew with the Nasons at their fashionable church in Boston, "it has been an experience I shall not soon forget. In one way it has been a pleasure, for it has taken me back to my young days." Then he added a little sadly, "It has also been a pain, for it recalled my mother and how she used to pray that I might grow to be a good man."

"You are not a bad man, are you?" responded Telly at once, looking curiously at him.

"Oh, no; I hope not," he answered, smiling, "I try to do as I would be done by, but the good people here might think I was, maybe, because I am not a professor of religion. For that reason I should be classed as one of the sinners, I presume."

"Well, so is father," responded Telly, "but that doesn't make him one. Deacon Oaks calls him a scoffer, but I know he trusts him in all money matters, and I think father is the best and kindest man in the world. He has been so good and kind to me I would almost lie down and die for him, if necessary."

It was an expression of feeling that was not surprising to Albert, knowing as he did her history, but he felt it unwise to discuss it. "How do you feel about this matter of belief?" he asked after a pause. "Are you what this old lady would call a believer, Miss Terry?"

"Oh, no," she replied slowly, "I fear I am not. I always go to meeting Sundays when there is one,—mother and I,—and once in a while to the Thursday evening prayer-meeting. I think it's because I enjoy the singing."

When they reached the point Albert could not restrain his desire to enjoy the society of this unaffected, simple, and beautiful girl a little longer. The moon that Frank had planned to use was high overhead, and away out over the still ocean stretched a broadening path of silvery sheen, while at their feet, where the ground swells were breaking upon the rocks, every splash of foam looked like snow-white wool.

"If it's not asking too much, Miss Terry," said Albert with utmost politeness, "won't you walk out to the top of the cliff and sit down a few moments, while I enjoy a cigar? The night is too beautiful to turn away from at once."

Telly, nothing loath perhaps, assented, and they took possession of the rustic seat where Albert had listened to her history the night before. Perhaps a little of its pathos came to him now as he watched her sweet face while she gazed far out to seaward and to where the swells were breaking over a low, half-submerged ledge. And what a flood of new and bewitching emotions came to him as he watched his fair companion, all unconscious of his scrutiny!—and with them, a sudden and keen interest to unravel the mystery of her parentage, and the hope that some time he might do it. He also felt an unaccountable desire to tell her that he knew her pathetic story, and to express his interest in it and his sympathy for her, but dared not. "It may hurt her to know I know it," he thought, "and I will wait till she knows me better." Instead he began telling her about himself and his own early life, his home, his loss of parents, his struggle to earn a living, and how much success he had so far met. It may be considered egotism, but it was the wisest thing he could have done, for it awakened her interest in him far more than he realized. When his recital and cigar were both at an end and it was time to go in, he said: "I may not have another chance to ask you, Miss Terry, before I leave here; but when I get back to Boston may I write to you, and will you answer my letters if I do?"

The question startled her a little, but she answered:

"I shall be pleased to hear from you, Mr. Page, and will do the best I can in replying, only do not expect too much."

When he had bade her good night and was alone in his room, the memory of Mrs. Leach and her pitiful prayer, coupled with Telly's pleading eyes and sweet face, banished all thoughts of sleep, and he had to light another cigar and watch the moonlit ocean for a half hour while he smoked and meditated.



CHAPTER XXV

THE "GYPSY" RETURNS

"How did ye like the prayer-meetin'?" asked Uncle Terry the next morning, as Albert stood watching him getting ready to start on his daily rounds. "Did the Widder Leach make ye feel ye was a hopeless sinner?"

"It was an interesting experience," replied Albert, "and one I shall not soon forget."

"Oh, it don't do 'em no harm to git together an' pray an' sing, an' most likely it divarts their minds from other troubles, but in my way o' thinkin', prayin' is a good deal like a feller tryin' to lift himself by his boot-straps. It encourages him some, but he don't git much further." Then, as if a load was on his mind, he added, "You haven't thought o' no way ter git me out o' my scrape, hev ye?"

"I have thought a good deal about it," replied Albert, "and the best way, it seems to me, is for you to go right to Frye and tell him you can't afford to carry the case any further, and offer to pay whatever fee he sees fit to ask. You can tell him you will give up the case entirely, and ask him to return the proofs you want. I may decide to have a detective within hearing, so that if he refuses you these things, we can use the detective as a witness in a replevin suit. Most likely he will demand quite a sum, but it is best to pay it if we can get the proofs. I will advance money enough to cover what he is likely to ask. What I want you to do is to wait until he sends for more money; then come to me at once with the news."

Uncle Terry looked at Albert a moment, and suddenly grasping his hand, exclaimed, "I can't thank ye 'nough for yer offer to help me, but I kin say how sorry I am I distrusted ye at fust, and as long as I've a roof to cover my head, ye'r' sure to find a welcome under it, an' the latch-string allus out."

"I thank you for your kindly words, Mr. Terry," responded Albert, "and I am likely to avail myself of your invitation again before the summer is over. I expect my friends back to-day and must join them, but I assure you I would much prefer to stay here for the two weeks I have planned for my outing."

"Ye won't go till I see ye again, will ye?" asked Uncle Terry anxiously.

"No," was the answer. "If the 'Gypsy' shows up to-day we will stay in the harbor to-night, and I should like to have you and Miss Telly visit her." Then as the old man pushed off and pulled out of the cove with long slow strokes, Albert watched him with a new interest. "Poor old fellow," he thought, "he is honest as the day is long, and has a heart of gold beneath his blunt speech. How hard he has to work for what he gets, and what a vile thing it was in Frye to rob him so!" When the old man was out of sight Albert strolled over to the village. On the outer side of the harbor, and opposite where the houses were, he came to some long rows of slat benches, and busy at work spreading split fish upon them was the old lady who had thanked the Lord so fervently at the prayer-meeting. As she noticed Albert she paused and stood looking at him curiously. "Good morning, madam," he said as he neared her; "you have a nice day to dry your fish, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir; the Lord's bin good to me this summer," she answered, still eyeing him, and added quickly, "you be the young man from Bosting that's stopping with Uncle Terry, I consider? I seen ye at the meeting last night with Telly. Do you belong to the world's people, or hev ye made yer callin' and 'lection sure?"

It was rather a pointed query for so short an acquaintance, and Albert smiled. "I hope I have some chance of being saved at last," he replied, "but tell me, why do you ask? Do I look wicked?"

"Looks be mainly deceivin'," she answered, "but if your heart's with the Lord, you're sure o' salvation."

"You have a large lot of fish to care for, I see," he replied, not wishing to discuss religion with this odd old lady, "and it must keep you busy."

"I need it, for the winter's comin' an' then there's no work for me," she answered sadly, resuming her labor, "I'm counted as one o' the Lord's poor then."

Albert looked at the thin figure upon which hung a soiled and faded calico dress, and then at her white hair as she bent over her work, and the pitiful sight and the pathos of her words touched him. "If you are one of the Lord's poor of this village," he thought, "the Lord doesn't do much for you!" Then going to her and taking a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket he said kindly, "Miss Terry told me a little about you, Mrs. Leach, and for her sake I'm going to ask you to do me a favor. Here is a little money, and please accept it as coming from the Lord."

The old woman looked startled and as he held the money out, smiling kindly, her eyes filled with tears. "Your heart's in the right place and the Lord'll surely bless ye for yer goodness," she said as she took it, and then Albert, bidding her good morning, walked away. He little realized how soon that crust of bread, cast upon the waters, would return and bless him.

For an hour he strolled around the harbor, watching the men at work on boats or fishing-gear, and sniffing the salt-sea odor of the ocean breeze, and then returned to the point and began sketching the lighthouse. He was absorbed in that when he heard a sharp whistle, and looking up, there was the "Gypsy" just entering the harbor. He ran to the cove where he had left his boat, and by the time the yacht was anchored, had pulled alongside. To his surprise no one was aboard but Frank. "Where are the rest of the boys?" he asked, as that young man grasped his boat. Frank laughed. "Well, just about now they are playing tennis and calling 'fifteen love' and 'thirty love' with a lot of girls down at Bar Harbor. The fact is, Bert," he continued as Albert stepped aboard, "our gander cruise has come to an end. They ran into some girls they knew, and after that all the 'Gypsy' was good for was a place to eat and sleep in. I've run her up here and shall let you keep her with you until you get ready to go home. I'm going to cut stick for Bethlehem, and if I can get one of the girls to go with me, I may visit Sandgate."

Albert laughed heartily. "Want to hear some one sing 'Ben Bolt' again?" he queried.

"Well, maybe," replied Frank; "the fact of the matter is, the whole trip has gone wrong from the start. You know what I wanted, but as it couldn't be, I did the next best thing and made up this party, and now the cruise has ended in a fizzle. The boys have got girl on the brain, and I am disgusted."

"No girl on your brain," observed Albert dryly.

"Well, that's different," was the evasive answer, and then he added suddenly, "By the way, where is the girl with the wonderful eyes you met here? What about girl on your brain?"

"Just now I imagine she's helping her mother in the house," answered Albert quietly; and then he added, "Well, what is the programme, and where are you going with the 'Gypsy'?"

"I want to be landed at the nearest port where I can reach a railroad," answered Frank, "and then you can do as you please with her. My skipper will do your bidding."

"What about the rest of the boys?" asked Albert.

"Well," replied Frank, "you can run to Bar Harbor and dance with the girls until the rest want to come back, or you can do as you please. The 'Gypsy' is yours as long as you want her, after I'm ashore. I think I'll run up to Bath and take the night train for the mountains, if there is one; if not, we will lie at Bath over night."

"I must go ashore and leave word I am coming back," said Albert; "the fact is, I've found a client in this Mr. Terry, and it's an important matter."

"So is the blue-eyed girl, I imagine," observed Frank with a droll smile. When the irrepressible owner of the 'Gypsy' had deserted her, Albert returned to the Cape and remained there for a week. How many little trips he induced his new-found friends to take on her during that time, how much gossip it created in the village, and how many happy hours he and Telly passed together, need not be told. The last day but one of his stay he invited everybody at the Cape, old or young, to go out on a short cruise, and nearly all accepted. Mrs. Leach, however, did not come, and when Albert asked Telly the reason she answered quietly, "It's because the poor old soul is ashamed of her clothes."

When the morning of his departure came Uncle Terry said, "I hope we'll see ye soon, Mr. Page, and ye'r' sure of a welcome here, so don't forget us," and then he pulled away on his daily round to his traps.

As it happened, when Albert was ready to start only Telly accompanied him to the cove where his boat was, and when she bade him good-by he noticed her voice trembled a little, and as he held her hand a moment, her face was turned away. When the yacht rounded the point she was there waving an adieu and remained there until lost from sight.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE MISER IN HIS DEN

The one point of pride in Nicholas Frye's nature was his absolute belief in his own shrewdness. "They can't get the best of me," he would say to himself when he had won an unusually knotty case, and winking one of his cat-like eyes he would say, half aloud, "I'm shrewd, I'm shrewd as the devil!" He knew he was both hated and feared by his fellow-members of the bar, but it mattered not to him. Being hated he didn't mind, and being feared flattered his vanity to an intense degree. When Uncle Terry put himself in his power and, like a good-natured old sheep, stood to be sheared, Frye only laughed at his client's stupidity and set out to continue the robbery as long as possible. Messrs. Thygeson & Company, of Stockholm, who had first employed him to hunt up an heir to the estate of old Eric Peterson, whose son Neils and his young wife had been lost on the coast of Maine, fared no better. To them he only stated that he had found several promising clues and was following them as rapidly as possible, but it all cost money, and would they kindly send a draft on account for necessary expenses? etc., etc. To shear them as close as possible and as long as he could before giving any return for their money was part of his game. All were fish that came to his net, and all were treated alike and robbed from start to finish. When Albert had turned his back upon him, and, worse than that, taken away his best client, as he afterwards learned, the old scoundrel suffered the worst blow to his vanity he ever received. "Curse the fellow!" he would say to himself. "I'll pay him and have revenge if I live long enough, and I'll never rest till I do. No man ever got the best of me, and in the long run no man ever shall!" Like an Indian he bided his time, though waiting and watching with his merciless yellow eyes until the chance might come when he could deal a ruinous blow.

But there is a Nemesis that follows evil-doers in this world, ready to strike with an invisible hand all who are lost to the sense of right and justice. In Frye's case the avenging goddess lurked in his inordinate belief in his own shrewdness, coupled with a fatuous love of speculation. A few lucky ventures at first in the stock market had fanned the flame until he believed he was as invincible in State Street as he was in Pemberton Square.

Then along came a war-cloud in Europe; stocks began to drop and provisions to advance. September wheat was then selling in Chicago at ninety cents. Frye bought fifty thousand bushels on a margin. France and Germany growled, and wheat rose to ninety-four. Frye sold, clearing two thousand dollars. Then it dropped a cent, and Frye bought a hundred thousand bushels more. Once again the war-cloud grew black, and wheat rose to ninety-eight. The papers were full of wild rumors, and "The Wall Street Bugle" said wheat would look cheap at a dollar and a half inside of a month. Then it advanced to one dollar, and Frye lost his head. His holdings showed a profit of seven thousand dollars, and sudden riches stared him in the face. Once more the two bellicose foreign powers growled and showed their teeth. Wheat rose another cent, and Frye doubled his holdings. Then the powers that had growled smiled faintly, and in one day wheat fell to ninety-three and remained there. Frye's holdings now showed a net loss of eight thousand dollars, and he kicked the office boy out, locked the door in Pemberton Square, and from ten till three watched the quotations in State Street until wheat fell to ninety, and then he began to look around to raise more money. He had now put up over sixteen thousand dollars, and wheat was still falling. At every drop of a cent he was called upon for two thousand dollars. Day by day it vibrated, now going up a cent, and then dropping two, and when Uncle Terry and Albert were discussing how to checkmate his further robbing of the lighthouse keeper, he was, with muttered curses, watching his ill-gotten gains vanish to the tune of many thousand dollars per diem. He neglected his business, went without his meals, and forgot to shave. He had mortgaged his real estate for twenty thousand, and that was nearly gone. Wheat was now down to eighty, and France and Germany were shaking hands. Frye was caught in a trap of his own setting and could not sleep nights. His margins were almost exhausted, and his resources as well. He had put up forty thousand dollars, and if wheat fell three cents more, it would be all swept away. Then he executed a second mortgage at high interest and waited. It was the last shot in his locker, and all that stood between him and ruin; but wheat advanced two cents and he began to hope. He had absolutely ignored business for two weeks that had been one long stretch of misery, and now he went to work again. To collect the little due him and raise all the money he could was his sole thought. He wrote to Thygeson & Company that he had at last found the heir they were in search of, and described what proofs he held, at the same time stating that on receipt of his fee of a thousand dollars all and sufficient proofs of identity of the claimant would be forwarded. Then he wrote to Uncle Terry and demanded three hundred more. September wheat had now fallen to seventy-eight.



CHAPTER XXVII

IN SHADY WOODS

Blanch Nason, Frank's younger sister, was his good friend and sympathizer, and in all the family discussions had usually taken his part. His elder sister, Edith, was like her mother, rather arrogant and supercilious, and considered her brother as lacking in family pride, and liable to disgrace them by some unfortunate alliance. It was to Blanch he always turned when he needed sympathy and help, and to her at Bethlehem he appeared the day after he had left the "Gypsy." His coming surprised her not a little.