t and darkly mysterious, their plumes bending
idly in the soft wind.

It was all a part of the idyl, the daydream, Robert Morton
thought,--too flawless a thing to last. Willie, so childlike and
simple, his kindly aunt, Delight with her rare beauty, and even the
romance of his love seemed a part of its unreality. Was it not to be
expected that sooner or later man with his blundering touch would
destroy the loveliness, making prose of the poem? The Galbraiths,
Snelling, the greed for money, Janoah's jealousy and evil
suspicions--ah, it did not take long for such influences to mar the
peace of a heaven and smear the grime of earth upon its fairness! Only
glimpses of perfection were granted the dwellers of this
planet,--quick, transient flashes that mirrored a future free from
finite limitations. He who expected to remain on the heights in this
world was doomed to disappointment.

Slowly he skirted the curving beach and reached the weathered cottage
where the sun beat hotly down, kissing into flower every bud of the
clinging roses that festooned its gray doorway. Willie welcomed him
but a glory had passed from the old man's face since the conversation
of the night before. How could it be otherwise? Sleepless hours had
left behind them weary, careworn lines; and in the troubled depths of
the blue eyes the old interrogation had once more awakened. Bob knew
not how to meet its silent combat between hope and disappointment, and
he hailed as a glad relief the beating echo of the Galbraiths'
motor-car as it swept the horseshoe outline of the harbor and came to a
stop before the gate.

Mr. Galbraith, who was alone, beckoned to him, and as the younger man
climbed to the seat beside him said:

"I thought perhaps you might like to go for a spin along the shore. It
is warm to-day and we shall get more breeze; besides, we can talk more
freely in the automobile than here or at the Belleport house. Roger
has just arrived and also Howard Snelling."

In spite of himself, Robert Morton betrayed his surprise.

"Mr. Snelling back again!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, he is down," was the laconic answer.

For all his boasted eagerness to talk, however, Richard Galbraith did
not immediately avail himself of the privilege of conversation. On the
contrary, as Bob shot a questioning glance toward him, he thought he
detected for the first time in his life a strange uneasiness in the
capitalist's habitually self-contained manner. He se