spect that Jack held
out.

"I'll tell you what let's do!" said I. "Go over to Patty's. If there's a
light in the drawing-room windows we'll ring. If not, we'll just spin
round outside the wall to the side gate, and go into the grounds for a
look at the moon from the Point of the Pines."

In fifteen minutes we were off. And as I've told you, it's only a short
spin to Kidd's Pines. There was a light in the drawing-room, so we did
ring, and Pat was thankful for the excuse to get out of doors. Larry had
gone to town--on "business," he had said, and Mrs. Shuster was sulking
as if she doubted the statement. The Boys had been over from some weird
inn, not far off, where they are lurking now, in order to rally round
their goddess, but luckily Pat had sent them away just before we
arrived. They would have been too noisy to please the moon! Patsey had
been playing the piano at Mrs. Shuster's request, while the latter
forlornly knitted impossible socks for Brobdinag-footed soldiers.

Of course we politely asked Mrs. S. to join our expedition, at the same
time intensely willing her to refuse. Will prevailed. Mrs. Shuster said
she "must write to the poor dear Senator, and send him good wishes for a
lecture he is to deliver in New York." So she was disposed of; and we
three went out into the fragrant night. I suppose she calls her Senator
"poor dear" as a delicate way of letting us guess that she has refused
him.

Have I told you about the Point of the Pines, I wonder? I feel sure I
must have done so. The Pines are those under which Captain Kidd is
supposed to have buried some of his treasure--the pines which have given
the place its name. There is a narrow slip of land on which the
principal members of this pine family grow. Instead of stretching
straight out into the water, it curves toward the lawn, as if the back
of your hand and your four fingers composed the lawn, and your thumb,
slightly but not far extended, were the Point of the Pines. There are
only a few trees, for the Point is small; they're seven in number and
they reach beautifully toward the Sound, like running dryads holding
out eager arms to the sea. They aren't ordinary pines, such as you may
see almost anywhere on Long Island, but are of the "umbrella" sort, like
those of Italy, just as beautiful if not nearly so large as those at
Rome in the Pincian gardens, or at Naples, where their branches seem
sketched in straight, horizontal black lines against the blue b