to put it over on Oscar like that. Subconsciously he had
known that some day he would follow Becky, and when the moment came, he
had spoken out of his thoughts.

In the two or three days that elapsed between his decision and the date
that he had set for his departure, he found himself enjoying the
city---its clear skies, its hurrying crowds, its color and glow, the
tingle of its rush and hurry, its light-hearted acceptance of the
pleasure of the moment.

He telegraphed for a room at a hotel in Nantucket. Once there, he was
confident that he could find Becky. Everybody would know Admiral
Meredith.

He went by boat from New York to New Bedford, and enjoyed the trip.
Later on the little steamer, _Sankaty_, plying between New Bedford and
Nantucket, he was so shining and splendid that he was much observed by
the other passengers. His Jap servant, trotting after him, was perhaps
less martial in bearing than the ubiquitous Kemp, but he was none the
less an ornament.

Thus George came, at last, to Nantucket, and to his hotel. Having
dined, he asked the way to the Admiral's house. He did not of course
plan to storm the citadel after dark, but a walk would not hurt him,
and he could view from the outside the cage which held his white dove.
For he had come to that, sentimentally, that Becky was the white dove
that he would shelter against his heart.

The clerk at the hotel desk, directing him, thought that the Admiral
was not in his house on Main Street. He was apt at this season to
spend his time in Siasconset.

"'Sconset? Where's 'Sconset?"

"Across the island."

"How can I get there?"

"You can motor over. There's a 'bus, or you can get a car."

So the next morning, George took the 'bus. He saw little beauty in the
moor. He thought it low and flat. His heart leaped with the thought
that every mile brought him nearer Becky--his white dove--whom he
had--hurt!

He was set down by the 'bus at the post-office. He asked his way, and
was directed to a low huddle of gray houses on a grassy street. "It is
the 'Whistling Sally,'" the driver of the 'bus had told him.

When George reached "The Whistling Sally," he felt that there must be
some mistake. Here was no proper home for an Admiral or an heiress.
His eyes were blind to the charms of the wooden young woman with the
puffed-out cheeks, to the beauty of silver-gray shingles, of late
flowers blooming bravely in the little garden.

He kept well on the ot