you may travel the world over, and
there isn't an easier posture known, than the Yankee one of 'feet higher
than head.'"

John Devant and Richard Thornly sat upon the wide veranda of Bluff Head;
and Thornly, being thus given the freedom of Yankee position, planted
his feet upon the high railing, tipped back his broad-armed chair, and
inhaled the smoke of his host's good cigar.

"You've caught the language of the place already I see, Mr. Devant. Had
we met anywhere else, another word would have done; 'drifting' applies
here. No one 'runs down' to Quinton, or 'happens' down; one just
naturally 'drifts.' It's a great place."

"You like it, eh?" Mr. Devant let his eyes rove over the wealth of color
and wildness, and puffed enjoyably.

"It's immense! Strange, isn't it, how a place can lie slumbering for
generations, right at our doors, and no one has sense enough to look at
it? And after all, it is while it is sleeping, or beginning to stir,
that it charms. Two years from now, when the rabble get onto the racket,
the glory will be gone. Think of picnics on the Hills! Imagine a crowd
rushing for the dunes, and the bay thick with sails! No! Let's make the
best of it while we may."

Mr. Devant laughed. "I'll give it five or ten years," he said. "My
grandfather had a vision of its future prosperity. He bought acres here
for a mere song. He built this house, hoping the family would find it
comfortable for the summers. My father liked it so well that he settled
the library and general fixtures for a home, living winters at a hotel
in town. But the old place was too lonely for me in the past. I'm just
beginning to have visions, like my forebears. I'm sick of travel. Town
life ought never to charm a natural animal except during the months of
bad weather. My boy, I believe I'll settle down at fifty and take to
land speculation! I'll buy up round here, keep the grip of the rabble
off, and preserve this spot for the--pure in heart and them who have
clean, hands!"

"'T would be a missionary work," Thornly rejoined lightly.

"Who turned your eyes hitherward, Dick?"

"Why, John Mason. He saw Chatterton's famous picture and came down and
discovered this garden spot. Poor old Mason! With his money pots and his
struggling love for beauty and simplicity, he is sore distressed. He
wanted to build a cabin on the dunes and live here summers, but Madam
and the girls almost had hysterics. They have just built a gingerbread
affair at Mag