skirt and a sky-blue sweater past
his dooryard apprised MacRae that Betty was back. And he did not want to
see Betty or talk with her. He hoped her stay would be brief. He even
asked himself testily why people like that wanted to come to a summer
dwelling in the middle of winter. But her sojourn was not so brief as he
hoped. At divers times thereafter he saw her in the distance, faring to
and fro from Peter Ferrara's house, out on the trail that ran to the
Knob, several times when the sea was calm paddling a canoe or rowing
alongshore. Also he had glimpses of the thickset figure of Horace Gower
walking along the cliffs. MacRae avoided both. That was easy enough,
since he knew every nook and bush and gully on that end of the island.
But the mere sight of Gower was an irritation. He resented the man's
presence. It affected him like a challenge. It set him always pondering
ways and means to secure ownership of those acres again and forever bar
Gower from walking along those cliffs with that masterful air of
possession. Only a profound distaste for running away from anything kept
him from quitting the island while they were there, those two, one of
whom he was growing to hate far beyond the original provocation, the
other whom he loved,--for MacRae admitted reluctantly, resentfully, that
he did love Betty, and he was afraid of where that emotion might lead
him. He recognized the astonishing power of passion. It troubled him,
stirred up an amazing conflict at times between his reason and his
impulses. He fell back always upon the conclusion that love was an
irrational thing anyway, that it should not be permitted to upset a
man's logical plan of existence. But he was never very sure that this
conclusion would stand a practical test.

The southern end of Squitty was not of such vast scope that two people
could roam here and there without sometime coming face to face,
particularly when these two were a man and a woman, driven by a spirit
of restlessness to lonely wanderings. MacRae went into the woods with
his rifle one day in search of venison. He wounded a buck, followed him
down a long canyon, and killed his game within sight of the sea. He took
the carcass by a leg and dragged it through the bright green salal
brush. As he stepped out of a screening thicket on to driftwood piled by
storm and tide, he saw a rowboat hauled up on the shingle above reach of
short, steep breakers, and a second glance showed him Betty sitting on