m out on the rim of the Cove. He stood a second on the cliffy
north wall to look down on the quiet harbor. It was bare of craft, save
that upon the beach two or three rowboats lay hauled out. On the farther
side a low, rambling house of logs showed behind a clump of firs. Smoke
lifted from its stone chimney.

MacRae smiled reminiscently at this and moved on. His objective lay at
the Cove's head, on the little creek which came whispering down from the
high land behind. He gained this in another two hundred yards, coming to
a square house built, like its neighbor, of stout logs with a
high-pitched roof, a patch of ragged grass in front, and a picket-fenced
area at the back in which stood apple trees and cherry and plum,
gaunt-limbed trees all bare of leaf and fruit. Ivy wound up the corners
of the house. Sturdy rosebushes stood before it, and the dead vines of
sweet peas bleached on their trellises.

It had the look of an old place--as age is reckoned in so new a
country--old and bearing the marks of many years' labor bestowed to make
it what it was. Even from a distance it bore a homelike air. MacRae's
face lightened at the sight. His step quickened. He had come a long way
to get home.

Across the front of the house extended a wide porch which gave a look at
the Cove through a thin screen of maple and alder. From the
grass-bordered walk of beach gravel half a dozen steps lifted to the
floor level. As MacRae set foot on the lower step a girl came out on the
porch.

MacRae stopped. The girl did not see him. Her eyes were fixed
questioningly on the sea that stretched away beyond the narrow mouth of
the Cove. As she looked she drew one hand wearily across her forehead,
tucking back a vagrant strand of dusky hair. MacRae watched her a
moment. The quick, pleased smile that leaped to his face faded to
soberness.

"Hello, Dolly," he said softly.

She started. Her dark eyes turned to him, and an inexpressible relief
glowed in them. She held up one hand in a gesture that warned
silence,--and by that time MacRae had come up the steps to her side and
seized both her hands in his. She looked at him speechlessly, a curious
passivity in her attitude. He saw that her eyes were wet.

"What's wrong, Dolly?" he asked. "Aren't you glad to see Johnny come
marching home? Where's dad?"

"Glad?" she echoed. "I never was so glad to see any one in my life. Oh,
Johnny MacRae, I wish you'd come sooner. Your father's a sick man. We've
don