he interruption. The newcomer was a tall, angular man, with a
withered, clean-shaven face,--what Peggy called a "money making face";
and surely that described Simon Harding, as he stood there in his black,
none-too-new garments, and his square-toed shoes. One could fairly catch
the avaricious glint in his eyes as he squinted rapidly over the new
aeroplane's outlines.

By his side stood a youth who was, so far as dress went at any rate, the
exact opposite of the elder man. Fanning Harding--or Fan as he was
usually called--was dressed in elaborate motoring costume. His goggles,
of the latest and most exaggerated design, were shoved up off his
countenance now, exposing to view a good-looking browned face. It was
marred, however, by the same restless, strained look that could be seen
on his father's visage.

"We're not intruding, I hope," he hastened to say, coming forward with a
cordiality that seemed somewhat forced.

"Not in the least," said Peggy, hastily, realizing that none of them had
perhaps looked very cordial, "won't you come in?"

Fan Harding, bestowing an admiring glance on her, seemed to be about to
accept. His father, however, struck in:

"I'll leave you with the young folks, my boy, while I go up to the house.
I have some business with Miss Prescott."

As he shuffled off, Peggy and Roy exchanged somewhat uneasy glances. What
business could this old man--in some respects a power financially and
otherwise in Sandy Beach--have with their aunt?

"Say Peggy," spoke up Fan Harding, suddenly, "ain't you going to
introduce me to your friends? And how about inviting us all to have some
of those strawberries Pop and I noticed as we came down the path?"

"Well, he isn't a bit backward about coming forward!" thought Jess as the
young people, with due formality, went through the ceremony of
introductions.

CHAPTER II.

SUSPENSE AND ACHIEVEMENT.

It was a week after Fan Harding's visit to the Prescott home, on one
windless, steamy morning, when the pearl-gray mist still lay in the
smooth hollows running back from the coast, that The Golden Butterfly was
wheeled out of her cocoon--so to speak--and dragged up the hillside at
the back of the white, green-shuttered cottage. Miss Prescott, a
sweet-faced old lady, whose cheek was still blooming despite the passage
of the years, stood on the back porch of the house watching the process.

If Miss Prescott's face had been somewhat less cheerful than usual sinc