ingenuity. When those traits are joined to lofty principle, they should lift him to heights of success. Oh,"—the speaker's attitude and voice suddenly changed, and she lifted her finger to impose silence on the cooking utensils which Miss Burridge was dropping into the sink,—"listen!" Mingled with the roulade of a song sparrow on the roof, came the flute of a human voice sounding and approaching through the field. The one road of the island swept over a height at some distance behind the house and the singer had left it, and was striding down the incline and through the meadow toward Miss Burridge's. The still air brought the song while the singer was still hidden, but at last the girl saw him, and the volume of rich tone increased. At last he came bounding up the slope over which Diana had struggled with her heavy bucket a few minutes before, and then paused at sight of the stranger. [Pg 8] [Pg 8] He was a tall, broad-shouldered youth in a dark-blue flannel shirt and nondescript trousers. He was bareheaded, and locks of his thick blond hair were tumbling over his forehead. He looked at Diana with curious, unembarrassed blue eyes, and, lips parted, stopped in the act of speaking. Miss Burridge came to the door. "Well, at last, Phil," she remarked. "I only just heard this morning that you had come," he said. "Here's a peace offering." He lifted the two mackerel that were hanging from his hand. "Beauties," vouchsafed Miss Burridge. "Are they cleaned?" "Well, if you don't look a gift horse—" "Well, now, I ain't goin' to clean 'em," said Miss Burridge doggedly. "I've been rubbed the wrong way ever since I landed—" Philip laughed. "And you won't do it to them, eh? Well, I guess I can rub 'em the wrong way for you—" His unabashed eyes were still regarding Diana as impersonally as though they had both been children of five. "Excuse me, I am obstructing the passage," said the girl, rising. "This is Miss Diana Wilbur, Phil. I [Pg 9]suppose you're Mr. Barrison now that you have sung in New York."
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