"I thought so. I can always tell when the true love is there. I often hear grown people say, 'I am fond of flowers, but I don't know much about them.' I say to myself, 'You haven't the true love or you would know.'" Then looking down at the child, "I am always glad to share with those who have it, especially little girls that ask so nicely for them. It is when they come and pick them without asking that I don't like it. You wouldn't do that, would you, little girl?" Philip shook his head and looked pleadingly at his mother. The look being interpreted said, "This seems to be a very pleasant lady. Couldn't I just tell her?" Her eyes denied him. "You have a beautiful location here. And I think it must be your own home." "It is. I come early and stay late." "We-que-ton-sing is a lovely spot. These glimpses of the water are charming." As they looked down toward the bay, her grasp on Philip's hand tightened. He looked up at her in wonderment and tried to draw away, but she held him as in a vise. At the entrance to the avenue, just turning into it was a man with a big mustache and a gray suit. She was sure it was the one she had seen at the Island House. He was headed toward her. "Come, dearest! We must go. No, not that way." And with a hasty word to their surprised acquaintance of the bungalow, she hurried him down the walk leading to the railroad tracks, stopping to cast a glance behind her as she turned east. The man was sauntering up the walk, just as everybody did when they first came here--there was really nothing to alarm her--it was foolish of her to suppose that he was after them--but still, the corner turned she made Philip run to keep up with her in her haste. At the corner where the post office stands she turned down toward the hotel, but the boy seeing a squirrel across the street escaped from her grasp and ran after it. Calling him sharply Margaret followed. A glance back showed through the trees a glimpse of the gray suit and she hurried on. As she caught up with Philip she found herself in front of a pretty cottage close to the walk with hanging baskets and rustic boxes filled with ferns around its many porches. A sweet-faced woman was sitting at a table writing. She looked up at the child with a smile, such a kind, gracious smile, that for a moment Margaret contemplated throwing herself on her mercy and begging shelter. But just then others came out upon the porch and the opportunity was past. They had come now to the back of the yellow, square-built house that Mr. Harcourt had pointed out to her as a pioneer. She had noticed it often since. Philip, again catching sight of the squirrel in the clump of birches with the hemlock growing sociably in their midst, dashed after it, and Margaret after him. As she turned into the yard under the spreading beech trees and dodged behind them, a backward look showed her the man in the gray suit standing on the post office corner, looking as if he had lost a clue.