She turned to face an entirely strange young man. For at least ten seconds the two stood and looked at each other; then the young man rushed forward, holding out his hand. “It is Cronette! Of course it is. I forgot, you may not be able to recognize me, but you will recognize your old friend violin.” He held it out to her and she took it mechanically. “You are—you are——” she stammered. “Reed Marshall, your old friend, Cronine. Naturally you don’t remember my looks, but you haven’t forgotten me, have you?” “Oh, no; oh, no,” Ellen recovered herself. “How could I forget you? But I never really knew what you looked like.” “But I couldn’t forget what you looked like, once having seen you. Isn’t this the greatest luck? Let’s sit down and tell each other the story of our lives. How do you happen to be ’way down East? I am that glad to see you that I could dash over to the Amen corner and shout Glory! Where are you staying?” “Over on Beatty’s Island with Miss Wickham. She has a cottage there, and Cousin Rindy and I are spending the summer with her. Where are you staying?” “Here, right here. I came up with a crowd of fellows to camp out on a little island off here. The rest of the bunch had to leave, but Tom Clayton and I skirmished around to find a spot where we could bunk. We are both daffy about this coast, and want to do some sketching. We happened on this old place, which we are able to get for a mere song. The house threatened leaks and hants and sich, so we decided it would be more cozy if we fixed up the stable, hen-house, or whatever it is called. We have begged, borrowed, stolen, and bought sundry and varisome things to make us comfortable, and we’re going to stay on till the ghost gets too much for us.” “Oh!” exclaimed Ellen. “It is all quite wonderful, isn’t it?” She was still bewildered at the turn of events. “I’ll say it is, but most wonderful of all is this running across you. By the way, Cronette, what brought you over here? Very few ever come around this way.” The color flamed up into Ellen’s face as she stammered, “I—I—just was curious to—to—see——” “The ghost? You don’t believe in ghos’es, do you?” Ellen’s face was still flaming. “I—yes—no—I don’t know,” she answered in confusion. Reed regarded her steadfastly for a moment; then he said, “Cronette, honest Injun, can it be possible that you are my wood-nymph?” “Your wood-nymph?” she spoke in surprise. “Why, that was Robert MacDonald,” and then again the color surged up into her face as she realized that she had said too much. It was Reed’s turn to look surprised. “Robert MacDonald? Who is the bird? Oh, I say, Cronette, what’s the use of beating about the bush? Tell your uncle all about it and I’ll ’fess up, too.”