A week slipped away before the girls found another chance to cross the bridge. The little neck of land upon which the old house stood contained no other dwelling, and it was seldom visited by the natives, who shunned it because of its uncanny reputation, while the summer residents found more beautiful spots to attract them. Beatty’s Island was now quite full of visitors, the cottages all open, the boarding-houses crowded. Groups of watchers perched on the rocks, never weary of looking at the waves rolling in. The road was no longer a lonely one. The dispensers of ice-cream and delectable drinks were kept busy in the Little Gray Shop, while the delivery trucks dashed up and down the road at a threatening rate. The girls had made a number of acquaintances and were much in demand. Picnics, suppers on the rocks, motor-boat parties to some farther island where shore dinners were a feature, informal teas at the cottage of some neighbor, all these took up their time. Ellen was appealed to when her musical ability became known, and every Sunday she took her place at the small organ in the little church. But in all this time they had not come to know either Robert MacDonald or Tom Clayton. Sometimes as they skimmed past Halsey’s Island in a motor-boat they caught sight of a group of young men busied at some employment outside the tents, or hoisting the sails of a small boat which rode at anchor near by. “It seems as if our secret would forever remain a secret,” remarked Mabel as the two neared their destination one August afternoon. “It is much more romantic the way it is. We might be frightfully disappointed in Robert if we were to meet him. I don’t know that I really want to. Do you?” Ellen asked. “I am not sure. It would be rather fun to see him without his knowing who we are; then we could decide whether we wanted to continue this funny correspondence.” “Maybe we could manage that, though there may be no answer to our last effusion. Let’s hurry up and find out.” But when they reached the room and opened the cupboard door there was another note which they eagerly read. It ran: “Hail to thee, blythe spirit! A wood-nymph thou art, I know now by thy birch-bark sign. The hollow tree must be thy dwelling place. Mortal though I be, I fain would have speech with thee. Can I not lure thee forth by some subtle strain? Music is a language common to all. When and how can we meet? “R. M.” The girls sat down on the worn steps which led up-stairs, and began to confer upon a plan of procedure. First one and then the other made suggestions, whispering and glancing up once in a while, as if they feared discovery. At last, amid much laughter, they decided upon a plot. “It’s lucky I brought paper this time,” said Mabel, producing a small pad, “unless you’d rather continue the birch-bark episode.”