“But my father has mistaken my--” She broke off in much confusion, not understanding the queer look he gave her. “I--I am glad my father is coming to his senses and will allow me to--to--marry the young man,” she stammered. “And now I think I may be allowed to say that I hope you may have the girl you love, some day. Would you like to have me talk to you about her--how dear and pretty I think she is?” “No, it hurts! But I do want you to know, Miss Can-dage, that I'm not out fortune-hunting. I love her for herself--just herself--nothing more!” “I know it must be so.” “And I know that a young man you would choose is worthy of you. I told your father--” “No matter. _That_ hurts, too! We both understand. We'll leave it there!” After the declaration of that truce they were frankly at ease and began to chat with friendly freedom. The dusk came shading into the west, the evening star dripped silver light. “It's a peaceful spot here,” she suggested. “Everybody seems to be contented.” “Contentment--in a rut--that may be the best way of passing this life, after all.” “But if you were in the rut, Captain Mayo, you might find that contentment would not agree to come and live with you.” “Probably it wouldn't! I'd have to be born to the life here like this chap who is coming up the hill. You can see that he isn't worrying about himself or the world outside.” The man was clumping slowly along in his rubber boots; an old cap was slewed awry on his head, its peak drawn down over one ear. He cocked up the other ear at sound of voices on the porch and loafed up and sat down on the edge of the boarding. Captain Mayo and the girl, accustomed to bland indifference to formality in rural neighborhoods, accepted this interruption without surprise or protest. “'Tain't a bad night as nights go,” stated the caller. “It's a beautiful night,” said Polly Candage. “I reckon it seems so to you, after what you went through. I've been harking to your father telling the yarn down to the store.” They did not reply, having their own ideas as to Captain Candage's loquacity. The caller hauled a plug of tobacco from his pocket, gnawed off a chew, and began slow wagging of his jaws. “This world is full of trouble,” he observed, “It seems to be,” agreed Captain Mayo. “Them what's down get kicked further down.” “Also true, in many cases.” “Take your case! It's bad. But our'n is worse!” The caller pointed to the dim bulk of a small island which the cove held between the bold jaws of its headland. “The old sir who named that Hue and Cry Island must have smelt into the future so as to know what was going to happen there some day--and this is the day!” He chewed on, and his silence became irritating. “Well, what has happened?” demanded the captain. “It hasn't happened just yet--it's going to.” Further silence. “Tell us what's going to happen, can't you?”