Miss Barry's "help" had been galvanized into interest at the mention of the girl. She had called her "grand." It sounded hopeful. Beyond the clump of birches, in their favorite spot, the two friends were sitting against their rock with their books and work. Talk amounts to very little. It was Emerson who said, "Don't talk! What you are thunders so loud above what you say, that I can't hear you." What Mrs. Porter was, had in their daily contact impressed itself so increasingly upon her young friend, that Linda, though reluctant, had, through very curiosity, come to be willing to look into the source of her friend's faith and strength. That little nook behind the birches had become dear to her. Near by rose the rich dark grove of firs and pines, the sea murmuring in their tops, and the spring bubbled with a silvery plashing. Here Whitcomb found them. They both started at his sudden appearance and he halted, and rapped on a white birch stem. "May I come in?" The gay, hearty voice set Linda's heart to beating fast. "Don't let me disturb you," and the visitor hurried forward, his hat off, and kneeling on the grass before her, took Linda's hand. "You have met Mrs. Porter?" "Once, I think," said that lady, shaking hands graciously with the young man. The devouring eyes with which he was taking in every detail of Linda's improved appearance made the older woman certain that here was the Chicago man whose happiness the girl had said she could not secure save by extreme measures. "You look wonderful, Linda. Good for the Cape!" said Fred, seating himself comfortably on the grass, and continuing to observe her with huge satisfaction. "But how did you know where to find us?" inquired the girl. "Blanche Aurora told me. Happy name! Dickens himself couldn't have done better. Blanche A-roarer." "But she didn't know about this place. Nobody knows." "So she observed--howling it to high heaven; but you might as well try to keep a locality from the sparrows as from kids of that age." "Well, I'm glad she did know," said Linda graciously, "It's good to see you, Fred,--you have a sort of a white, city look, as if a vacation couldn't hurt you." "Mrs. Lindsay told me you were related to them," said Mrs. Porter. "I suppose you came through her." "Yes, I did. I wouldn't have known there was any place to stay here except for her; and I did feel a bit seedy, as well as King, so I pulled up stakes--there being a strong magnet in this vicinity." He flashed a still further enlightening smile around at Linda. But Mrs. Porter had suddenly lost interest in his possible romance. "Mr. King--Bertram," she said, leaning forward. "He has been ill?" Whitcomb gave a soft significant whistle. "Rather!" he returned briefly. "I'm his cousin, Mr. Whitcomb. Tell me all about it, please." "I know you are. He has talked to me of you." Linda's lips had gained the close line the mention or thought of King always evoked.