The long porch across the front of the Inn made, sometimes a sunny, and sometimes a foggy, meeting-place for the members of the family. It boasted a hammock and some weather-beaten chairs, and Miss Myrna Emerson was not tardy in discovering the one of these which offered the most comfort. She was a lady of uncertain age and certain ideas. One of the latter was that it was imperative that she should be comfortable. "I should think Miss Burridge would have some decent chairs here," she said one morning, dilating her thin nostrils with displeasure as she took possession of the most hopeful of the seats. The remark was addressed to Diana who was perched on the piazza rail. "Doubtless they will be added," she said, "should Miss Burridge find that her undertaking proves sufficiently remunerative." "She charges enough, so far as that goes," declared Miss Emerson curtly, but finding the chair unexpectedly comfortable, she settled back and complained no further. Philip was out on the grass painting on a long board the words "Ye Wayside Inn." Herbert Gayne stood watching him listlessly. His uncle was stretched in the hammock. Mrs. Lowell came out upon the porch. Mr. Gayne moved reluctantly, but he did arise. Men usually did exert themselves at the advent of this tall, slender lady with the radiant smile and laughing eyes. "Perhaps you would like the hammock, Mrs. Lowell," he said perfunctorily. "Offer it to me some time later in the day," she responded pleasantly, and he tumbled back into the couch with obvious relief. Mrs. Lowell approached the rail and observed Philip's labors. "Where are you going to hang that sign?" she asked in her charming voice. "Across the front of the house, I judge." "Oh, no," replied Philip. "We can't hope to attract the fish. I am going to hang it at the back where Bill Lindsay's flivver will feel the lure before it gets here." "Across the back of the house," cried Miss Emerson in alarm. "I hope nowhere near my window." "The sign will depend from iron rings," explained Diana. "I know they'll squeak," said Miss Emerson positively; "and if they do, Mr. Barrison, you'll simply have to take it down." No one replied to this warning. So Miss Emerson dilated her nostrils again with an air of determination and leaned back in her chair. The eyes of both Mrs. Lowell and Diana were upon the young boy whose watching face betrayed no inspiration from the fresh morning. He had an ungainly, neglected appearance from his rough hair to his worn shoes. His clothes were partially outgrown and shabby. "Bert," called his uncle from the hammock. The boy looked up. "Come here. Don't you hear me?" The boy started toward the piazza steps with a shuffling gait. "You're slower than molasses in January," said Mr. Gayne lazily. "Go up to my room and get my field-glasses. They're on the dresser, I think."