The one road of the island swept over a height at some distance behind the house and the singer had left it, and was striding down the incline and through the meadow toward Miss Burridge's. The still air brought the song while the singer was still hidden, but at last the girl saw him, and the volume of rich tone increased. At last he came bounding up the slope over which Diana had struggled with her heavy bucket a few minutes before, and then paused at sight of the stranger. He was a tall, broad-shouldered youth in a dark-blue flannel shirt and nondescript trousers. He was bareheaded, and locks of his thick blond hair were tumbling over his forehead. He looked at Diana with curious, unembarrassed blue eyes, and, lips parted, stopped in the act of speaking. Miss Burridge came to the door. "Well, at last, Phil," she remarked. "I only just heard this morning that you had come," he said. "Here's a peace offering." He lifted the two mackerel that were hanging from his hand. "Beauties," vouchsafed Miss Burridge. "Are they cleaned?" "Well, if you don't look a gift horse--" "Well, now, I ain't goin' to clean 'em," said Miss Burridge doggedly. "I've been rubbed the wrong way ever since I landed--" Philip laughed. "And you won't do it to them, eh? Well, I guess I can rub 'em the wrong way for you--" His unabashed eyes were still regarding Diana as impersonally as though they had both been children of five. "Excuse me, I am obstructing the passage," said the girl, rising. "This is Miss Diana Wilbur, Phil. I suppose you're Mr. Barrison now that you have sung in New York." The young fellow bowed to the girl who acknowledged the greeting. "What is the name of those beautiful creatures?" she asked with her usual gentle simplicity of manner. "These? Oh, these are mackerel." "Jewels of the deep, surely," she said. "They are rather dressy," returned Philip. Diana bathed him in the light of her serene brown gaze. "I am so ignorant of the names of the denizens of the sea," she said. "I come from Philadelphia." Philip returned her look with dancing stars in his eyes. "I'd have said Boston if you only wore eyeglasses." "Oh, that _is_ the humorous tradition, is it not?" she returned. "Now, don't you drip 'em in here," said Miss Burridge, as the young fellow started to enter the kitchen door. "If you're really goin' to be clever and clean 'em, I'll give you the knife and everything right outdoors." "Then I think I would better withdraw," said Diana hastily. "I cannot bear to see the mutilation of such a rich specimen of Nature's handiwork; but, oh, Mr. Barrison, not without one word concerning the heavenly song that floated across the field as you came. Miss Burridge calls you Phil;--'Philomel with melody!' _I_ should say. Au revoir. I will go down among the pebbles for a while." She vanished, and Philip regarded Miss Burridge, who returned his gaze. "_Good night!_" he said at last.