Mrs. Lowell smiled. She understood this final tone. "Then you are satisfied, I see." "So far as religion goes, yes." "Religion goes all the way, my dear girl." They turned to the right and continued their walk. "The islanders call this direction 'up-along,' Mr. Blake told me," said Diana. "If we had turned south we should have gone 'down-along.' Isn't that quaint? Mr. Barrison's grandmother lives down-along. He took me to see her the other day, the sweetest old lady." "That refreshing young man hails from here, then?" "Yes. He is the Viking type, is he not? I can picture him in the prow of one of those strange Norse ships. Physically he seems an anachronism." Mrs. Lowell smiled. "Physically, perhaps, but colloquially he is certainly an up-to-the-minute American." "He is an eminent singer and has shown himself a hero in arriving at that point." "A hero, really?" "Yes, but most unconsciously so." "He is certainly as unaffected and straightforward as a child," said Mrs. Lowell. "I hope he will sing for us." "I have heard him once," said Diana. "It was merely a nonsense song, because he had only an heirloom of a piano--a harp he called it, and I imagine harpsichords did sound similar to that. Now, we are on a high point of the island, Mrs. Lowell." They paused again and, looking off, saw a vast ocean in all directions, foam breaking on its ledges. Mrs. Lowell drew a long breath of delight. "'Every prospect pleases,'" she said. "Does it not seem a pity," returned Diana, "that it is our duty to hunt for a vile, imitation man?" Mrs. Lowell laughed. "He is scarcely even an imitation," she replied. "But come," she sighed, "let us go after him. I wonder what gave this farm its reputation." They walked on. "I'll ask Mr. Blake," began Diana. "Oh, here he comes now." The carpenter was returning down the island preparing to take up his freight duties on the wharf. Diana accosted him and introduced him to Mrs. Lowell. The latter shook hands with Matt, her radiant smile beaming, "I am glad to meet you, Mr. Blake," she said. "You seem to be Miss Wilbur's oracle. She is always quoting you, and I am rather curious about this farm up here. Why do they call it haunted?" "Oh," said Blake, "let any place be left empty a few years, and windows get loose, and blinds bang, and it's called haunted." "I suppose that is often true," said Mrs. Lowell. "It is an abandoned farm, then?" "Yes, for many years." "I don't know why I have never inspected it," said Diana, "when who knows but it is the very homestead for me?" Matt Blake shook his head and smiled. "The old house is crumbling away. There is a part of it that'll keep the rain off, and there Mr. Gayne keeps his stuff." "Stuff?" echoed Mrs. Lowell interrogatively. "Brushes and paints and pencils and all his outfit," said Blake.