Bert gathered some of the flowers, amazingly large and deep of color they were, and Matt cut more, and a charming bunch was in the boy's hand at last. Blake noted that the sight of it brought color into the pale face. "This must be another secret," said Bert. "Mrs. Lowell and I have some already." They plodded on again. "That's right," said Blake. "Hold 'em tight. That Mrs. Lowell and Miss Wilbur are friends worth having, I'm thinking." The man frowned at his own thoughts. The creed of the island had, as its first article: Mind your own business. Matt wished he could go to Mrs. Lowell and pour out to her all he had learned this afternoon, but had his pledged word not prevented, his own habit and training would have made it difficult. When they reached the field which divided the road from the Inn, Blake parted from the boy, who started off for home with his prize. He stumbled over the knolls while looking at the blossoms, and inhaling their delicious fragrance. When he had nearly reached the house, he met the quartette of croquet players, the girls escorting the men to the road. Veronica and Barney Kelly came first and Diana and Philip followed. "Oh, how lovely, Bertie!" exclaimed Veronica, stopping and stooping the five sun-kisses to smell deep of the roses. "They are not--they are not for you," said the boy hastily. "You've no taste, then," said Kelly, while Veronica laughed. "Have you a better girl than this one?" Bertie pushed on in nervous haste, and Diana's smile did not detain him. "Not for you either, apparently," remarked Philip. "No," said Veronica. "I'm _good_, Miss Wilbur is _better_, but his _best_ girl is at home on the porch." There the boy found her, and luckily alone. He advanced holding out his gift without a word. She colored with pleasure as she accepted it, holding it in one hand and caressing it with the other as from time to time she took the sweet breath of the roses. "Thank you so much, Bertie!" she exclaimed. "It must have taken you a long time to gather so many." "No--he had a knife." "Who, your uncle?" "No--Mr. Blake. Uncle Nick mustn't know. You won't tell him?" "No, dear child, I won't tell him." She looked in the boy's face for a reflection of her own pleasure, but there was none. He remained standing. "Sit down, Bertie, you have had a long walk." He did so with some reluctance. "This is the last--last time I'll sit with you," he said. "Are you going away?" she asked, much concerned. "No, but--but Uncle Nick doesn't--doesn't want me to speak to you--and you make me sad." "How do I make you sad, Bertie?" "Talking about--about things," he said vaguely. "If I don't think and don't talk, then--then it's better. Uncle Nick says so and--and I--it is so." "Very well, Bertie," returned Mrs. Lowell quietly. "All I want is what is best for you."