Miss Martha giggled. "Well, things are comparative. Judge Trent is so surpassingly clever, and when you see this great big fellow in the office with him you can't help thinking of quality and quantity, you know; but he must have an average mind anyway, or your uncle wouldn't have any use for him. There they come now." Two slow-moving figures appeared among the trees, and advanced to the piazza. "Welcome, wanderers," went on Miss Martha, repressing a yawn. "I think I shall bequeath Sylvia to you now, and retire." Her niece knew that no implication of reproach was intended in this speech, but she dreaded that the others might misunderstand. "I don't need to be bequeathed to any one," she declared. "I'm like that poet who said he was never less alone than when alone. Fancy being lonely on this island in the company of these stars and waves and pines! Edna, when you wish to move your family away, and leave the cottage in the care of a hermit, I speak to be the hermit." "I see you are properly captured," returned Edna. "She's fallen in love with the cook stove now," remarked Miss Martha. "I told her she'd had a couple of spies on her doings." Edna glanced at her guest. Sylvia's smiling, inquiring eyes looked from her to John, who spoke:-- "Yes, there you were stirring some mysterious caldron," he answered; "there in the dark of the moon, and there was something so fiery about your countenance and attitude that we didn't dare remain." "You were wise," returned Sylvia. "I thought I felt some presence. Didn't you hear me say,-- 'By the pricking of my thumbs Something wicked this way comes'?" "Well, we're expecting to benefit by your labors in time," said John. "I wish I thought you would," returned Sylvia dreamily. "Oh, don't be so modest. Let us judge, anyway." "I've no doubt you would be a judge," said the girl meditatively. "Say will be," he corrected. Sylvia lifted her shoulders with a little gesture of dread. "I haven't positively made up my mind that I dare try it on you," she said softly. "Oh, you must. You'll find me the most docile dog in the pack." Edna listened with annoyance. She had suddenly become critical of Sylvia's manner. The girl turned to her. "Will it be necessary to go to the Mill Farm before afternoon, to-morrow?" she asked. "Perhaps not. Why?" "Because there is--because I want--I should like to stay here in the morning." "Mr. Dunham and I might go over without you," suggested Edna. "Mrs. Lem could doubtless give me what you want." The alacrity of Sylvia's assent to this proposition puzzled the hostess still further. "Oh, no, there'd be plenty of time if we went in the afternoon," said John. "Let's take the witch with us for luck." Edna regarded him as he stood against a boulder pillar looking down at Sylvia. "She may not need to use her bottle," was her reflection. "Do sing us something, Edna," said Sylvia.