Sylvia shook her head. "No. Force would only do harm. Love must open the shutters." "Love?" repeated John, staring at the speaker. She nodded. "Yes, the same thing that opened mine." He continued to regard her. "Do you know, you're a very odd girl," he said at last. "No," she replied. "To talk about Love opening those weather-beaten, rusty old blinds. How could it?" "I don't know; but it will. I feel that it will. You will see." She gave a strange little smile, and Dunham regarded her uneasily. For the first time it occurred to him that she might be unbalanced. In that revealing Look which he had surprised a while ago she seemed to have given herself to him. He had been strangely conscious of proprietorship in her, a sort of responsibility for her, ever since. By his strategy he had secured her unconsciousness of discovery, and thus given himself time. She kept her eyes fixed on the shore they were approaching, and he continued to regard her furtively, from time to time. "We can get into the Basin now, can't we, Benny?" she called to their forgotten boatman. "Easy," he responded. "Suppose ye'll be comin' out afore eight o'clock." "Well,--Mr. Dunham will," responded Sylvia slowly. "And Miss Lacey also, of course," added John. According to the programme laid down by the Idea, Sylvia had an unfulfilled engagement on Hawk Island. She had yet to administer to him the contents of the black bottle, reinforced by the ingredient contained in the flat white bag. How with any consistency could she remain at the Mill Farm? John flung back his head in a silent laugh and passed his hand across his forehead. The boat sailed toward the Tide Mill and under its cold shadow into the smiling, alluring Basin. It seemed to Sylvia that months had passed since last those white birch stems had leaned toward her and waved green banners of welcome. "Ah. Listen!" she exclaimed. A tuneful jangle as of melodious bells fell on the quiet air, and then, like the clear tones of a silver flute, this phrase:-- [Illustration: Bar of music] "What is it?" whispered John, meeting Sylvia's eyes suddenly alight with joy. "My hermit thrush," she murmured. "Listen!" Again the sweet tangle of sounds; again the clear, perfect phrase, followed by melodious little bells. Dunham and Sylvia, motionless, continued to gaze into each other's eyes, and the girl's rapt smile stirred the man, for it was kin to the one he had surprised. The boat glided silently toward the shore. Again the sweet flute sounded from the woods. "It is my welcome home," said Sylvia softly. CHAPTER XXVII MISUNDERSTANDING A figure was standing on the bank watching the boat's approach. It was Judge Trent. His hands were clasped behind his ample black coat, but instead of the usual shade to his eagle eyes a flat earth-colored cap, with an extraordinarily broad visor, gave his sharp face the effect of some wary animal that peers from under the eaves of its home.