"Miss Becky? Yes." "But--the windows of the house are open----" "I open them every morning. The housekeeper is in Nantucket. But they are all coming back at the end of the week." "Coming back?" eagerly; "the Admiral, and Miss Bannister?" "Yes." George drew a long breath. He walked back with Tristram to the low gray house. "Queer little place," he said. Tristram eyed him with easy tolerance. "Of course it seems queer if you aren't used to it----" "I thought the Admiral had money." "Well, he has. But he forgets it out here----" "Is there a good hotel?" "Yes. It is usually closed by now. But they are keeping it open for some guests who are up for the hunting." The hotel was a pleasant rambling structure, and overlooked the sea. George engaged a room for Saturday--and said that his man would bring his bags. He would have his lunch and take the afternoon 'bus back to Nantucket. As he waited for the dining-room doors to open, a girl wrapped in a yellow cape crossed the porch and descended the steps which led to the beach. She wore a yellow bathing cap and yellow shoes. George walked to the top of the bluff and watched her. She threw off the cape, and stood slim and striking for a moment before she dived into the sea. She swam splendidly. It was very cold, and George wondered how she endured it. When she came running back up the steps and across the porch, she was wrapped in the cape. She was rather handsome in a queer dark way. "It was cold," she said, as she passed George. He took a step forward. "You were brave----" She stopped and shrugged her shoulders. "One gets warm," she said, "in a moment." She left him, and he went in to lunch. He stopped at the desk on the way out. "I have changed my mind. My man will bring my bags to-morrow." It was still too early for the 'bus, so George walked back up the bluff, turning at last towards the left. Crossing a grassy space, there was ahead of him a ridge which marked the edge of the moor. A little fog was blowing in, and mistily through the fog he saw a figure which moved as light as smoke above the eminence. It was a woman dancing. As he came nearer, he saw that she wore gray with a yellow sash. Her yellow cape lay on the ground. "I am not sure," George said, as he stopped beside her, "whether you are a pixie or a mermaid." "Look," she said, smiling, "I'll show you what I am----" She began with a light swaying motion, like a leaf stirred by a breeze. Then, whipped into action, she ran before the pursuing elements. She cowered, and registered defiance. Her loosened hair hung heavy about her shoulders, then wound itself about her, as she whirled in a cyclone of movement. Beaten to the ground, she rose languidly, swayed again to that light step and stopped. Then she came close to George. "You see," she said, "I am not a pixie or a mermaid. I am the spirit of the storm." CHAPTER XV THE TRUMPETER SWAN I