It was at odd times that Tom noticed this familiar look in Ned’s face. Ordinarily he did not notice it. Once when his companion was lifting a heavy stone that familiar look struck him forcibly. He even spoke of it, and Whalen too thought it quite likely that Tom had seen him. On the day following their chat in the rustic arbor something happened which gave a dramatic turn to these thoughts of Tom’s. The incident was foreshadowed by thunderstorms during the night which shook and wrenched the cottage so that Tom in bed could actually feel the building lurch and jump in the slack of the safety cables, like a boat straining at its anchor rope. He realized then the wisdom of having the cables a little slack, for in such wind a sudden strain on a taut cable would wrench loose part of the structure. In those recurrent frenzies of the elements the cottage seemed to jump and pull like some savage thing against its metal leashes. And the creaking of the rusted terminals made a clamorous medley. It was no wonder that Miranda thought the neighborhood was haunted. All through the next day these recurrent storms continued. And in the intervals of unbridled fury a steady drizzle descended out of a leaden sky. The only bright spot in all the landscape was Mr. Royce Fairgreaves, resolutely faithful to his task of picking stones, armed with an umbrella. Most of the others lolled on the back porch of the hotel. Ferris sat in the cottage making up his accounts. Audry was engrossed in a book. In a prolonged interval between showers, Tom and Whalen went into the woods to see how the roof of their little forest rest was withstanding the onslaughts of the weather. The tiny pavilion looked isolated and cosy in the dim woods. The saturated chips and shavings that still littered the spot imparted that pungent fragrance which comes from fresh wet wood. The ground was soggy, the thatched roof dripping, and the little brook running in a torrent. The necessity of some supplementary work on the little bridge was apparent, for the water was pouring down one of the low banks and undermining the land on which the logs rested. The ends of the logs were resting in mud and settling down rapidly. “They ought to be longer,” Whalen said. “What do you say we fell that tree we started on and lay the trunk crossways underneath here?” Tom asked. “Ought to do,” said Ned. “It’s going to pour again, though, in about ten minutes.” “Let it come,” said Tom cheerily; “I’ll scoot for shelter when it does.” Taking an axe that lay in one of the enclosed seats, Tom started for a tree a couple of hundred feet distant which had already been partially chopped for felling. Whalen sat in the pavilion watching him. Tom soon became so engrossed in his vigorous labor that he was not aware of the suddenly increasing volume of rain and the distant rumbling which heralded another spasm of the fickle weather. “Would you like an umbrella?” Whalen called in allusion to Fairgreaves.