"Probably the greatest living biologist," he was proud to inform her. "Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a class with Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich--he lives over there at town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him." He grinned. "Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been for Mrs. Kesserich." The girl looked puzzled. Jack explained, "The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences, won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow. When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich--she's a drab sort of person--said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, of course, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name." "Mary Alice Pope," she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, as if she were saying it for the first time. "You're pretty shy, aren't you?" "How would I know?" The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to this strangely attractive girl dressed almost like a "flapper." "Will you sit down?" she asked him gravely. The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort to talk. "I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over." "Why?" "So you'll be able to go back to the mainland." "But I never go to the mainland." "You mean you stay out here all winter?" he asked incredulously, his mind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves. "Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts are very capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I help them." "But that's impossible!" he said with sudden sympathetic anger. "You can't be shut off this way from people your own age!" "You're the first one I ever met." She hesitated. "I never saw a boy or a man before, except in movies." "You're joking!" "No, it's true." "But why are they doing it to you?" he demanded, leaning forward. "Why are they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary?" * * * * * She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. "I don't know why. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tell you a secret?" She touched his hand, this time with only the faintest trembling. "Every night the loneliness gathers in around me--you're right about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in a little box." "What's that?" he said sharply. "Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures, or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like the poems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends, 'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude--'" "Wait a minute," he interrupted. "Who sends you these boxes?" "I don't know." "But how are the notes signed?"