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Billy sat silent, striving to keep back the grin that would come in spite of him. Wilson, on pretext of getting his pipe, got up and left the room. Here he paused and his searching eyes sought the lower sweep of woodland. A clump of tall poplars gleamed silvery-white against the dark green of the beeches; far down at the end of the sweep the yellow tops of hardy willows stood silhouetted against the undying green of massed cedars and pines. Billy gazed down upon it all and his heart swelled with the deep joy of life, his nerves tingled to the tang of the woodland scents. Something deep, stirring, mysterious, had come to him. He did not know what that something was—it was too vague and incomprehensible for definition just yet. "It's awful," said Billy in awed tones. "I got as far as the first pond. It was far enough for me.".
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"Well, the lightnin' part of this un's about past us, Maurice. But the rain's comin'. Guess that ol' elm's done fer. She's dead, though, else she wouldn't burn like that. By hokey!" he broke off, "will you look here?" Erie Landon faced her father across the breakfast table, dimpled chin cupped in her brown hand. It was early morning; a red sun was just lifting above the Point to wipe away the white mists of the channel and the bay. The American yacht which had put into harbor the night before had cleared and was now but a white speck in the distance. "I've been waitin' for you and now I'm goin' to lick you," he said. "Be here," said he, "on Saturday next. It may be that I'll give you the berth. No more words. Off with you!".
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