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"Well, s'pose it wasn't any dream? S'pose it was all real? An' s'pose, if I hadn't waked up in time to stop him, he'd have picked your eyes out an' put in fisheyes in their place? Then you couldn't see anythin' unless you was under water. An' s'pose, when I asked Croaker what he wanted to do that awful thing fer, he up an' told me that you'd been spyin' on me an' you didn't deserve to own human eyes? I say s'pose all this. Now then, Anse, you best mind your own business an' let your mouth freeze up close, else you're goin' to have an awful time of it. If I get Croaker to say he won't gouge your eyes out till I give the word it's more'n you deserve." Through the dusky twilight, soft with woodland dews and sweet with odor of ferns and wild flowers, Billy walked slowly. For the first time in long days his heart felt at peace. The canker of loneliness that had gnawed at his spirit was there no longer. It was a pretty good old world after all. He leaned toward her, waiting for her answer. His heart was singing with joy—joy that spilled out of his grey eyes and made his lips smile in spite of him. What a sweet and grand privilege it would be to carry this wonderful girl, who had so transformed his world, along the familiar by-ways that held such rare treasures of plant and wild life..

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"Nelson!" cried Captain Acton, in a voice subdued by reverence for the name it pronounced, addressing his daughter. "We must run down and have a look at him. The deviation need not be above two or three miles, which will not cause us to lose sight of the Minorca by diverting us from her track. Make all sail again, Captain Weaver, and head for that flag-ship. You can see her: she is to windward of the ship with the stun-sails." Mr Lawrence pursued the same road home by which he had gained Old Harbour. In all probability had Mr Greyquill not looked back, the young gentleman would have found his letter where he had unconsciously dropped it. That side of the bridge—the up-river water path—was much unfrequented, save on a Sunday, when lovers walked along it, and now and again a little family dressed in their best. It was many chances to one that the two or three who had passed along that path since Mr Lawrence and Mr Greyquill had stood in conversation upon it, would have[Pg 146] picked up the letter or even taken notice of it, so very remote from their ideas of things worth stopping for and examining on the highway was a folded sheet of paper. No more would the fire-flies weave a gauze of golden stars above the marshlands at the foot of the Causeway. The season of green and blue had lived and died and in its place had been born a season of drab and brown. Summer was gone. The song-birds had migrated. Soon the green rush fields would sway, grey and dead and the bronze woodcocks would whistle away from the bog-lands, for seldom did they tarry after the first frost. Along the creek the red-winged black-birds would be sounding their up-and-away notes. No happy carol to welcome the first glow of dawn! No wonder Billy sighed. Then he lifted his head quickly as, high above him, sounded the whistle of wings. Up from the north a wedgeshaped flock of wild ducks came speeding, white backs flashing as they pitched downward in unbroken formation towards the calling bay-waters. "What you talkin' 'bout, Bill? What thing? Who's it been clawin'? Hurry up, tell me.".