ttle inlet down there," he said, "with a tide
eddy that runs into it. And there's an old motor-boat hove way up on the
rocks in there among the bushes."

"What about it?" Felicia asked.

"I merely wished it were ours."

"Naturally it's some one else's."

"He takes mighty poor care of it, then. The engine's all rusted up, and
there's a hole stove in the bottom."

"Then _we_ shouldn't want it."

"It could be fixed," Ken murmured; "easily. I examined it."

He stared out at the misty bay's end, thinking, somehow, of the
_Celestine_, which he had not forgotten in his anxieties as a
householder.

But even the joy of April on the bayside was shadowed when the mail came
to Applegate Farm that day. The United States mail was represented, in
the environs of Asquam, by a preposterously small wagon,--more like a
longitudinal slice of a milk-cart than anything else,--drawn by two
thin, rangy horses that seemed all out of proportion to their load. Their
rhythmic and leisurely trot jangled a loud but not unmusical bell which
hung from some hidden part of the wagon's anatomy, and warned all
dwellers on Rural Route No. 1 that the United States mail, ably piloted
by Mr. Truman Hobart, was on its way.

The jangling stopped at Applegate Farm, and Mr. Hobart delved into a
soap-box in his cart and extracted the Sturgis mail, which he delivered
into Kirk's outstretched hand. Mr. Hobart waited, as usual, to watch,
admire, and marvel at Kirk's unhesitating progress to the house, and
then he clucked to the horses and tinkled on his way.

There was a penciled note from Mrs. Sturgis, forwarded, as always, from
Westover Street, where she, of course, thought her children were (they
sent all their letters for her to Mr. Dodge, that they might bear the
Bedford postmark--and very difficult letters those were to write!), a
bill from the City Transfer Company (carting: 1 table, etc., etc.), and
a letter from Mr. Dodge. It was this letter which shadowed Applegate
Farm and dug a new think-line in Ken's young forehead. For Rocky Head
Granite was, it seemed, by no means so firm as its name sounded. Mr.
Dodge's hopes for it were unfulfilled. It was very little indeed that
could now be wrung from it. The Fidelity was for Mother--with a margin,
scant enough, to eke out the young Sturgises' income. There was the bill
for carting, other bills, daily expenses. Felicia, reading over Ken's
shoulder, bit her lip.

"Come back to town, my dear boy," wrote