lled with tears. These
things--plainly they were the things found in Uncle Benny's
pockets--corroborated only too fully what Wassaquam believed and what
her father had been coming to believe.--that Uncle Benny was dead. The
muffler and the scrap of paper had not been in water or in sand. The
paper was written in pencil; it had not even been moistened or it would
have blurred. There was nothing upon it to tell how long ago it had
been written; but it had been written certainly before June twelfth.
"After June 12th," it said.

That day was August the eighteenth.

It was seven months since Uncle Benny had gone away. After his strange
interview with her that day and his going home, had Uncle Benny gone
out directly to his death? There was nothing to show that he had not;
the watch and coins must have lain for many weeks, for months, in water
and in sand to become eroded in this way. But, aside from this, there
was nothing that could be inferred regarding the time or place of Uncle
Benny's death. That the package had been mailed from Manitowoc meant
nothing definite. Some one--Constance could not know whom--had had the
muffler and the scrawled leaf of directions; later, after lying in
water and in sand, the things which were to be "sent" had come to that
some one's hand. Most probably this some one had been one who was
going about on ships; when his ship had touched at Manitowoc, he had
executed his charge.

Constance left the articles upon the bed and threw the window more
widely open. She trembled and felt stirred and faint, as she leaned
against the window, breathing deeply the warm air, full of life and
with the scent of the evergreen trees about the house.

The "cottage" of some twenty rooms stood among the pines and hemlocks
interspersed with hardwood on "the Point," where were the great fine
summer homes of the wealthier "resorters." White, narrow roads, just
wide enough for two automobiles to pass abreast, wound like a labyrinth
among the tree trunks; and the sound of the wind among the pine needles
was mingled with the soft lapping of water. To south and east from her
stretched Little Traverse--one of the most beautiful bits of water of
the lakes; across from her, beyond the wrinkling water of the bay, the
larger town--Petoskey--with its hilly streets pitching down steeply to
the water's edge and the docks, and with its great resort hotels, was
plainly visible. To westward, from the white life-savi