and
through them to the west we could see the waters of Sippican Harbor in
the last yellow rays of the sun as it sank behind Rochester. Overhead
was the great harvest moon.

Polly had taken from the pocket of the car some maps and guide-books,
and while I lifted the hood and was deep in the machinery she was
turning them over.

"What," she asked, "is the number of this car? I forget."

As I have said, I was preoccupied and deep in the machinery; that
is, with a pair of pliers I was wrestling with a recalcitrant wire.
Unsuspiciously I answered: "Eight-two-eight."

A moment later I heard a sharp cry, and raised my head. With eyes wide
in terror Polly was staring at an open book. Without appreciating my
danger I recognized it as "Who's Who in Automobiles." The voice of Polly
rose in a cry of disbelief.

"Eight-two-eight," she read, "owned by Fletcher Farrell, Hudson
Apartments, New York City." She raised her eyes to mine.

"Is that true?" she gasped. "Are you Fletcher Farrell?" I leaned into
the car and got hold of her hand.

"That is not important," I stammered. "What is important is this: Will
you be Mrs. Fletcher Farrell?"

What she said may be guessed from the fact that before we returned to
New Bedford we drove to Fairharbor and I showed her the cottage I liked
best. It was the one with the oldest clapboard shingles, the oldest box
hedge, the most fragrant honeysuckles, and a lawn that wet its feet in
the surf. Polly liked it the best, too.

By now the daylight had gone, and on the ships the riding lights were
shining, but shining sulkily, for the harvest moon filled the world with
golden radiance. As we stood on the porch of the empty cottage, in the
shadow of the honeysuckles, Polly asked an impossible question. It was:

"How MUCH do you love me?"

"You will never know," I told her, "but I can tell you this: I love you
more than a two-thousand-ton yacht, the interest on one million dollars,
and Harbor Castle!"

It was a wasteful remark, for Polly instantly drew away.

"What DO you mean?" she laughed.

"Fletcher Farrell of Harbor Castle," I explained, "offered me those
things, minus you. But I wanted you."

"I see," cried Polly, "he wanted to adopt you. He always talks of that.
I am sorry for him. He wants a son so badly." She sighed softly, "Poor
uncle!"

"Poor WHAT!" I yelled.

"Didn't you know," exclaimed Polly, "that Mrs. Farrell was a Briggs! She
was my father's sister."

"Then YOU," I