joy.

"My hermit thrush," she murmured. "Listen!"

Again the sweet tangle of sounds; again the clear, perfect phrase,
followed by melodious little bells. Dunham and Sylvia, motionless,
continued to gaze into each other's eyes, and the girl's rapt smile
stirred the man, for it was kin to the one he had surprised.

The boat glided silently toward the shore. Again the sweet flute
sounded from the woods. "It is my welcome home," said Sylvia softly.

CHAPTER XXVII

MISUNDERSTANDING

A figure was standing on the bank watching the boat's approach. It was
Judge Trent. His hands were clasped behind his ample black coat, but
instead of the usual shade to his eagle eyes a flat earth-colored cap,
with an extraordinarily broad visor, gave his sharp face the effect of
some wary animal that peers from under the eaves of its home.

The young people waved their hands as they recognized him.

"Come back, have you?" he said, without moving. "It's about time."

"Were you listening to that dear thrush?" asked Sylvia, as she jumped
from the boat.

"I was, and have been for half an hour. The fellow's staying powers are
something marvelous."

The speaker brought a hand around from his back, prepared to meet his
niece, whom he scrutinized without a change of expression. She
possessed herself not only of the hand, but his arm, and deliberately
kissed his cheek.

"I hope you received my letter about the boat, Uncle Calvin. You don't
know how happy you made me."

Dunham noted the surprised start, and received the frowning look which
the judge sent in his direction. The rose leaf of Sylvia's face
remained close to the parchment folds of the lawyer's cheek.

"Well, it was about time I made you happy, wasn't it?" he replied.

"I ought to stay here now," said Sylvia, "and row you about, instead of
going back to Hawk Island."

"Oh. You're going back to Hawk Island?" The girl thought she detected a
note of disappointment in the brusque tone.

"I'm not sure. I haven't decided," she returned.

"She is going back," observed Dunham affably, "with me in about an
hour."

Judge Trent glared at the speaker. Both Sylvia's hands being clasped
about his arm, he was holding himself with conscious and wooden
rigidity. This was his own flesh and blood, however, and she was
clinging to him, and Dunham might be hanged for all he cared.

"My niece will decide that, and not you," he returned with surprising
belligerency.

"Hello!" tho