es?" drawled Benny. "I'll bet you ain't
goin' over, then," he added cynically.

"Of course I wouldn't butt in on the young ladies' day together,"
returned John. Benny's recital had touched him, but he could not
forbear a smile at the youngster's courage of conviction. "I tell you,
I'm the aggrieved party in this matter," he added.

"Oh, git out," returned the boy. "Butt in, nawthin'. You go over there
and fix it up with her. Say," hopefully, "I'll sail ye over to-night if
ye want to. Plenty o' moon."

"You're awfully good, Benny, but you can take it from me, I shouldn't
be welcome."

The boy looked staggered for the first time.

"Has she turned you down?" he asked in a low tone. "That's so, she'd a
cried jest the same if she had. Say, has she?"

Dunham made a significant gesture.

"Next time don't you be so sure you know it all, Benny," he replied.

CHAPTER XXXI

RECONCILIATION

That afternoon, while Benny had been surreptitiously watching Sylvia's
irrepressible tears, she kept her face toward the Tide Mill without one
backward look. The boat, as it cut through the water, rising and
falling in the strong, steady wind, seemed ever rhythmically repeating
the line of the island song:--

"Joy, sea-swept, may fade to-day
Joy, sea-swept may fade to-day."

She tried to look away from her hurt and humiliation as she looked away
from Anemone Cottage; tried to remember only that at the Mill Farm was
Thinkright, with his confidence and calm. Oh, to be calm and fearless
once more!

"Love alone will stay!"

A light seemed shed now on many a talk of Thinkright's concerning the
only Love that would stay,--abide. The only Love that bred peace,--the
peace that passeth understanding.

Winds and waves sang on:--

"Joy, sea-swept may fade to-day;
Love alone will stay."

and above the human sweetness of the song Sylvia felt that there dwelt
a deeper, higher meaning, but she could not attain to it now. Thought
was pain. What she longed to do was to wipe the last week from her
remembrance. The last week. She suddenly remembered its high light: the
thrill with which she had worked over her pictures and the power she
felt in her finger tips. Her sketches,--she had forgotten them. Her
aunt, Edna, would find them. What matter? Nothing at Hawk Island
mattered.

She turned her thought to the farm. The Basin was sparkling and waiting
for her, the birches were bending forward in welcome. Thinkrigh