“Mac insisted upon saying good-bye,” Hope said half apologetically; “and I really hadn’t the heart to refuse him.  Besides, I wanted to thank you again for your many kindnesses to my small boy.  Mothers appreciate such things, I assure you, Mr. Barrett.”

The young man’s face lighted.  He liked Hope, and, from the first, he had dropped his professional manner and met her with the simplicity of an overgrown boy.

“We’ve had great times together; haven’t we, Mac?” he inquired.

“Yes, lots; but now I’m going to see my truly papa,” Mac observed.

“Are you going soon?” Mr. Barrett asked Hope.

“Next week, I think.  Mr. Holden has written so appealingly that I dare not keep him waiting any longer.  The others will stay down for September; but Hubert will go off island with me, next week, and start Mac and me on our way to Helena.”

“And may I ask my sister to call on you?”

“Please do.  Mac’s mother doesn’t have time to make many calls; but I should like to know your sister, and then I shall be sure to hear when you are in Helena again.”

“Perhaps you’ll let me write to you, now and then,” he suggested, with a shyness that was new to him.  In his past life, he had never met a woman quite like Mrs. Holden and he was anxious to win her liking and to hold it, once won.

“I wish you would,” she said cordially.  “But your train is waiting.  Ought you to get on board?”

He took a hurried leave of her.  Then he turned to Mac.

“Good-bye, Mac.”

“Good-bye,” Mac answered cheerily.  “Aren’t you glad you ever knew me?”

“Yes, Mac,” he replied sincerely, for he felt that his meeting with Mac had been foreordained, that, child as he was, Mac had served his turn in knotting together some of the broken strands of his life.

As the train slowly jogged away across the moorland he felt a sharp regret while he watched the disappearing of the little grey village and the tall white lighthouse beyond.  He had enjoyed his solitary month there; he had enjoyed Hope, and the sweet, womanly frankness with which she had taken him quite on his own personal merits.  Incense was good; it was far better to be liked as Gifford Barrett than as the composer of the Alan Breck Overture, however, and he had a vague consciousness that he had never been more of a man than when he was walking and talking with quiet Hope Holden.

The train rounded the curve at Kidd’s Treasure, and Mr. Barrett looked backward to catch one last glimpse of the sea.  As he did so, he forgot Hope, and went back to the memory of his last hour on the beach.  Strolling along the sand, that noon, with his eyes fixed on the ground, he had caught sight of an approaching shadow and he looked up to see Phebe standing before him.

“Mr. Barrett,” she said abruptly; “I’m sorry I called you a coward.”

He rallied from his surprise and raised his cap.