“It won’t go out,” said the engineer, confidently.

“Maybe you’re right.  But that’s what Trevor said about his breakwater.  His work was done, and ours isn’t hardly begun.  By the way, Murray didn’t say he had the money; he just said he expected to get it.”

“Go out and hang your crepe on the roundhouse,” Dan told him; “this is a jubilee.  If you keep on rejoicing you’ll have us all in tears.”  When the others had gone he turned to Eliza.  “Why don’t you want O’Neil to know about that money, Sis?” he asked, curiously.  “When I’m a hero I like to be billed as one.”

“Please!” She hesitated and turned her face away.  “You—­you are so stupid about some things.”

On the afternoon of this very day Curtis Gordon found Natalie at a window staring out across the sound in the direction of Omar.  He laid a warm hand upon her shoulder and said: 

“My dear, confess!  You are lonesome.”

She nodded silently.

“Well, well!  We mustn’t allow that.  Why don’t you run over to Omar and see your friend Miss Appleton?  She has a cheerful way with her.”  “I’m afraid things aren’t very gay over there,” said Natalie, doubtfully.

“Quite probably.  But the fact that O’Neil is on his last legs needn’t interfere with your pleasure.  A change will do you good.”

“You are very kind,” she murmured.  “You have done everything to make me happy, but—­it’s autumn.  Winter is coming.  I feel dull and lonely and gray, like the sky.  Are you sure Mr. O’Neil has failed?”

“Certainly.  He tried to sell his holdings to the Trust, but they refused to consider it.  Poor fellow!” he continued, unctuously.  “Now that he’s down I pity him.  One can’t dislike a person who has lost the power of working harm.  His men are quitting:  I doubt if he’ll dare show his face in this country again.  But never mind all that.  There’s a boat leaving for Omar in the morning.  Go; have a good time, return when you will, and tell us how they bear up under their adversity.”  He patted her shoulder affectionately and went up to his room.

It was true enough that Natalie had been unhappy since returning to Hope—­not even her mother dreamed how she rebelled at remaining here.  She was lonely, uninterested, vaguely homesick.  She missed the intimate companionship of Eliza; she missed Dan’s extravagant courting and O’Neil’s grave, respectful attentions.  She also felt the loss of the honest good-fellowship of all those people at Omar whom she had learned to like and to admire.  Life here was colorless, and was still haunted by the shadow of that thing from which she and her mother had fled.