"Ours, I daresay, means Horace A. Gower," he remarked. "Pardon my
curiosity, but you see I used to know this place rather well. I've been
away for some time. Things seem to have changed a bit."

"You're just back from overseas?" she asked quickly.

He nodded. She looked at him with livelier interest.

"I'm no wounded hero," he forestalled the inevitable question. "I merely
happened to get a splinter of wood in one eye, so I have leave until it
gets well."

"If you are merely on leave, why are you not in uniform?" she asked
quickly, in a puzzled tone.

"I am," he replied shortly. "Only it is covered up with overalls and
mackinaw. Well, I must be off. Good-by, Miss Gower."

He pushed his boat off the beach, rowed to the opposite side of the bay,
and hauled the small craft up over a log. Then he took his bag in hand
and climbed the rise that lifted to the backbone of Point Old. Halfway
up he turned to look briefly backward over beach and yacht and house, up
the veranda steps of which the girl in the blue sweater was now
climbing.

"It's queer," he muttered.

He went on. In another minute he was on the ridge. The Gulf opened out,
a dead dull gray. The skies were hidden behind drab clouds. The air was