Slade was telling me today of a freight line of steamers that runs to Boston, upon which he could get me a pass. A boat sails every evening, I believe, but does not reach Boston till one o’clock the next day, so I don’t think I will go that way. I don’t want to be away from you any longer than I can help, and this route would get me to Middle Haven at least four hours later than if I went by train. I did not hear from the hotel today, but I expect to soon.

I don’t want to spend any more than I can help on board, but I do want to be in the same house with you. Don’t you think it would be much nicer?

Would you like a bull terrier pup? I could get you one if you like. Just think, Maisie—how soon I shall see you!

Yours,

Jonathan

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

In the days that followed, though my furtive glances upward at Miss Grange’s windows had grown habitual, I did not expect to see her there. And, in truth, my eyes were wrested more and more from the topmost window to regard the figure of Mr. Hunnowell reading, draped upon a chair by the rocks, or disappearing into the woods with his sportsman’s gun upon his shoulder. His manner toward me had remained light since his arrival, absorbed, as it seems he was, by other enjoyments. But his enthusiasm for each blue day grew catching, and I found myself lingering later and later in the breakfast room to witness the explosion of breath and life that was Bart Hunnowell on entering the morning. Each day curved in his mind with one question: How were we mortals, he asked me earnestly one morning, to best serve the day? I suppose he was only half-serious, but I answered him as though he were catechizing me.

“As though we were breaking through the tape.”

“The tape?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of tape?”

“Of a footrace.” I smiled. “I love the way the runners come to the finish with their heads flung high and their arms outstretched and their chests thrust forward into the end.”

Bart drew in his breath and rose from his chair, then stepped around the table and knelt at my feet.

“Miss Thomas,” he said, “you are a poet.”

“Stuff!” I answered, and pushed him backward onto the carpet, where he lay in mock distress while I picked my path serenely around him and withdrew.