With a low, hoarse whistle the afternoon boat from Mackanack Junction swept slowly up to the wharf at Lakeview. There was a crowd on hand, anxiously awaiting relatives and friends, and another crowd on the boat just as anxiously waiting to be welcomed. On the dock there was also in the crowd a number of the curious ones who came down to meet the boat just because it was the fashion so to do—one of the breaks in many a dull afternoon.

“Catch the bow line there—hold fast! Now to the stern with you! All right, sir!”

“Throw out the bridge! Be lively there!”

The bridge touched the edge of the dock and a rush of humanity followed—men, women, and children—with innumerable valises and bags, fishing rods, cameras, tennis rackets, and a hundred and one of the various articles with which the summer tourists load themselves as they start out on their annual outing.

“Alice!”

“Maud! Why, how you have changed! But you are just as pretty as ever.”

“You have not changed a bit. And you are married, too.”

“Why, you didn’t expect married life was going to make an old woman of me right off, did you, dear?” and Alice Devigney gave a bright laugh. A dozen or more kisses followed.

“You are the same old Alice, I can see that,” returned Maud Willowby, and she gave a slight sigh. “Just as pert as ever, as Miss Breeker used to say.”

“And why shouldn’t I be, dear? Did you expect to see a matronly old woman, dragging half a dozen children behind her, and with a face lined with wrinkles?”

“We’ll talk of that hereafter,” answered Maud. “Now come this way; the car is waiting.”

“But my trunk, dear? Here is the check, and it must be somewhere. It has my name on it—Mrs. Willard Devigney. Funny I married a distant relative by the same name, wasn’t it?”

“Never mind the trunk. Our man can come for that later. I only brought the runabout, for I wanted to have you all to myself on the way home.”

“Do you live far from here?”

“It’s not over a mile. Come along. Here we are.”

“Oh, what a beauty of a machine! You must go out a great deal—or, at least, I suppose you did before——There! and I wasn’t going to mention the subject. But I’m so sorry for you, dear! I nearly cried my eyes out when I heard the awful news—indeed I did. And the authorities haven’t made any discovery yet, have they?”

“What do you mean?”

“As to who was guilty?”

“No.” Maud Willowby turned her head away for a moment.

“We can drive along slowly,” said Maud, when they were seated, “and still be in plenty of time for dinner.”

“It’s a beautiful place, isn’t it? How long have you lived here?”

“Four years—ever since we moved away from Fairwood.”

“Gracious, how time flies! Four years, and to me it seems as if it was only yesterday when we were all at the seminary together.”

“It seems a long while to me since then,” returned Maud, in a sober tone.

“Yes? Well, it all depends upon one’s experience. Now, I haven’t had the least bit of trouble since I came away. Of course, poor papa died; but, then, he had been so long ill that death was really a relief from suffering. But how is your father; I almost forgot to ask?”

“Papa is quite well. He will, no doubt, be waiting for us when we arrive. I told him I expected you.”

“I shall be delighted to make his acquaintance. They call him colonel, don’t they? I don’t want to make a mistake.”

“Yes, papa is a colonel, or was, and clings to his title.”

“And who else will be at the house? You have other visitors perhaps? Such a delightful summer resort!”

“There is no one else—except the servants. We live rather a retired life. But, of course, we have books and music, and horses, the two machines, and papa owns a motor boat on the lake.”

“Well, I should say that was enough. Do you go horseback riding? I love it!”

“I used to go, and will be glad to resume that delightful exercise, if you wish it.”

“That will be jolly. There is a gentleman on horseback now approaching.”

Maud Willowby gave a quick look in the direction indicated. “It is Mr. Cross.”

“And who is he, a friend?”

“Yes. Papa and I have known him since we moved here, and he comes to the house quite often, to spend an afternoon or evening. I think he is out on business, for he is interested in a new railroad they have started to build along the lake from Bayport to Mackanack Junction.”

By this time Henry Cross was beside them. Maud was right—he was on business; but he tarried long enough to be introduced to Mrs. Willard Devigney, and to exchange a few words with both ladies. On invitation, he said he would be pleased to call the next afternoon, and then rode off at a canter down a side path where some of the railroad surveyors were at work.

“A nice gentleman,” was Alice Devigney’s frank comment. “And such a sweet voice!”

“He is a tenor singer, and he often sings at the house. Perhaps we can get him to sing to-morrow—if you care to listen.”

“Don’t I dote on music? Wait! Isn’t that a magnificent view down the slope to the lake. Whose mansion is that among those elm trees?”

“That is our home, Alice. We will be there in another minute.”

“What a beautiful place! No wonder you are content to remain there nearly all the time. There is a gentleman on the front piazza. He is waving his hand.”

“It is papa.” Maud Willowby started, and suddenly caught her companion by the arm. “In another minute we will be there, Alice. I meant to speak of it before, but I felt disinclined. Papa knows nothing of the past—absolutely nothing. The revelation now would kill him. Promise me——”

“I will say nothing, dear. Have I ever opened my lips to any one? No, not even to my Willard, much as I love him. With me your secret is safe.”

“Thank you, Alice; I knew it would be. But sometimes I am so frightened——” Maud Willowby said no more, but let out the exhaust; and in a moment more the ride came to an end.

The colonel ran down to help them out, kissing his daughter and shaking hands warmly with her friend of former days. Then all bustled into the house. Dinner was nearly ready, and Maud showed Alice to her room, where she might lay off her wraps and prepare for it.

The dining room was aglow with lights, the shades were drawn down, and all was as bright and cheerful as it could be made. The colonel sat at the head of the table, with his visitor on his right and Maud on his left. He was in particularly good humor, and between him and the newcomer the room rang with bits of bright talk and light laughter.

Maud caught the feeling of the others, and never since that dark day in early spring had her heart felt so light. It seemed as if the ominous clouds were rolling away at last, and that there was a promise of clearer skies beyond.

The colonel remained to smoke a cigar, and the two young women sought the piano, where they played alternately, much to the smoker’s satisfaction, as they learned by the clapping of his hands. Then he came in himself, and songs followed until both of the fair singers were tired.

They retired early. Alice Devigney confessed that she was fatigued after her long traveling, yet she could not resist the temptation to ask Maud to come into her room, “just for a bit of quiet chat,” after both had slipped on loose gowns.

“We are quite alone, aren’t we?” she asked, as Maud closed the door and crossed over to where a tiny blaze gave the open grate a most inviting appearance.

“Yes, we are alone. I have sent Nancy off, and she is too anxious to go to bed to disobey me.”

“I wanted to have a little chat just about ourselves, you know. You have hardly asked me anything about Willard,” a little reproachfully.

“That is true; but it seems to me I haven’t had time for anything since you came, I am so pleased to have you here. Where is he, and what is his occupation?”

“He’s in Toronto now. He is head of the Michigan Consolidated Lumber Company, and he says he is going to make a lot of money this year. Oh, but he’s a splendid fellow, and you must come out and see him soon. I can’t bring him here, he’s so busy. I have his photograph in my trunk.”

Alice Devigney rattled on about her husband for fully five minutes. Then she broke off, lowered her voice, and bent forward. “But, Maud, you said your secret was unknown to your father. How did you keep it from him?”

Maud Willowby had expected this question and had dreaded it. She put out her hand pleadingly.

“Hush, Alice! Some one may hear you,” she whispered.

“But we are alone, dear. You said so yourself.”

“Oh, Alice, dear, on that subject I dread even a whisper.”

“Oh, you are too frightened. It is all past and gone now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” and Maud shivered.

“And he is dead?”

“Yes.”

“Then what have you to fear? You are sure your father never suspected——”

“No, no, no! Dear papa never dreamed of such a thing. It would kill him to know how I deceived him—deceived every one.”

“Maud, I don’t believe you ever really loved him, did you?”

“I don’t know—I don’t believe I did. I hated him after—after—you know.”

“Yes, I know. Well, after all, dear, perhaps it is well he is dead. He was never your equal, despite his money.”

Maud trembled, and, turning away, she hid her face in her hands and began to sob. In a moment Alice Devigney was at her feet.

“There, there, dear, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings; indeed, I didn’t. I am sorry I mentioned the disagreeable subject. But I spoke thoughtlessly. Let us forget it.”

“Oh, if I only could forget!” wailed Maud.

“Time will bring forgetfulness.”

“Never, Alice! That is something I can never forget—never, so long as I breathe,” and Maud sobbed louder than ever.

For once Alice Devigney was nonplused, not knowing what to say. In that extremity she did the wisest thing possible. She remained silent until Maud had had her cry out. Then the two kissed half a dozen times and separated for the night.

But in her own room Maud Willowby lay on the bed wide awake all the night, staring at the ceiling and thinking, thinking, thinking—of the past and the present.