“Do you see that lighthouse far to the south?” she asked; “that is Frigate Light.  West of it lies Surf Point, and the bay between is Surf Bay.  That’s where I nearly froze solid in my first ocean bath of the year.  A little later we can bathe in that cove to the north—­the Bay of Shoals.  You see it, don’t you?—­there, lying tucked in between Wonder Head and the Hither Woods; but I forgot!  Of course you’ve been here before; and you know all this; don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, “my brother and I came here as boys.”

“Have you not been here since?”

“Once.”  He turned and looked down at the sea-battered wharf jutting into the Bay of Shoals.  “Once, since I was a boy,” he repeated; “but I came alone.  The transports landed at that wharf after the Spanish war.  The hospital camp was yonder. . . .  My brother died there.”

She lifted her clear eyes to his; he was staring at the outline of the Hither Woods fringing the ochre-tinted heights.

“There was no companion like him,” he said; “there is no one to take his place.  Still, time helps—­in a measure.”

But he looked out across the sea with a grief for ever new.

She, too, had been helped by time; she was very young when the distant and fabled seas took father and mother; and it was not entirely their memory, but more the wistful lack of ability to remember that left her so hopelessly alone.

Sharper his sorrow; but there was the comfort of recollection in it; and she looked at him and, for an instant, envied him his keener grief.  Then leaning a little toward him where he reclined, the weight of his body propped up on one arm, she laid her hand across his hand half buried in the grass.

“It’s only another tie between us,” she said—­“the memory of your dead and mine. . . .  Will you tell me about him?”

And leaning there, eyes on the sea, and her smooth, young hand covering his, he told her of the youth who had died there in the first flush of manhood and achievement.

His voice, steady and grave, came to her through hushed intervals when the noise of the surf died out as the wind veered seaward.  And she listened, heart intent, until he spoke no more; and the sea-wind rose again filling her ears with the ceaseless menace of the surf.

After a while he picked up his rod, and sat erect and cross-legged as she sat, and flicked the flies, absently, across the grass, aiming at wind-blown butterflies.

“All these changes!” he exclaimed with a sweep of the rod-butt toward Widgeon Bay.  “When I was here as a boy there were no fine estates, no great houses, no country clubs, no game preserves—­only a few fishermen’s hovels along the Bay of Shoals, and Frigate Light yonder. . . .  Then Austin built Silverside out of a much simpler, grand-paternal bungalow; then came Sanxon Orchil and erected Hitherwood House on the foundations of his maternal great-grandfather’s