few dim sails drifted along the darkening, fir-clad harbor shores. A bell was ringing from the tower of a little white church on the far side; mellowly and dreamily sweet, the chime floated across the water blent with the moan of the sea. The great revolving light on the cliff at the channel flashed warm and golden against the clear northern sky, a trembling, quivering star of good hope. Far out along the horizon was the crinkled gray ribbon of a passing steamer’s smoke.

“Oh, beautiful, beautiful,” murmured Anne. “I shall love Four Winds, Gilbert. Where is our house?”

“We can’t see it yet—the belt of birch running up from that little cove hides it. It’s about two miles from Glen St. Mary, and there’s another mile between it and the light-house. We won’t have many neighbors, Anne. There’s only one house near us and I don’t know who lives in it. Shall you be lonely when I’m away?”

“Not with that light and that loveliness for company. Who lives in that house, Gilbert?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t look—exactly—as if the occupants would be kindred spirits, Anne, does it?”

The house was a large, substantial affair, painted such a vivid green that the landscape seemed quite faded by contrast. There was an orchard behind it, and a nicely kept lawn before it, but, somehow, there