What Mrs. Porter was, had in their daily contact impressed itself so increasingly upon her young friend, that Linda, though reluctant, had, through very curiosity, come to be willing to look into the source of her friend's faith and strength. That little nook behind the birches had become dear to her. Near by rose the rich dark grove of firs and pines, the sea murmuring in their tops, and the spring bubbled with a silvery plashing.
Here Whitcomb found them. They both started at his sudden appearance and he halted, and rapped on a white birch stem.
"May I come in?" The gay, hearty voice set Linda's heart to beating fast. "Don't let me disturb you," and the visitor hurried forward, his hat off, and kneeling on the grass before her, took Linda's hand.
"You have met Mrs. Porter?"
"Once, I think," said that lady, shaking hands graciously with the young man. The devouring eyes with which he was taking in every detail of Linda's improved appearance made the older woman certain that here was the Chicago man whose happiness the girl had said she could not secure save by extreme measures.
"You look wonderful, Linda. Good for the Cape!" said Fred, seating himself comfortably on the grass, and continuing to observe her with huge satisfaction.
"But how did you know where to find us?" inquired the girl.
"Blanche Aurora told me. Happy name! Dickens himself couldn't have done better. Blanche A-roarer."
"But she didn't know about this place. Nobody knows."
"So she observed—howling it to high heaven; but you might as well try to keep a locality from the sparrows as from kids of that age."