"I mustn't stay here. I ought not to stay," thought Sylvia in sudden panic. "I cannot be trusted."
The song closed. Dunham turned his head and looked up at his companion.
"Your song, is it?" he asked softly. "Let me in, too. It belongs to this place."
"Go and tell Edna how you like it," said Sylvia. "She always says it belongs to this island."
"And to her present guests especially," rejoined Dunham. "Won't you seal the partnership before I go?"
He reached his hand up to her with the movement she had pictured.
Her own were clasped behind her head. "No," she answered quickly. "Take Edna's hand upon it. Let her know how you love it, for it is one of her own favorites."
Dunham still hesitated, regarding the moonlit face, and Sylvia suddenly rose and, passing him, ran down the steps and joined Judge Trent in his measured promenade.
Miss Martha marveled at the ease with which her niece took possession of the lonely man who courted loneliness; and she could see by the way the judge turned toward the young girl, as she took his arm, that he was not an unwilling captive. "I shouldn't wonder if the child made Calvin real human," she thought, with a contented sigh. Sylvia was a possession which they held in common. Miss Martha seemed to see a future in which her relation with her ex-lover ceased to be one of armed neutrality.
Dunham, who had gone into the house to thank his entertainer, soon reappeared, with Edna beside him. They strolled off the piazza and down the rock path toward the golden street which joined the short avenue of firs, and Sylvia saw them no more that night.