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“Who can this be?” said Miss Carry with a gentle flutter. An unknown, middle-aged man was still an object of curiosity to her.

Miss Rebecca raised her eyeglass. “I do believe, my dear, that it’s–yes, it is.”

“But who?” queried Miss Carry.

Miss Rebecca rose instead of answering. The stranger was upon them, walking briskly and hat in hand. His manner was distinctly breezy–more so than a first meeting would ordinarily seem to her to justify.

“Good afternoon, ladies. Daniel Anderson is my name. My wife wasn’t lucky enough to find you at home when she returned your call, so I thought I’d be neighborly.”

“It’s very good of you to come to see us,” said Miss Rebecca, relenting at once. She liked characters–being something of one herself–and her neighbor’s heartiness was taking. “This is my sister, Miss Caroline Ripley,” she added to cement the introduction, “and I am Rebecca. Sit down, Mr. Anderson; and may I give you a cup of tea?”

Four people were apt to be cosily crowded in the summer-house. Being only a third person, the furniture king was able to settle himself in his seat and look around him without fear that his legs would molest any one. He gripped the arms of his chair and inhaled the fragrance of the garden.

“This is a lovely place, ladies,” he asserted.

“Those hollyhocks and morning-glories and mignonettes take me back to old times. Up to my place it’s all roses and orchids. But my wife told me last week that she heard old-fashioned flowers are coming in again. Seems she was right.”

“Oh, but we’ve had old-fashioned flowers for years! Our garden has been always just like this–only becoming a little prettier all the time, we venture to hope,” said Miss Carry.

“I want to know!” said Mr. Anderson; and almost immediately he remembered that both his son and daughter had cautioned him against the use of this phrase at The Beaches. He received the dainty but evidently ancient cup from Miss Rebecca, and seeing that the subject was, so to speak, before the house, he tasted his tea and said:

“It’s all pretty here–garden, view, and beach. And I hear you decline to sell, ladies.”

Miss Rebecca had been musing on the subject all day, and a heartfelt response rose promptly to her lips–spoken with the simple grace of a self-respecting gentlewoman:

“Why should we sell, Mr. Anderson?”

The question was rather a poser to answer categorically; yet the would-be purchaser felt that he sufficiently conveyed his meaning when he said:

“I thought I might have made it worth your while.”

“We are people of small means in the modern sense of the word,” Miss Rebecca continued, thereby expressing more concretely his idea; “yet we have sufficient for our needs. Our tastes are very simple. The sum which you offered us is a fortune in itself–but we have no ambition for great wealth or to change our mode of life. Our associations with this place are so intimate and tender that money could not induce us to desecrate them by a sale.”

“I see,” said Mr. Anderson. Light was indeed breaking on him. At the same time his appreciation of the merits of the property had been growing every minute. It was an exquisite autumn afternoon. From where they sat he could behold the line of shore on either side with its background of dark green woods. Below the wavelets lapped the shingle with melodious rhythm. As far as the eye could see lay the bosom of the ocean unruffled, and lustrous with the sheen of the dying day. Accustomed to prevail in buying his way, he could not resist saying, after a moment of silence:

“If I were to increase my offer to a million would it make any difference in your attitude?”

A suppressed gurgle of mingled surprise and amusement escaped Miss Carry.

Miss Rebecca paused a moment by way of politeness to one so generous. But her tone when she spoke was unequivocal, and a shade sardonic.