to New Bedford we drove to Fairharbor and I showed her the cottage
I liked best. It was the one with the oldest clapboard shingles,
the oldest box hedge, the most fragrant honeysuckles, and a lawn
that wet its feet in the surf. Polly liked it the best, too.

By now the daylight had gone, and on the ships the riding lights
were shining, but shining sulkily, for the harvest moon filled the
world with golden radiance. As we stood on the porch of the empty
cottage, in the shadow of the honeysuckles, Polly asked an
impossible question. It was:

"How MUCH do you love me?"

"You will never know," I told her, "but I can tell you this: I love
you more than a two-thousand-ton yacht, the interest on one million
dollars, and Harbor Castle!"

It was a wasteful remark, for Polly instantly drew away.

"What DO you mean?" she laughed.

"Fletcher Farrell of Harbor Castle," I explained, "offered me those
things, minus you. But I wanted you."

"I see," cried Polly, "he wanted to adopt you. He always talks of
that. I am sorry for him. He wants a son so badly." She sighed
softly, "Poor uncle!"

"Poor WHAT!" I yelled.