THE real-estate man and Andy were out behind the barn. There was a glimpse of the harbor in the distance, and behind them the moor rose to the horizon.

The real-estate man’s little eyes scanned it. “You haven’t much land,” he said casually.

“I own to the top—pretty near an acre,” said Andy. “And there’s the house and barn—and the chicken-coop.” He cast an eye toward it.

A white fowl emerged and scurried across in front of them.

The man’s small eyes followed her, without interest. “I found a number of houses down in the village,” he said smoothly, in his flat voice, “and plenty of land—Almost any of them will sell, I fancy.”

“Yes, they ’ll sell.” Andy’s eye was gloomy. “‘Most anybody around here ’ll sell—except William,” he added thoughtfully.

The narrow eye turned on him. “How much did you say you sold to him?”

“‘Bout four hundred acre, I reckon,” said Andy.

“Five hundred dollars is what he paid you, I believe?” The man’s voice was smooth, and patient.

Andy wriggled a little. “‘Twa ’n’t enough,” he said feebly.

“Well—I don’t know—” The man glanced about him, “I was looking at a house down in the village this morning—eight rooms—good roof—ten acres of land, and barn. I can have the whole thing for six hundred.”

“That’s Gruchy’s,” said Andy quickly, “He wants to move off the Island.”

“He said he wanted to move—that’s the name—Gruchy—I’d forgotten.” The small eyes looked off at the distant glint of water. “In some ways I like that place better than this,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s on the shore—”

“I’ve got a right of way,” said Andy.

“To the shore!” The man’s eyes looked at him an instant, and a little light flicked in them, and was gone.

“It’s down here,” said Andy. He moved over to the right. “Here’s my entrance—and it runs from here straight across to the shore. We never measured it off—I al’ays cut across anywheres I want to. But it’s in the deed—and anybody ’t buys the land ’ll have it.” He looked at the other shrewdly.

“I see—” The real estate man’s gaze followed the right of way across Uncle William’s moor. “I see—Well, of course, that makes a difference—a little difference. It would be foolish to buy on an island and not have access to the shore—I presume you could buy the Gruchy place,” he suggested.

“That’s what I was thinking of,” said Andy, “—unless William wanted to give me a little piece.” His gloomy eyes rested, almost fondly, on the big moor that stretched away under its piled-up clouds.

“Better for business down in the village, I should think,” said the man briskly.

“Yes, it’s better for business,” admitted Andy. “Only I’ve got kind of used to it up here.” His eye sought the house. “I was born in there, you know—and my father lived there and my grandfather.”

The real-estate man’s hand reached to his pocket and found something and drew it out, slowly.

Andy’s eyes rested on it, fascinated.

The man seemed to hesitate. He looked down at the roll in his hand, and half returned it to his pocket. Then he looked again, doubtfully, at the house and barn and chicken-coop. He had turned his back on the right of way and the horizon line above them. “I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. Halloran—” His voice was frankly confidential—“I have taken a liking to your place and I’d be willing to pay a little more for it than for some place ............