"Happy!" he ejaculated, "happy! It is only youth that estimates happiness by superficialities. A smile, a laugh, a full pocketbook! You think they mean happiness?"

"They are often the outward expression."

"Or counterfeits. Have you ever read 'Peer Gynt,' Dick?"

"Yes. Ibsen has a gloomy charm for me. I read all he writes in about the same way a child reads goblin tales. I enjoy the shivers."

"You remember the woman who gave Peer permission to marry the one pure love of his life but stipulated that she should forever sit beside them?"

"Yes!" Thornly smiled grimly. "That was a devilishly Ibsen-like idea."

"It was a truer touch than the young can understand. Those ghostly women of an early folly often sit beside a man and the later, purer love of his life. Some men are able to ignore the gray spectres and get a deal of comfort from the saner reality of maturer years; I never could. That girl"—he touched the closed book as if it were the grave that concealed her—"has always come between me and later desires for a home and closer ties. Her wonderful eyes, that looked so much and meant so little, have held me by a power that death and years have never conquered."

"She died then?" Thornly could no longer shield himself from the undesired knowledge; he must hear the end.

"Yes. She came from near here, poor little soul! I can never get rid of the impression that her death was hurried, not only by trouble, but sheer homesickness. You cannot fit these slow, quiet natures into the city's whirlpool. I was a young fellow, down for the summer. I was ensnared by her beauty, and hadn't sense enough to see the danger. She followed me to the city,—took a place in a shop, and was about as wretched as a sea gull in a desert. I was fool enough to think it a noble act to befriend her and so I complicated matters. My father must have found out, though I was never sure of that. Father was a man who kept a calm exterior under any emotion; but he sent me abroad, and I, not knowing that he had discovered anything, dared not confess. I meant to come back at a year's end and set all straight in some way. Good God! set things straight! How we poor devils go through the world knocking down things like so many ten pins and solacing ourselves with the fancy that when we finish the game we'll set the pins in place again! We never get that chance, Dick, take my word for it! Whatever the plan of life is, it isn't for us to set up the game! We may play fair, if it is in us, but once we get through, we need not hope for any going back process. When I returned at the end of two years, I could not find her! It wasn't love that set me upon the search for her, Dick, I always knew that; but I think it was the one decent element that has ever kept me from going to the deepest depths. I got discouraged, finally, and took our old family lawyer into my confidence."

"Did you look down here?" Thornly asked slowly. The tale had clutched him in a nightmarish way that shook his nerves.

"They don't come back here, my boy, once they tread the path of that poor child. They simplify morality in Quinton along with all else, and the one unpardonable sin suffices for them. They grade their society by their attitude toward that. But old Thorndyke took this place into consideration as a beginning, for he aided me in my search when he was convinced of my determination."

"And you never found her?" Thornly was leaning forward with hands close clasped before him, his face showing tense in the red glow of the fire.

"Thorndyke did."

"Ah!"

"Yes, the poor little thing had been rescued after a fashion. Soon after I left her, a fellow who had always had a liking for her, a chap who had worked in the shop with her, was willing to marry her and she consented. You wouldn't think she could, quite, with those eyes, but she did! The man was good to her; but the city, and other things, were too much, and she lived only a short time. There was a child! I wanted to do something for it; I had a passion of remorse then, but Thorndyke told me that the child's best interest lay in my letting her alone. She was respected and comfortable. For me to interfere would be to throw dishonor upon the dead mother and a cloud upon the child. All had been buried and forgotten in the mother's grave. About all I could do to better the business was to keep my hands off; and that I did!"

Devant's head drooped upon his chest, and Thornly felt a kind of pity that stirred a new liking for the man.

"You think the lawyer told you the true facts?" he asked; "true in every particular?"

Devant started up and turned deep eyes upon the questioner.

"Great heavens! yes. You do not know Thorndyke. He was about as cast iron an old Puritan as ever survived the times. He was devoted to our family, and served us to his life's end as counsellor and friend; but not for the hope of heaven would he have lied! No, that's why I confided in Thorndyke, I could not have trusted any one else. I knew he would never respect me afterward; he never did. But he served me as no one else could, and I bore his contempt with positive gratitude."

"But you could never forget?" Thornly spoke almost affectionately. The older man looked up.

"No. And as I grow older I thank God I never could. We ought not forget such things as that. We ought to expiate them as long as we live. I have grown to take a kind of joy in the hurt of the memory, a kind of savage exaltation in the suffering. So, perhaps, can I wipe out the wrong in this life and get strength of a better sort for the next trial on beyond, if there is another trial! I suppose every man wants to show, and live the best that is in him; not many get the chance here, from what I see. I reckon that is why we old fellows have an interest in you younger ones. It goes against the grain, if we have a sneaking regard for you, to see you quench the divine spark with the same galling water we've gone through. Going, Dick?"

For the other had risen and was holding out his hand in a confused but eager fashion.

"Yes, Mr. Devant, and thank you! You're not an old man, I sincerely wish that you might some day, well, you understand—not forget exactly, but get another trial here!"

"Too late for that, Dick. Can't you stay over night?"

"No. I'm going to the Hills. I've some last things to do there."

"And to-morrow, Dick?"

"I'm going to Katharine!" The two men looked keenly into each other's eyes.

"I'll meet you then at the train, my boy, at 7.50. I've business in the city. I always put up at the Holcomb; look me up after you've seen Katharine."

"Good night, Mr. Devant, and again thank you!"

Devant walked with Thornly to the outer door, and then to the windswept piazza. "It's sharp to-night," he said; "I'll soon have to give up Bluff Head. Davy's Light has got it all its own way to-night, not a star or moon to rival its beauty. A time back I fancied one evening that the Light failed me. It was only for a few moments I imagined it, but it gave me quite a jog. I suppose it was the state of my nerves; one can rely upon Davy. He's a great philosopher in his way. His lamp is his duty; his lamp and that poor crippled wife of his who has just died. Davy is one of the few men I've met, Dick, who seems to have played the game fair and has never tried to comfort himself with the hope of going back. 'I'm ready for the next duty,' he said to me the other day with his old rugged face shining; 'there's always another duty ready at hand, when you drop one as finished.'"

The master of Bluff Head watched the straight young figure fade into the night. Then he turned again to Davy's Light.

"The weight of a dead duty," he muttered. "That's what anchors a man! It isn't in the order of things to trust a man with a new duty, when he failed with the last. There isn't any light to guide a man that's anchored by a dead duty."

Then Devant went back into his lonely house and sat down before the dulling fire to think it out about Thornly.

"He'll never go to any one but me, after he's seen Katharine," he thought. "He may not come to me. It all depends upon how deep the thing has gone, but, in case he needs any one, I'd better be on hand. I may serve as a buffer, and that's better than not serving at all."



CHAPTER X

Janet had conquered the art of crocheting in order that she might construct a Tam o' Shanter cap. It had been a difficult task, and the result was far from satisfying. Dropped stitches and uneven rows were in evidence all over the creation of dark red, with its bushy little knot on top. But Janet had an eye for the impressionistic touch, and as she glanced in the mirror of Susan Jane's bureau, the general effect was gratifying. Under the dull red the splendid, dusky gold of the girl's hair shone exquisitely. Janet had trained the rebellious locks at last to an upward tendency and the mass was knotted loosely beneath the artistic headgear. The eye for color had never been lacking in this girl of the dunes. Nature had taught her true, but Thornly had, later, assisted Nature; and no French modiste could more accurately have chosen the shade of reddish brown to suit the complexion than had Janet selected, from the village store, her coarse flannel for blouse and skirt. The skirt was long now, and the heavy shoes were worn religiously through heat and cold. There was to be no more absolute freedom for Janet of the Dunes.

David had come down from his Light, heavy eyed and weary. Mark Tapkins's absence caused extra duty for David, but the man would ask for no other helper; it would seem like disloyalty to Mark. Janet took a turn now and again to relieve David, and that helped considerably. The girl had borne her share the previous night, but her face showed no trace of the vigil.

"Sprucin'?" Davy paused. Tired as he was, the girl's beauty caught and held him.

"Some. I've set your breakfast out on the table, Davy, and the coffee is on the stove."

"Yer gettin' t' be a master hand at cookin', Janet. I don't b'lieve Pa Tapkins can beat yer coffee. Expectin' Mark back?" There was a double interest in this question.

"I haven't heard a word, Davy."

"Goin' visitin'?"

"No, Davy; nobody seems to want me to come visiting. The summer's doings have sort of rent Quinton asunder, and in some way I've managed to fall in the crack. I don't know what I've done," she smiled a crooked little smile, and gave the artistic Tam a new angle, "but I'm rather frozen out. Mrs. Jo G.'s Amelia made a 'face' at me yesterday. I shouldn't have noticed it, for the creature's hideous anyway, but she called an explanation after me; 'I've made a snoot at you!' she screamed, and would have said more, but Maud Grace pulled her in. No, Davy, I'm going up to Bluff Head."

"It's empty," Davy said, moving between stove and table clumsily.

"Eliza Jane's there, and James B. I wonder if they are going to shut the house for the winter?" asked Janet.

"Like as not," Davy nodded, and spoke from the depths of his coffee cup.

Janet bethought her of the cellar window and the old unbroken calm, and she sighed yearningly.

"Good bye, Davy." She came behind his chair, and snuggled her soft cap against his cheek. "I'm going up to have a good reading spell; then after dinner let us, you and I, if Mark should happen back, go over to the Station to see Cap'n Billy. Something's the matter with my Cap'n Daddy. He's keeping off land like an ocean steamer. Davy, he's got a cargo aboard, take my word for it, that he doesn't want us to know about. Like as not he's taken to pirate ways and we've got to get aboard, Davy, sure and certain."

"By gum!" ejaculated David, "what an eye ye've got fur signals, Janet! I've been doubtin' Billy's actions fur some time an', if Mark comes back, I'll jine ye goin' over t' the dunes. What's Mark's call t' the city?" he asked suddenly.

"You'll have to ask Mark." The girl was halfway down the garden path as she answered. "Probably following the city trade."

"Not much!" muttered Davy, going into the sleeping room; "Mark's got his stomick full of city once fur all. He hates it worse'n pisen."

Down the sunlit path went the girl to the oak thicket which lay between the Light and the road that stretched from the village to Bluff Head. Not a soul was in sight, and the crisp air and glorious view gave a new kind of joy to Janet that was distinct from pleasure. She felt that even if trouble crushed her, she would always be able to know this satisfaction of the senses. She paused at the entrance of the woods and looked back. The path was strewn with a carpet of leaves; here and there a tall poplar stood majestically above its stunted comrades of pines and scrub oaks, but looked gaunt and bare, while the humbler brothers bore a beauty of blood-red leaves, or the constant green. Janet smiled, recalling an old belief of her childhood. She had asked Pa Tapkins once why the oaks were so very little. Pa Tapkins had his explanation ready. It had borne part in his boyhood and was a fully confirmed fact in later life.

"It all come of the poplars bein' sich liars, Janet. Never trust no poplar! When things was only sand an' beginnin's in these parts, all the trees sprung up together. But the poplars, bein' snoopier than common, shot up considerable an' took a look around. Lordy! what did they see but the ocean a-roarin' an' makin' as if it was comin' straight over the dunes! An' the poplars passed the word down t' the little oaks, what was jest gettin' their bearin's. It scared 'em so it gave 'em a setback from the fust. But them tall liars wasn't content with statin' truths, day after day, when the sea lay smilin' like a babby; they handed down a bigger whopper than what they did when they fust saw the water. 'Nearer! nearer! it's comin',' that's what they said, mingled 'long with powerful yarns as to how the monster looked! Naterally the scared oaks didn't take no interest in shootin' up, when they thought they was so soon t' be eaten, so they got the habit of crouchin' low an' dependin' on the poplars fur information. They got a notion, too, of turnin' away from the sea. Sort o' sot their faces agin it, so t' speak. The pines, every onct so often, shamed 'em till they blushed deep red,—that comes 'long 'bout spring an' fall,—but no 'mount o' shamin' ever started them int' springin' up an' seein' fur themselves an' givin' the poplars the lie! Don't ye place no dependence on a poplar, Janet, they be shivery, whisperin' critters! They turn pale when there ain't nothin' the matter; they keep their shade t' themselves, jest plain miserly; an' they pry too much. 'T ain't proper; 't is 'most human-like."

Janet recalled the old fancy now, leaning against the tall poplar which, indeed, was whispering in nervous fashion to the blushing scrub oaks clustering close. Some one was coming up the road from the station. In the far distance the girl heard the panting shriek of the engine of the morning train from the city. Could that shambling, weary figure approaching be Mark? Why, he looked older than Pa Tapkins! Janet waited until he was abreast of her. His hands were plunged in his pockets, his shabby valise slung over his shoulder, and his head was bowed upon his chest.

"Mark!" she cried cheerily, "you look just worn out."

The man raised his dull face and an awakening of interest and hope lit it.

"Mornin', Janet," he replied and came to the tree. "Davy managed pretty good? I was kept longer than any reason. I hope Davy ain't petered out."

"No. I helped some. Did you get Maud Grace's young man, Mark?" The amusement in the laughing voice made Mark shiver. All the pleasure dropped from his face like a mask.

"I found where he was, all right, but I got there a day too late, he was off fur—fur—"

"For where?"

"There was no findin' out. He's jest clear gone an' vanished."

"Well, I'm glad of it! I think Maud Grace ought to be ashamed of herself to want him when he did not want her. I'm out and out thankful she cannot have her way."

The effect of this speech upon Mark was stupendous. His jaw dropped and a slow fire seemed to gleam in his pale eyes. Part of his nature rose in gladness because the girl could speak in that fashion. She had no knowledge within her to cause her to falter or stand abashed. But the tired man, in the poor fellow, cried out to this strong, brave creature to aid him understandingly where his own knowledge and slowness of nature made him a coward. And so they stood looking in each other's eyes.

"I don't see why, Mark, you should try to help Maud. She's silly and has acted like an idiot with every man boarder her mother has had. She's turned her back upon you. This, maybe, will teach her a lesson."

"Like as not it will!" Mark's words came with almost a groan. "Like as not it will!" What strength was in him conquered. This girl, so detached from him, must keep her childish faith. Whatever was to be borne and suffered, he, in his bungling fashion, must bear it and suffer alone. He knew the Quintonites, poor fellow! He knew there was work for him to do, but he would do it alone!

"Whar you goin', Janet?" Mark took up his burden of duty with a sigh. He was awake to life and its meaning at last, and the reality steadied him.

"On an errand."

"Whar?"

"That's telling!" The girl laughed mockingly. "And, Mark, as soon as you can, go up to the Light. I'll soon be back, Davy and I are going on a pirate hunt this afternoon."

"A what kind of a hunt?"

"Pirate. It's going to be great fun. Davy needs a change."

Mark watched the brilliant figure vanish around the curve of the road. That any being on earth could be so gladsome puzzled him vaguely.

"Bluff Head!" he muttered; "well, 't ain't as bad as the Hills, but it's all bad an' muddlin', an' I don't feel equal t' tacklin' it. The dear Lord knows I don't. I hate t' have a job what I know from the start I'm goin' t' botch, but the Lord's got t' take the consequences if He calls 'pon me. 'T warn't any of my doin's, the Lord knows that!"

Bluff Head was closed, whether for the season or not Janet did not care. From the region of the barns James B.'s voice came, singing a hymn, but Eliza Jane had either gone for the day or for altogether. Janet ran around to the cellar window, keeping the house between her and the barns. The window still swayed inward to her touch! The long skirts and new womanhood retarded movement somewhat, but the agile body had not forgotten its cunning. In a minute or two Janet stood in the vacant library. She drew in long breaths. Eliza Jane had aired the room well, but there was a hint of tobacco smoke still. Upon a stand was a vase of golden rod, yellow and vivid amid the rich coloring.

"Some people leave a house a great deal lonelier than others," whispered the girl; "it will never be quite the same."

Devant's presence, his vital personality seemed near and potent. She and he had been reading a book together in that early summer time before guests had appeared to disturb the quiet happiness; she would go back to the book and begin alone what they had eagerly pursued in company. Janet went to the bookcase; the book was gone and its neighbors were leaning over the vacant space endeavoring to conceal its absence. Failing to find the volume, the girl went to the table and took up, one by one, the magazines and books which covered it.

"Ah!" she said suddenly, "I have you!" Under a pile, near Devant's leather chair, was what she sought, a copy of Bacon's Essays. Devant had taken a curious interest in leading this untutored girl into all manner of paths and bypaths. It was a never-failing delight to him to watch her crude but keen gripping of the best from each. Alone now, and with a shadow across the path where once companionship and pleasure had borne part, she took the Essays to the deep window, raised the sash, and nestled down to what comfort was hers.

As was ever the case, the subject caught her fancy and in seeking the pearl she forgot the effort. Presently she was aware of a key grating in the lock of the hall door. Eliza Jane was, perhaps, returning; or more likely James B. had an errand inside. Janet raised her eyes. From her nook she could see distinctly through the hall. The outer door opened, and in came Mr. Devant. He had apparently walked from the station, and was unexpected by the caretakers. He had been, without doubt, on the train with Mark but had taken a longer path from the station, or had dallied by the way. For a moment Janet feared he might be followed by the girl she most dreaded or Thornly,—perhaps both. But Devant was alone. He closed the door after him, hung his coat and hat upon the rack, and came directly to the library. His keen eyes saw Janet at once.

"History is never tired of repeating itself!" he cried with a laugh. Outwardly he was rarely taken off his guard. "The surest way of getting you here," he went on, "is evidently for me to go away. Don't you like me any more?"

He lounged against the heavy table and folded his arms. He was looking at the lovely face beneath the vivid cap. The first impression of the girl's beauty was always puzzlingly startling. Devant had noticed that sensation before; after a moment it grew less confusing.

"I like you." Janet dropped her eyes, recalling the day upon the Hills. Devant had met her repeatedly since that morning and had always been jovial and easy in his manner, but the recollection intruded itself at every meeting.

"Perhaps you like me at a distance, but object to my company?"

"I object to some of them!" A wan smile flitted across the uplifted face.

"Well, I am alone now;" Devant nodded cheerfully. "Alone and likely to be. I'm going to remain all winter, perhaps, Janet; you must teach me ice boat sailing and let me into all the other debaucheries of the place." He came near the window and looked out toward the barns. Then he called:

"Mr. Smith!" James B. showed his rough, red head at the barn door.

"Yes!" he called back.

"I ran down to-day, instead of to-morrow. If Mrs. James B. can come up this afternoon and get me a dinner, I'll be much obliged."

"I'm sorry,"—James B. expectorated musingly,—"but she's gone t' get beach plums."

"All right," Devant returned cheerfully, "I'll starve then. Saxton won't be down until to-morrow."

"That so?" James B. had returned to his work unconcernedly.

"Why, this is dreadful!" Janet could but smile at Devant's indifferent face. "I suppose you couldn't cook for yourself even if you were starving. I wonder if I might do something for you now?"

"Take no trouble,"—Devant waved her back,—"I took precautions before I left town, and Mrs. James B. will be over as soon as she hears I'm home. I'm getting initiated. What are you reading, Janet?"

"The Essays. I found the place where we left off. They're rather dry, but I like them."

"When you do not like a really good thing," Devant said, going to his easy-chair, "read it until you do. Bring the book here, child! I haven't read aloud since you and I were alone before."

Janet arose, and as she did so something dropped at her feet. She stooped to pick it up, looked a bit surprised and confused, and slipped it into her blouse.

"What was that?" Devant asked.

"My—" Janet paused; "it was my mother's picture! I always carry it in my waist now. I dropped it."

"May I see it?"

"Cap'n Daddy said"—how long ago it seemed—"that I had better not show it, it seems as though she belonged just to Cap'n Billy and me. But then you are different. I think Cap'n Billy would not mind if you saw her. She was so pretty!" Janet came to the table, laid the book upon it, and then drew—two photographs from her blouse!

"Why!" she exclaimed, turning pale and stepping back, "why! I'm—I'm—why, something has happened. Look here!"

She extended her hands, and in both was the likeness of the dead Past! Identical they were! Both well preserved and arisen to face this man and young girl at God's own time! How shrivelled the memory of the grim error was! How weird and pitiful it arose against the youth and beauty of the vital creature who with outstretched arms challenged him to explain the black mystery!



"This—is—my—mother! I must have dropped one picture from the book. What do you know of my mother?"

It was only a palpitating question, but to Devant it bore the awful condemnation of outraged girlhood.

"My God!" he gasped, taking the photographs from her. "My God!" There could be no mistake. Both had been taken from the same negative!

Old Thorndyke had lied then! This girl, with her memory-haunting, elusive beauty, was—he sank back and stared at her. No: it could not be! Whatever the meaning was, he dared not think that she was his daughter! If Thorndyke had lied once, he probably had many times. There may not have been a child; but that would have been a senseless invention—and Thorndyke was not the man to waste his energies. Perhaps the first child had died. Perhaps there had never been a marriage such as Thorndyke had said. That might easily have happened, and then the mother could have drifted back to the dunes with her pitiful secret hidden forever. Her marriage with Cap'n Billy, in that case, might have resulted quite naturally. So dense was the darkness that Devant dared not move. He was afraid he might bring down upon this innocent girl a shame that in nowise concerned her.

"How came you to have a picture of my mother?" Janet's eyes were gray-black. An answer she would have, and her heart demanded truth. She saw Devant's panic and it filled her with sensations born upon the instant.

"I knew her when she was a girl. A girl like that!" He nodded toward the photographs as they lay side by side upon the table where Janet had placed them.

"Where?" The relentless voice was hard and cold.

"Here, and later in the city!"

"Did"—Janet paused and bent forward, her tense face burning and eager—"did you love her?" Why this question was wrung from her, the girl could not have told. It was in her heart and would have its way.

"No." Devant's voice was husky, but he would save the future from the clutch of the past, if it were in his power to do so.

"But she loved you!" For the life of him, the man could not face his accuser. His eyes dropped.

"I know! I know! You need not tell me. That is the reason she let you keep her picture!" She swayed. For the first time in her vigorous, young life Janet felt faint. Devant sprang toward her.

"Don't, please!" she cried, recovering herself almost at once and turning toward the door; "I'm going to my Cap'n Billy!"

"Janet!" He tried to stay her. He had much to say, if only he knew how to say it. She might be going to—what? An awful danger seemed to yawn at her innocent feet, but his early sin forbade his interference.

"I'm going to my Cap'n Billy!" There was no backward glance. Devant heard the outer door close; then he sank in his chair and bowed his head upon the two photographs.

"Where your mother went before you!" he groaned. "Poor little flotsam and jetsam!"



CHAPTER XI

"There goes Janet like a shot from a gun!"

"Whar?" Davy and Mark were hauling oil up to the lamp. They stood upon the little balcony, and had a good view of the girl as she ran like a wild thing over the stretch of ground between the lighthouse and the wharf.

"Ho! Janet!" shouted Davy, leaning over the railing. "What's got ye? Ain't ye goin' t' wait fur dinner—an' me?"

Janet paused, and the face she turned up to the balcony moved the hearts of both men to alarm.

"I cannot wait!" she called back. "I'm going to Cap'n Daddy!" Then a thought caused her to add, "Don't either of you come after me! I want nobody but my Cap'n Billy."

"Now, what's knocked her endwise?" groaned Davy, staring blankly at Mark.

"Like as not she's been gettin' a cargo that she don't fancy, up to Bluff Head." Mark's face was drawn with pity. "I come down on the train with Mr. Devant. Maybe he's set her straight 'bout that Land-lubber-of-the-Hills!"

Poor Davy, detached by his duties and environments from the common gossip of his kind, bent a puzzled look upon his companion.

"Land-lubber-of-the-Hills? What in the name o' Sin be ye talkin' of?"

"Don't you know what they say 'bout her?" asked Mark, his dull eyes fixed on the sail of the Comrade, as it put off from the dock.

"No. I ain't never had time, above my duties, to do more'n sleep an' eat," David replied. "But I've got time now t' stand up fur that girl yonder, if any consarned gossip takes t' handlin' her name lightly. That girl's put in my care by Billy, an' Billy an' me have stood by each other through many a gale. An' now, Mark Tapkins, I'd like t' hear what ye've got t' say out plain an' unvarnished. I don't want no gibin'. I only got one way o' hearin' an' talkin'." Mark drew back from the calm, lowering face of the keeper.

"Nation!" he gasped, "you don't think I'm agin her, do you, Davy?"

"I ain't carin' whether ye be or no. Like as not, if she's shook ye, yer full of resentment. Them is young folks' ways. But fur or agin her, if ye can harbor scandal about Billy's Janet, ye've got t' share it with me what knows how t' strangle it fust an' last. Spit it out now!"

Mark drew himself together with a mighty effort. Recent events were wearing upon his vitality.

"They say, Janet is mixed up 'long with a feller what painted her, over on the Hills!" he spoke as guiltily as though he alone were responsible for the report.

"Who says so?" Davy's bushy eyebrows almost hid his kindly eyes.

"Well, Mrs. Jo G. fur one!"

"Ye can't knock a woman down. Ain't there some one else that I kin begin on?"

"Well, it's kind o' common talk. Floatin' round like eelgrass up the creek. I s'pose it's sunk int' some kind of bottom of fact, as t' who started the rumor, but it's jest slippin' around now, on top."

"'T is, hey? Well, 't ain't the fust time I've clutched eelgrass an' tore it from its muddy bottom. That gal," Davy pointed a trembling finger dune-ward, where the Comrade was bobbing over the roughening water,—"that gal ain't goin' t' be soiled by any slime if I know it. She b'longs t' Billy an' me, an' by thunder! we can sail her bark fur her when her little hand grows tired on the tiller!"

Mark was wiping his eyes. Davy had made him feel himself a blackguard, but he could not see just where he had erred. Davy, however, took small heed of Mark.

"I'm goin' down t' get dinner!" he said suddenly, "an' I ain't goin' t' foller, 'cause she's goin' t' Billy an' there ain't no call I should inflict myself on 'em. But I'm goin' visitin' in the village this afternoon,"—he nodded ominously,—"I'm goin' t' pay up some o' my funeral calls. I hope I ain't goin' t' cause any more funerals, but it all depends on how bad the disease is!"

Mark's inclination was to hold Davy back from his march of devastation, but he felt his impotence.

"Onct you put Davy on the scent," he whimpered, as he listened to the keeper's departing footsteps, "you might as well give up. Davy's a turrible one fur runnin' down the game. Nation! I hope he won't fall foul o' Maud Grace an' fling her at her mother!" The cold perspiration rose to Mark's forehead. "Nation! I wish I hadn't mentioned Mrs. Jo G. I wish t' gracious I'd laid the hull blamed business t' Pa, fur Pa kin stand it bein' so soft-like."

Janet reached the dunes in good time, but the distance had never seemed so long before. The throbbing, hurt heart outstripped the faithful little Comrade doing its best before the favoring wind. Every tack seemed a mile, and a fever rose in the blood of the silent girl at the tiller.

She had time to think. She had time to grow old during that passage. One figure stood out alone from the confused tangle—her mother! Around that form much centred! She must know all—all, about her mother.

She must not break upon Billy with her startling news. Billy was so easily driven into an impenetrable silence! She must draw him out by old familiar methods and not frighten him into caution. By the time the Comrade was fastened to the Station wharf, the girl had got herself well in hand. The men of the crew who were not sleeping were engaged indoors, a lonely stillness brooded over all. Janet went up to the government house and looked in at the open door facing the ocean.

"Where's Cap'n Billy?" she asked. The two men, preparing food at the table, raised their eyes with no surprise, and Captain Jared Brown replied:

"Isterin'." Then with a huge clasp knife he opened a can of tomatoes, raised it to his lips and drained the contents. Tomatoes were Jared's only dissipation.

"Has he been gone all day?" Janet waited until the empty can was set down.

"The better part of it." The man wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"Does he have a patrol to-night?"

"No! no!" Jared began to show an interest.

"I'm going to surprise him. Don't let on, Jared, if you see him. Who is in the lookout?"

"John Thomas."

Janet went to the stairway.

"John Thomas!" she called up, "don't let on to Cap'n Billy that I'm here."

"I don't report no derelicts!" shouted John from aloft. John Thomas was an unsmiling humorist and the idol of the undemonstrative crew. He had seen the girl's approach and was ready with his answer.

Then Janet went across the sand hill to Billy's little house. Inside all was as neat and trim as a ship's cabin. Billy ate with the men at the Station, but the tiny kitchen was ready for Janet whenever she came as, also, was the orderly bedchamber beyond the living room. Billy kept to his lean-to, when away from the government house. The rooms were too stifling for the girl. She could not bear the loneliness that only empty houses have; she went out and sat upon the sand dune on the ocean side. It was never lonely in the big open world! Presently small things caught and held her excited mind. Far out a sail was passing beyond the bar, and away—where? Then a gull swooped low in wide free circles, and passed—whither? Closer at hand, the stiff grass, stirred by the wind, made perfect circles upon the white sand. Deeper and deeper the grass cut until there were little ditches, and then the sand fell in, and the patient grass, guided by the unseen power, began again. Janet's unrest found peace in these small happenings. This was home. Safety and Billy would soon come and gather her into the strong stillness of love!

"I told him I was afraid of the city folks; and he laughed!" she whispered, "but they've caught, or they have nearly caught, Billy's poor fish!" She flung her head up with an air of defiance. Whatever came, she must meet it as Billy had taught her to meet the storms of childish passion.

Suddenly she became aware of a sound behind her. She turned, and there was Billy! The surpriser was taken by surprise.

"My Cap'n!" Janet rushed to him and flung her arms about him.

"Hold there!" he cried, "I'm all over isters, Janet; isters an' eelgrass an' water!"

"Never mind, Cap'n Daddy, you are you! I am never going to leave you. I've come home!" In her raptures she had shaken Billy's hat off, and now stooped to pick it up. "I'm going to be an oysterer myself, or some other man-thing that will help. But, Cap'n Daddy, I'm going to tie up close to you!"

Billy was in nowise deceived by this loving outburst. He had kept guiltily away from the girl with the knowledge he knew he must impart to her some day. Mark Tapkins had informed him of the artist's departure; and that, together with Susan Jane's death and funeral, had given Billy, never before cowardly, a time of grace. But he knew that his girl had come to him in some trouble. Every expression of the dear face was known to him, and he was ready to throw out the line of help as soon as the signal was sure.

"Janet," he said, "I'll fetch a mess of somethin' from the Station an' we'll take it together. You lay out the table same as ye use t'. Ye might happen t' like t' fry up some isters. I've had oncommon luck; an' ye allus sot considerable store by the first isters."

"The very thought of them makes me hungry! Hurry, Cap'n Daddy; I want you right close!"

Billy was not gone long, and when he returned the two made ready the evening meal. They tried to be gay, but between the attempts at merriment each was watching the other.

The sun went down behind the Hills and Davy's Light sprang to its duty on the Point. Billy got up stiffly, lighted the little glass lamp and set it upon the table amid the dishes of food from which neither he nor Janet had ravenously eaten.

"We must rid up," said Billy, eyeing the disorder; "once yer done with food, 'tain't a pleasant sight hangin' around." When this was finished Janet drew her chair close.

"Cap'n Daddy!" No longer could the girl hold herself in check. "Cap'n Daddy, I've got something to tell you!"

Billy's heart smote him as he looked at the pretty head, bowed now upon the folded arms. He put out his rough hand and smoothed the ruddy hair.

"Steady," he murmured, "'tain't no use t' lose heart, Janet. I done wrong not t' give ye a clearer chart t' sail by, but ye'll get int' smooth waters agin, please God!" How little he realized her true trouble!

Janet tried to still her sobs, but they eased the strain and she sobbed on, while Billy made the most of the time to take up his neglected task.

"It was just the kind of shoal yer little bark was like t' steer fur," he went on, never raising his hand from her dear head, "an' I oughter have told ye. I allus have thought that most of us would keep off rocks an' shoals if we knowed they was there. Janet, I've got t' tell ye somethin' 'bout yer mother! It oughter come to ye from a woman, God knows, but there ain't no likely woman t' hand, an' I must do my best. She, yer mother, was powerful 'fraid ye might wreck yerself on the same kind o' reef what she struck. She wanted ye should be a boy 'long o' that fear, but she 'lowed if ye were a girl, I was t' tell ye in time if I saw danger, an', Janet, I ain't done my duty!" Billy's voice was hoarse from intense feeling.

"Cap'n Daddy!" Janet's voice shook with sobs. "Don't you blame yourself. You're the one perfect thing I have in my life. I know it now; I always knew it, and I never wanted to leave you."

"Shuttin' yer eyes from danger ain't strength-givin', Janet; keep a watch out, an' be ready. That's what life means." His voice drew the girl from the shelter of her arms, she looked steadily at him through wet lashes. "Janet, yer mother sunk 'long o' lovin' a man—a man—well, like him—on the Hills!"

"What!" The girl bent forward and the fire of her passion dried the tears from the troubled eyes. She would hold her news back. Billy had the right of way.

"Yes, yes." Billy let go his grip of the present. He forgot the girl opposite, and her personal claim upon him. He was back in his own youth, and in arms to defend the one woman of his love, while of necessity he must use her against herself.

"'T ain't no harm in lovin', if love on both sides means right. Mary—that was her name—Mary was cursed, yes, cursed, with a handsome face an' a lovin' little heart what she didn't know how t' steer true. That's what she always stuck t' later, that eddication would have teached her t' know better. She was the heartsomest gal that ever was raised in these parts. Her an' Susan Jane was 'bout as friendly as any, an' I will say fur Susan Jane, that with all her cantankerousness, she stood by Mary. David an' me never sot our fancy on any one but Susan Jane an' Mary; an' Davy an' me warn't doomed t' happiness! Least, not in our own way, though 't was give t' us both t' help when everythin' else failed. Mary, she went t' the city an' took a place in a store. She had ambitions t' soar an' be somethin' different. Once or twice she came home all dressed up t' kill, an' lookin' like jest nothin' but a picter. An' once I went t' the city jest t' see her. I took special care o' my get-up, knowing how much Mary sot by such things. I thought I was all right till I reached the town; then it broke on me like a clap o' thunder that I was about as out o' place there as a whale in a fresh-water lake. Mary was real upset 'bout my comin' onexpected an' lookin' so different to city folks, an' she out an' out told me 't warn't no use, she was bein' courted by a city man as was rich, an' goin' t' make a real lady of her."

Poor Billy's weather-beaten face twitched under the lash of the old memory which had never lost its power over him. Janet did not take her eyes from him, nor did she break the spell by a word of hurry or question. Presently Billy went on.

"An' then—she came back here! Davy, he brought her across the bay after dark one evenin'. No one on the mainland knew. When I went on the midnight patrol she met me—an' told me!"

"Told you what?" No longer could Janet hold the question back. She knew Billy's method of going around a dangerous spot, and her womanhood and daughterhood demanded all.

"'Bout him in the city!" The past misery shook Billy's voice. "He—he didn't marry her! He went away an' left her! The poor little wrecked soul came back here, havin' no other harbor in all God's world, an' she knew she could trust me an' the love I allus had fur her. Her faith steered her true! She didn't want t' let me take the course I laid out; she said it wasn't fair t' me. Lord! not fair t' me! She never would tell me his name. She wanted t' forgit everythin'. It made her shiver t' talk, even, of the city. She didn't want no help 'long o' him who had deserted her, an' I never pestered her none. Then I—married her. Davy, he backed me up, an' he an' Susan Jane went t' Bay End an' saw us married. Susan Jane kept her visitin' over at the Light till I took her, calm an' easy-like, t' the parson, an' most folks never guessed the real truth. An' then we come over here fur a little while, such a little while! I never seen a more grateful critter than she was. She never seemed t' take int' 'count the joy 't was fur me to serve her an' chirp her up. I fixed the little place fur her, an' I took my traps t' the lean-to so as t' give her plenty o' room, an' by an' by, like it sometimes happens after a stormy, lowerin' day, the sun bu'st through, an' toward the close the glory seemed right startlin'. I can see her face a shinin' now every time I shet my eyes. An' she grew that wise an' far-seein' that it made me oneasy. 'T warn't nateral, an' she such a soft little thin'!" Billy passed his rough hand over his dry, hot lips. "Then you come, an' she slipped her moorin's."

The two were staring dumbly, sufferingly, at each other. Billy saw the agony he had awakened and his heart sank within him. After a moment of silent doubt, Janet arose and stood in front of Billy, laying her cold hands upon his shoulders. There was no need for her news now!

"My Cap'n," she whispered, with a fervor Billy had never heard in her voice before; "my Cap'n, I am a woman, a woman like my mother. Tell me, as true as heaven, am I your Janet and hers?" Billy's deep eyes pleaded for mercy, but the woman before him would not relent. There was a heartrending pause, then:

"No, ye ain't! God help us, ye ain't! But He's let me love ye like ye was—an' that's been my reward."

Janet shut her eyes for a moment and clung to Billy. In that space of time it was given to her to see a way to redeem the past. When she opened her eyes, the misery was gone. She was smiling, and there was no mist between her and Billy. She went beside him and drew his shaggy head upon her strong breast as a mother might have done; then she bent and kissed him.

"Dear, dear Cap'n Daddy! I see it all. My mother was wondrous wise when she took you for her pilot. Oh! my Daddy—for you are my father. In all the world there never was such a father! We'll cling close, Daddy, won't we, dear? Nobody shall ever come between us, promise that, oh, promise it!"

"As God hears, never!" Poor Billy broke under the load of love and gratitude, and bowed his head upon the table. But the girl, her face glowing with a strange radiance, did not loosen her hold; she bent with him.

Had Billy been more worldly-wise, he might have suspected that this vehemence had root in something beside filial love, but Billy was never one to question a gift from God. Whenever his simple soul, chastened by suffering and earnest endeavor, took courage, he always thanked heaven and returned to his common tasks. When he looked up now, the old calm had settled upon his face.

"An' so, Janet," he said, "ye can tell me free an' easy 'bout that painter-chap over t' the Hills!" The girl started. "I know all 'bout him," soothed Billy, "an' I don't hold it agin ye that ye let me think it was a woman painter. Them is young folks' ways, an' ye didn't lie, Janet, ye jest didn't tell straight out. But Mark an' me, we had our eyes 'pon ye, an' was lookin' out fur yer interest." Billy paused for breath. "In yer future dealin' with the painter-man, Janet, jest do 'cordin' to yer new light. I ain't goin' t' worry or fret. Ye allus was one t' act clear headed if ye had hold o' facts."

Janet dropped upon Billy's knee and hid her face against his. From such a shelter she could speak more freely; but oh! how different the confession was from what it once might have been!

"It was the first time I ever deceived you, Cap'n Daddy. I hated myself for it. But, Daddy, he never cared for me—in that way, dear! He cares only for his beautiful pictures. He used me to help him with them, it was I who did not know the difference, just at first. Even after I knew, I wanted to have a share, but, Daddy, dear, women cannot help in that way, more's the pity—or mercy! I see it all very, very clearly now; but, dear,"—here a kind of fierceness shook the low voice,—"he is not like—the one who broke my mother's heart! You and I must remember that. When I wanted to help him, no matter what any one thought, he would not let me! He saved me from myself. I understand it now, and I shall bless him while I live. I—I flung myself at him, Daddy, but he went away because he was too noble to hurt me!"

"He did that?" Billy held the girl close and smiled radiantly.

"Yes, yes; he did that!"

Billy recalled his and Mark's visit to the hut, and a feeling of shame stilled all further confession. He, as well as Janet, was beginning to understand.

"It seems like the clouds has lifted, Janet, an' I'm thinkin' there'll never be no more 'twixt us."

"Never! dear, dear Daddy!" the girl hugged him to her.

"I ain't been so happy an' care free fur years, Janet. It seems like we've cleared the decks, not fur action so much as smooth sailin'!"

"That's it, Daddy, smooth sailing. Just you and I to the very end!"

"Come, Janet, we must get t' bed. We'll sleep on all this new happiness. Yer room's ready; 't was her room fust. She said over an' agin that it was a safe harbor. An' so 't is, Janet, so 't is, an' allus shall be fur whatever was hers! Good night, child, an' God bless ye! If yer only fair-minded ye can see that ye don't get any more storms on yer voyage than is good fur ye."

That night Janet lay wide-eyed and sleepless upon her mother's bed. Her fancy wandered far and her young blood coursed hotly through her veins; but always she came trustfully back to the thought of Billy's patient love and courage; and it gave her heart to face the future, whatever it might be.



CHAPTER XII

The master of Bluff Head had the disconcerting impression borne in upon him that the getting ready for winter at Quinton had a moral and spiritual significance, as well as a physical one. He felt a cold exclusion round about him, as if the good people did not quite know what to do with him. He belonged to the summer. For him and others of his world they had braced for action and thawed out to the extent of making him feel he was not intruding, while occupying his own house. But they resented his prolonged stay and necessary infringement upon their well-earned liberty. Not that Devant imposed his presence upon them—he rigidly observed a decent dignity—and he was more than willing to pay a high price for any service he required; but James B., while accepting large wages, fretted under the necessity of holding to a sure thing, while a vague possibility lay outside.

James B. had learned, in his secret way, that Captain Billy had been told, when he went for the physical examination at Bay End in September, that his heart wasn't up to the requirement. A lesser man would have been dropped from government duty with such a handicap as that, but the physician, knowing Billy and his steady life and good record, passed him for another year.

James B., like a vulture, had been hoping for a place on the crew for many a day. The hope gave an excuse for idleness. Eliza Jane knew Billy's symptoms and was willing to countenance James B.'s indifference to other business propositions of a steady nature, while that possibility of the crew was apparent. However, there was no reason why James B. should not turn a penny in a temporary way at Bluff Head, while waiting; and that Eliza Jane insisted upon.

"But," sighed James B. as Mr. Devant stayed on, "if he would only go, then like as not Eliza Jane would let up on me 'bout laborin' while I'm waitin'."

This state of affairs became known to Janet through the tactless remarks of Mark Tapkins. She went at once to Billy to find out exactly what the doctor had said. Billy, from the highest moral position, prevaricated nobly, and left the girl with the impression that the condition of the suspected heart was really very desirable.

"It's this way," he explained, "all hearts is tricky, an' once ye know the tricks, why, there ain't no danger. It's like knowin' the weak p'ints of a vessel, ye ain't goin' t' strain the weak p'ints, once ye know 'em, an' like as not the vessel'll last twice as long as a seemin' sound boat. Don't ye fret, Janet, James B. can loaf a considerable spell, if it's my goin' he's dependin' 'pon. An' no one more'n James B. will be thankfuller fur my hangin' on."

Davy's funeral calls had had a beneficial effect upon the community. More than one woman said afterward that it looked as if Susan Jane's mantle had fallen upon Davy's shoulders.

"He said t' me!"—and Mrs. Jo G.'s catlike eyes glittered,—"he said as how t' his mind a gossiper was like a jellyfish, sort o' slimy an' transparent, an' when you went t' clutch it, it stung! I asked him right out flat footed what he meant, an' he told me t' think it over!"

More than Mrs. Jo G. thought Davy's words over, and, as a result, turned their attention to getting ready for the winter.

The oyster boats dotted the bay. The wood was piled near the kitchen doors, and the Methodist minister, with a sigh of relief, came down from the mental pinnacle upon which he had endeavored during the summer to attract strangers, and preached sermons from his heart to the hearts of the Quintonites. A donation party was in the air, too, and the needy pastor grew eloquent along generous, ethical lines.

Eliza Jane, in a detached and injured manner, continued to cook up at Bluff Head. The master, feeling that at least he paid for the necessity, ate in peace; but Saxton, who fell between the aristocracy of Devant's ideas and the Quintonite ideal, suffered cruelly from his plebeian position. Only a vague hope of city life and pleasures held him to his position. And Devant was undecided as to what he should do. Thornly had not "looked him up" after seeing Katharine. Indeed, that rigid young man had sailed, within the week, for Point Comfort, and Devant, fearing to meet Katharine alone, had hurried back to Bluff Head, there to be confronted by his Past in a most crushing manner. So unlooked for and appalling was the resurrected ghost, that it had stunned him and left him unable to act. He feared to make a false move and waited for Janet to point out the way. But the girl remained upon the dunes with Billy, and the bay seemed an impassable barrier between them and Bluff Head.

To go to Billy and demand the sequel to the pitiful story of Mary Andrews's life was out of the question. Mr. Thorndyke was long since dead, and had left no papers nor books to help any of his clients in their affairs. While he lived, he had served them faithfully, according to his light; but he felt that in dying he cancelled all obligations. Suppose Mary Andrews had gone to Captain Billy with her secret buried from sight, who was he that he should deal the faithful man at the Station a blow that might end his life—surely, his trust and peace? But Janet! There was the awful doubt. Thorndyke had said there was a child, had he spoken true? If there were a child, was it that beautiful girl of the Station? Devant's blood ran hotly, as he thought upon his belief in heredity. Might it not be himself, instead of the poor mother, who was accountable for the Pimpernel?

"Good God!" he muttered; "what would I not do for her? Train that keen mind, so apt and greedy! Fit her for a high place and, in small measure, redeem the brutal past! Give her perhaps—to Thornly!"

This thought stayed him. It might be by that power he would prevail—if only he were sure!

He was standing before the mirror, tying his cravat, as these thoughts ran through his tortured mind. Suddenly his hands dropped at his sides and he strained his eyes at the reflection that met him. First it was the color of the eyes that held and amazed him; then an expression at once familiar and baffling. Was his own face, for the first time in his life, becoming known to him? Or was the face of that girl of the dunes crowding all other faces from his vision? Once, when first Janet's beauty had stirred him, he had noticed her perfect ears set close to her head. The ears were shell shaped and pink. The left ear, near the lobe, had a curious inward curve, unlike the right—a fascinating defect that added to, rather than detracted from, the beauty. It was like a challenge to attract attention. Devant now observed his own left ear. There, in coarser fashion, was the same mark! Through familiarity it had, before, passed unnoticed, now it forced itself upon his consciousness like a witness for the truth! Slight as these things were, they turned the strong man weak. He dropped into a chair and rang for Saxton.

"Bring me some coffee," he said; "make it yourself, and make it strong."

"Yes, sir. And if it ain't presuming, I would like to say that there is more than the coffee what is weak, sir. The cookin' here ain't what you're used to, sir. The club table, or that at the hotel, is more nourishing." Saxton had put in his suggestion, and went his way comforted.

The coffee braced the shaken nerves, and again Devant went to his mirror as to a friend. The color of the eyes had changed. Janet's eyes were never so pale and dull. The complexion was grayish white—the haunting likeness was gone—but the curious curve of the left ear stood in bold evidence and called for recognition in the final reckoning.

"A thousand might have the same!" thought the troubled man; but he had never noticed it but twice in all his long life!

After breakfast that day he went for a walk in the scrub oaks. He dared not go to the lighthouse, but he saw no reason why he should not walk upon the path leading to it. The damp sodden leaves sent up a pungent odor as his feet crushed them. A smell of wood smoke was mingled with the salt air from off sea; it was a perfect late autumn day, with a warning of winter in its touch.

Devant walked slowly with bowed head; he was pondering as to what he should do in the future. His life had never seemed more useless than it now appeared with the glaring doubt in his mind. Suddenly he was aware of some one approaching, and he raised his eyes hopefully. It was Janet, and the breeze, lifting her hair from her face, left the little ear exposed. It was that upon which the man's gaze rested!

"Good morning," said the girl, "I was coming to Bluff Head." Janet was the one more at ease. Her struggle had been along clearer lines.

"Going up to read?" asked Devant uneasily; "the library is yours, my child." The last words had a possible significance that was well-nigh heartbreaking to the man.

"No: I—I want to say something—to you! I did not seem to be able to come before." A rare dignity touched the girl. Her womanhood appeared to have taken on a queenly attribute; but the language of this new womanhood was still to learn. She had spent the night at the Light, and the latter part of it she had shared Davy's watch. Together they had "freshened up" from the little balcony, and the calmness of the stars and David's philosophy had set their seal upon her. She was brave and tolerant. She had chosen her path, and with the courage of the dunes she was ready to tread it wherever it might lead.

"Shall we walk on?" asked Devant. It was easier than to stand still. So they slowly turned and went toward Bluff Head.

"I know,"—the even voice fell to a whisper,—"I have just found out that—that Cap'n Billy is not my real father!"

Devant staggered under the blow. The terse directness, a part of the girl's nature and training, was embarrassing to the man of the world.

"You are sure of that?" he asked, when he could control his voice.

"Yes."

"Do—do you know who your real father is?"

Janet looked fearlessly up into the haggard, eager face.

"Yes: I know."

"Who told you?"

"Cap'n Billy told me that he is not my father; he does not know who my father is. My mother was very faithful to you, and to him! He told me how she came to him—afterward! She did not want Cap'n Billy to save her his way,—she thought it was not fair to him, but Cap'n Billy had but one kind of love! He married her, and he took care of her! You don't know how cruel these people can be to—to girls like my mother, but Cap'n Billy knew, and he saved her!" The dark eyes were blazing.

"Be less hard, my child," groaned Devant, turning his face away; "God knows, I have suffered!" Janet paid small heed to the words, or to the man beside her.

"At the last," she went on bravely, "they were happy in a beautiful way for a little while. Then she died! But I was left, and Cap'n Billy loved me, and cared for me. He was father, mother, playmate, everything to me!" The eyes softened, and the girl turned and faced her companion. "And," she breathed hoarsely, "you and I must keep him from ever knowing the rest!"

"The rest?" Devant asked slowly.

"Yes. About you. I am not doing this only because I love him better than anything else on earth. I am doing it for my mother! It is all that she and I can do for him. Will you promise?"

Devant leaned against a tree. Motion was no longer possible. Janet stood in the path and waited. The brute instinct arose in the man's heart. This was his child! In doing for her lay the only expiation possible for him in the world. What were the claims of that man over on the dunes compared to his, should he powerfully press them? What if Captain Billy had given his life to the doing of a duty belonging to another? The Tempter now took on a virtuous, unselfish guise. Think what the girl's life might be! Could any true love, even such stupid love as Billy might bear her, stand in the way? No; Billy would be the first to relinquish his hold upon her!

With the calm, steady, waiting eyes upon him, Devant dared not urge his first claim of parentage. He would appeal to her reason.

"This is hardly a question for you to put to me," he said. "I must see Captain Billy and talk to him man to man."

"What for?" There was a dangerous light in the girl's eyes. "Because you have suffered for the wrong you did, you think you can ease your conscience by confessing to Cap'n Billy, and making him suffer again?" Devant stared at her.

"You think it is for myself?" he asked.

"Who then?"

"Why, for you! Can you not see what it would mean to you?" Janet drew back.

"You—you want to do things for me? You who left my mother to die?" A fine scorn shook the low voice.

"My God! do not be so hard. Only because you are young and blind can you speak so heartlessly. Do you not see, it is because I cannot do for her, that I want now to do for you? I want it with all my soul for her sake, as well as yours! I wish to undo, as well as I can, the bitter wrong." Devant moaned.

"Cap'n Billy did that for you, long ago. Your silence must be his reward!" Janet's face shone.

"Can you conceive," asked Devant hoarsely, "what you are giving up?"

"Yes." Now the shining eyes were misty. "Over on the dunes, after Billy told me and I had chosen my course, I did think of the other way, just as I used to imagine things when I was a lonely little girl, impossible things, you know! I thought of books, and knowledge, and of the great beautiful world, and all the soft, pretty things that I know I should love. I did not think or imagine in my fancy that you would want to give them to me; but now that I know that, it doesn't make any difference. Every time I think of my Cap'n Billy, nothing else matters!" Two large tears rolled down the uplifted face.

Devant felt himself baffled, and anger arose within him.

"Suppose," he said hoarsely, "suppose I could offer you—Thornly's love?"

The stab was cruel, and the wound smarted. Under the soft, brown skin the color died away, and the eyes widened and deepened.

"That is no gift of yours!" she whispered proudly; "and I know now what happens to girls like my mother and me when we—forget!"

Devant recoiled. Then a shame humbled and stung him.

"Do not judge him by me!" he said.

"I do not." The words were hardly above a whisper. "But you know, and he knows, there is a bar between us, and we must sail wide, if we would not be wrecked. He would not hurt me, nor let me hurt myself. That is why he went away!"

"But," and Devant was himself again, broken, beaten, but himself, "if Captain Billy should ever leave you—should die, you understand? Will you not promise to send for me? When you are older, you will judge less harshly. Will you promise to let me come next to Captain Billy?" He stretched out his hands, pleadingly. Janet hesitated for a moment, then she placed her slim, brown hands in his.

"I do not know. How can I tell? I thank you, but I cannot see any further than Cap'n Billy! Good bye."

"Good bye, my child!" Their hands dropped, and they went their ways.

Janet was not permitted to reach the Light without further trouble. The day was doomed to be freighted with heavy cares. In the depths of the scrub oaks she came upon Mark Tapkins, sitting upon a log and looking as nearly tragic as he, poor, slow fellow, could look. When he heard Janet, he raised his heavy eyes to her face.

"I've been waitin' fur you," he said. "I saw you talkin' t' Mr. Devant as I came cross lots. I've got t' tell you!"

"Tell me what, Mark?" The girl thought another outburst of love was coming and it seemed such a shabby, poor little thing, in the gloom of recent happenings. And yet this roused her pity. It was so much to Mark, and it was his most sacred offering. She should not despise it.

"'Bout Maud Grace!" Janet started. So it was not herself after all!

"What is the matter with her now?" she asked.

"She's gone!"

"Gone where?"

"The nation only knows!"

"Well, Mark, I never have understood your interest in Maud Grace. You couldn't act more devoted, if you were her lover, except in that case you would not have gone on that foolish hunt for her boarder."

Janet was impatient. She wanted to get away over to the dunes, to peace and Billy.

"When Maud gets ready, she'll come home. Doesn't her mother know?"

"Janet, you've got t' stay an' listen!"

"Mark, I'm tired. I cannot help any; I want to go home."

"You've got t' listen!" Mark repeated doggedly; and as the girl took a step forward, he caught her skirt in his trembling fingers. "First I took an interest 'cause—'cause I thought I loved you, an' I didn't want you smirched!" The words were flung out desperately, and they had the desired effect. Janet started and then stood rigidly intent.

"Smirched?" she repeated slowly, "what do you mean?" And yet as she asked the question, light was borne in upon her,—light that had had its origin in the awakened womanhood.

"I kind o' guess you know what I mean, Janet; an' I wish t' the Lord I had let you help frum the start. There ain't another soul as I kin go t' here until it's too late t' do fur Maud Grace—not a soul but you! An' God knows, I don't understand how it is I kin hope from you; but I kin! I jest kin! You won't be hard, fur all you don't love Maud Grace much. I know true as heaven, you'll be gentle t' her now, when you wasn't before!" The poor fellow's face was distorted and quivering, but he had no need to hold Janet. She had come close and was resting her hand upon his bowed shoulder.

"Mark!" she whispered, "you mean—you mean?"

The man nodded dumbly.

"And, of course, they would all turn upon her! They do not seem to know any reason for showing mercy. Oh! I do understand." The dark eyes blazed; then softened under a mist as memory recalled the pitiful story of that other Quinton girl; and Mrs. Jo G.'s kindness that black night when she, Janet, was born. But now there was no Cap'n Billy to pilot this sad little wreck.

"I don't know what t' do!" moaned Mark, covering his face with his thin, rough hands. "I can't bear t' think of her driftin' off, Lord knows where; an' I don't b'lieve she's got a cent, an' even if she walked t' the city, she can't never git him."

"No!" Janet was thinking quick and hard. "When did she go?"

"She went 'fore breakfast, an' she told her little sister t' tell her mother she'd gone t' you!"

"To me?"

"Yes. An' course that was just t' spar fur time."

"Of course! Well, Mark, we must find her, and then—she may stay with me!" Janet drew herself up very straight and there was defiance in her action and expression. "Are any of the boats gone?"

"Lord knows!" shivered Mark, "but she wouldn't try a boat. She can't sail fit fur anythin'. She's got the fear so many down here has—fur the water. Don't you remember?" But the suggestion brought a new agony to the poor fellow. "Whatever made you think of a boat?" he said.

Suddenly a further knowledge, born of the new womanhood, almost blinded Janet. This simple fellow, suffering at her feet, had never loved her! She had but led him far afield in some strange fashion. He had always loved the missing, giddy girl; and this awful trouble had driven the dense fog away forever! In the clear view, Janet's heart arose in sympathy.

"You love her, Mark?" she whispered, "oh! I understand." The man looked at her stupidly, clasping and unclasping his bony fingers.

"Do I?" he said brokenly; "I thought 't was you! As God hears me, I thought 't was you! But now this has happened 'long of the—the poor little thing, it's kinder knocked me down. I allus felt sorry fur her! You had so much an' she had, what you might say, nothin'. I allus was a master hand fur wantin' t' help, an' when I saw you driftin' off t' the Hills, I wanted t' help you, an' I thought I loved you! An' now I want t' help her. I'm poor shucks, Janet, an' not over keen; but I'm fairly full of trouble now!" He bowed his head, and the big tears splashed upon his rough hands.

In all the past Janet had never so respected him as she did at that moment. Almost reverently, she touched the bent shoulder.

"It may not be too late, dear Mark," she comforted; "we'll find her, and all may be well. The best man I ever knew did what you may have to do, Mark. Forgive and forget, and let a great love have its way!"

The poor fellow could not see into the future. The remorseful past and the pain-filled present engulfed him.

"She use' t' want me," he groaned out, "'fore the boarders come! She use' t' come up t' Pa's an' act up real pert an' comical; maybe if she hadn't, I'd 'a' noticed her more! Ah! if I'd only been content t' see it then, I might have saved her. I was only up t' Maud Grace's limit, but I was allus a-thinkin' I was more, an' then when she took t' the boarders I got mad an', an'—"

Janet knelt upon the leaves and bent her head upon Mark's knees. Never in her life before had she so touched him, but she knew now that he and she were out in the open where no future misunderstanding would darken their way. He needed her and she needed him; and poor, lost Maud needed them both.

"Don't take on, Janet!" Mark touched the bright head, with clumsy, reverent hand, "'t warn't any fault of yours. I did all I could t' bring myself up to a p'int that I hoped I could reach you frum—but 't warn't in me. I was 'bout Maud Grace's limit, as I say, but I didn't want t' own to it, an' now," he gulped bravely, "'t ain't much of an offerin'! I'm a poor shote, but if I could, I'd use my wuthless life fur her. It's 'bout all I kin do."

"And it is the greatest thing on earth, Mark!" Janet smoothed the rough hand. "Maud will never come to you; you must bring her back and I will help you both. Go, Mark, go look at the boats! She had no money; she could not hope to walk far; in desperation she may have tried to get away by water."

Mark shook his head, but started obediently. Once he was out of sight, Janet turned into a side path, and ran like a mad thing to the lighthouse wharf. The Comrade was gone! And nowhere on the bay was the white sail visible! Janet raised her eyes and looked at the autumn sky. The calmness was ruffled near the horizon by ragged little clouds.

"The wind is changing," she murmured, "the oyster boats are coming in. There is going to be a wicked storm before nightfall." The bland sky seemed to give the lie to such reasoning, but the trained senses of the girl could not be deceived. She trembled as if the coming cold already touched her; her eyes widened, but her lips closed in a firmer line.

Away around the cove, she saw Mark putting out on the bay in one of James Smith's boats. He was reefed close and was making for the inlet, up Bay End way. He had discovered from afar the absence of the Comrade.

"If the men see the Comrade," Janet thought, "they will think I am aboard, and no one will worry—but oh! poor, frightened Maud!"

By two of the afternoon the autumn sky was storm-racked. The wind came up out of the sea with a fury and an icy chill. The oyster boats scurried homeward, and, afar, Mark's lonely sail was a mere streak of white in the dull gray.

"Nobody must see me!" Janet mused, clutching her hands close. "If they have seen the Comrade, they will think I am safe with Cap'n Daddy by now. If Maud's on the bay Mark will find her and bring her home!" With that thought the girl ran to the house.

Davy met her at the lighthouse door.

"Ye look like ye'd been blown from kingdom come!" he said; "by gum! this is a breeze. Had yer dinner?"

"Dinner? Oh! yes. I had dinner—all I wanted. I didn't mean to be so late, Davy, I meant to get your dinner!"

"Yer kinder pale round the gills, Janet." Davy looked keenly at the drawn face. "Maybe ye eat somethin' that didn't set right on yer stummick. Better take a spoonful of Cure All, Susan Jane allus thought considerable of that. I could 'a' sworn I saw the Comrade puttin' off this mornin'. I thought ye'd taken a flyin' trip to Billy. Seen anythin' of Mark?"

"Oh! yes. I nearly forgot, Davy, but Mark may not be here to-night. He's—he's got business over at Bay End."

"How did he go?" questioned Davy, "by train?"

"No! He went in one of James B.'s boats."

"He's a tarnal idiot t' do that in the face of this gale. He ain't no shucks of a sailor. John Jones come off frum the Station t'-day, an' he ain't over careful, bein' what ye might say half fish an' half dare-devil, but John, he started right back when he left an order fur me. Mark ought t' have knowed better. Janet, what is the matter with ye? Here hold on, gal, till I get that Cure All!"

Janet held on, and smiled feebly as Davy poured the burning liquid down her throat.

"Thanks!" she whispered presently. "I was mistaken, I did not eat any dinner. Davy, I am hungry. I always need my food, Davy; you know how I am." She was laughing nervously.

"Come on, then!" commanded Davy, eyeing her critically; "I ain't never seen ye so done up by goin' without one meal before. I believe yer threatened with 'spepsy, it comes now an' then, with that imptiness in the pit of yer stummick."

That night Janet tried to sleep in her little room, but the fury of the storm, and her heavy, anxious secret forbade an instant's rest. At last, about midnight, she dressed and went up to Davy. He was standing near the entrance of the lamp, and his tired face was drawn and pitiful.

"By gum!" he ejaculated when he saw the girl. "This wind comes straight frum Greenland's icy mountains, an' ain't losin' any of its temper as it comes. The waves could be seen over the dunes, long 'fore sundown; an' jest hear that."

"What is it, Davy?" Janet pressed beside him. "It sounds like some one knocking on the glass."

"An' so 't is, so 't is! Least it's birds. Poor, dumb things, blown on land an' makin' fur the Light. Bein' seafarers, like as not, they know the Light is t' guide 'em, an' they come t' what they think is safety. Poor, poor things! They beat the glass as if askin' fur mercy, an' shelter, an' here I be a-listenin' t' them knockin' themselves t' death an' unable t' help. If the good God takes heed of the sparrows what falls, He ain't goin' t' overlook the gulls; but 't ain't much comfort to think on that, when He lets 'em die, die right agin the Light. Gum! we ain't had anythin' like this since Tom Davis was caught in his skimmy over by the dunes twenty-five years back; least we haven't had anythin' like it as bad so early in the Fall."

"Come down, Davy," pleaded Janet, "don't stand and hear the poor birds beat themselves to death. To-morrow they will lie thick in the garden. Oh! it is a fearful gale! And Tom Davis was so near the dunes that night, wasn't he, Davy? When his boat went over, he could have waded ashore, only he did not know where he was—and the fog hid the Light; but every one knows about Tom Davis, and if a boat did go over, a—a person would try to wade ashore. Don't you think so, Davy, remembering, as he would, Tom Davis?"

"Ye got Mark on yer mind, eh?" Davy came down to the little sitting room and turned up the lamp wick. "Well, ye bet Mark put in somewhere 'fore this gale struck him. Tom Davis was different, he didn't take no precautions, ever. He was in his ilers an' boots when he went over, an' he wasn't reefed none. He wanted t' get here quick with a fair wind—if such a foul gale could be called fair. He wanted t' take part in a show down t' the church. But his time had come; an' the curtain went down on him out there alone in his water-sogged boots an' heavy iler coat! Tom Davis was born fur misfortin as the sparks fly up'ard. Him, with them boots an' ilers on, in a gale sich as that war!"

"Davy, what was that?" Janet clung to the keeper, her eyes dark and fear-filled.

"It sounded 'most like a human call, now didn't it?" said Davy, raising his head; "it's a gull, that's what it is, Janet. A more knowin' gull than the rest!"

"Are you sure, Davy? It could not be—anybody calling, could it?"

"Gosh! no, no. What do ye suppose any one would be callin' fur?"

"Why, if he were in danger."

"'T ain't anybody on the bay, Janet. City folks is gone, an' the Quintonites ain't chancin' a pleasure trip in this gale. Get downstairs, Janet; it's just possible some one's knockin' an' callin' below."

Janet waited for no second bidding. Down the iron stairs she ran, and never paused until she reached the lower door. This she opened cautiously, and braced herself against it to keep out further entrance of the terrific wind.

"Any one there?" she shouted. The noise of the storm alone replied.

"Any one outside?" Again she called. A soft something fell at her feet with a dull thud. It was a gull, broken winged, its life beaten out against the glass of the Light! Once again she shouted, "Any one there?"

On the wind came that strange, weird call that had frightened her in the tower. It rose and fell piteously, and passed on with the blast.

"I never heard that before to-night!" Janet murmured, as she forced the door shut; "it is new and awful!"

She went into the living room and lighted the fire. She would not try to sleep again. She made some coffee and carried it up to Davy; she dared not stay alone. For the first time in her life she was afraid and thoroughly unnerved.

That morning, before Davy had come from the lamp, there was a knocking on the outer door, and a pushing as well. Janet, coming down the stairs with the empty tray, saw the door open, and in the light of the gray, still morn, for the storm was past, she recognized Mark in a yellow oiler with a sou'wester nearly hiding his wet and ashen face.

"You found her?" The words broke from Janet like a sob.

"Not yet." Mark's voice was slow and weak. "We want Davy t' come an' help, soon as he can. An' can you let me have a cup o' coffee, Janet? I'm most done up. The—the Comrade is bottom up round by the P'int an' I—I guess she was bein' beaten toward home; but—but—"

Janet dropped the tray and ran to Mark; she drew him into the room and pushed him toward a chair.

"Sit down!" she said brokenly. "Sit down, you look as if you would drop. See, I have the coffee all ready; it will take but a minute." She hurried the preparation, and after she saw Mark gulp the strong, hot drink, she asked quietly, but with awe in her voice, "Can you tell me now, Mark?"

"There ain't much t' tell. When a boat's bottom up in such a gale as was a-blowin' last night, an' only a poor, little frightened gal was at the tiller, why—why there ain't, what you might say, anythin' t' tell."

Mark stared dully before him. He was tired and soul-weary. "She's got away fast enough this time, Janet," he went on drearily; "'t ain't likely any one will be troubled settlin' things fur her now."

"Don't! don't! Mark." Janet was crouching by his chair, her tear-filled eyes looking wildly at his dull, vacant face. "We, you and I, were trying, you know!"

"Yes; but it was uphill work, an' would have been wuss, like as not. 'T ain't easy settin' straight a botch like that. I guess this is the best way. Don't take on, Janet! Seems like she allus got the rough part, but you couldn't help that none. I guess you'd been the quickest one t' help her if she'd cried out t' you; but even you couldn't have helped much."

Janet heard again in fancy the weird call of the night.

"No; I could—not—help!" She shuddered. "Where are you going, Mark?"

"Back t' the bay. They're draggin' round by the P'int. Her father's there, an' some others. I found the Comrade 'fore daybreak an' got them up. If Davy can lend a hand, later, tell him t' come along; he was the one what found Tom Davis, they say. Davy seems to have a sense 'bout where t' look."

With his heavy oilskin coat hanging loose, and his head bowed, Mark went back to do all that could be done for poor Maud Grace.



CHAPTER XIII

Bluff Head was closed. The master had left word with Eliza Jane Smith that after his departure the house key should be delivered to Janet with a note of explanation.

The note reminded her that next to Captain Billy, he was the one upon whom she must call in case of need, and he left the library in her keeping with a list of books for study and recreation.

Snow was on everything, even on the new little grave in the desolate churchyard where poor Maud Grace and her pitiful secret slept. They had found the child late in the morning of that awful day succeeding the storm. In the small clinched left hand was a bit of water-soaked paper. No one but Mark had taken heed of it, but he guessed that it was the card which was to guide the girl to the man who had deserted her. Perhaps in that last hour of struggle and fear, she had taken it from its hiding place for comfort or, perhaps, to destroy it when hope was past. But it gave no clue. It was merely a wet pulp in a thin little rigid hand!

Mrs. Jo G. took her grief stolidly. It was not in her to cry out or moan, but she felt her loss and sought to explain the strange ending to the young life.

"'T was this way," she said to Eliza Jane Smith, "the boarders, an' all the life of the summer, had onsettled Maud Grace considerable. She wanted company all the time. She sort o' turned t' Janet, an', like as not, that mornin' she went t' the Light t' see her. Not findin' her, an' seein' the Comrade at the dock an' John Jones's boat puttin' back t' the Station, like Davy said he had done, Maud Grace just fixed it in her mind that Janet was with John Jones, an' so she took the Comrade an' went after them. Then when the wind came up, she lost her head, an' so—" Mrs. Jo G. at this juncture hid her face in her checked apron and silently rocked back and forth. She could not think of the night and storm, the lonely, frightened girl dashed hither and yon in the little boat, without breaking down. Life near the dunes was stern and the people had learned to accept calmly the storm and danger, but, just at first, it was always hard.

Mark Tapkins divided his time between his home and the Light, but no longer did he raise his eyes to Janet. Mark had got his bearings at last, and was steering his lonely way through sullen and bitter waters. Trouble had set a strange dignity upon him.

Davy, seeing others downcast, rose to tuneful heights. Not only the landings, but the house, the long flight of steps, and the windswept balcony and shining Light knew his cheerful songs.

"Singin' 's a might clarifyin' exercise," he said to Janet; "it opens the body an' soul, so t' speak, an' lets more'n the tune an' words out. The angels sing in glory, an' I mind how 't is said the mornin' stars sang together. So long as I've got a voice, I'm goin' t' sing, an' drown the sound of worse things." So Davy sang and guided many a sad thought into safer channels.

Over at the Station the crew patiently went through their routine. The short dark days passed with the monotony that was second nature to the brave fellows. Perhaps their greatest courage was displayed in their homely, detached lives. They cooked; they slept; they drilled and patrolled the beach. They talked little to each other; but they were ready for near and far-off duty, should a signal be displayed. Small wages repaid them for their faithful endurance; they were not permitted to add to their income by other labor, and they knew that when age or weakness overtook them the government they served as faithfully as any soldier could, would discard them for younger or stronger men. Nevertheless they bore their part uncomplainingly through deadly loneliness or tragic danger.

"It looks like it was goin' t' be a hard winter, settin' in so early an' so persistent," said Billy one day. Billy took more heed of the weather than did the others. The patrols tired him more now than they ever had before.

"Like as not!" agreed Jared Brown; "I saw a skim of porridge ice, this side the bar, as I turned in this mornin'."

Billy nodded.

"Janet comin' on this winter?"

"No, she's mostly goin' t' stay off. Davy needs her more'n I do, an' 't ain't no fit place over here for jest one woman."

"'T ain't that!" The smoke rose high between the men.

"Heard how Mark Tapkins seems t' feel Jo G.'s gal's death?"

"Yes! yes!"

"I thought once 't was your Janet."

"Well, 't warn't." Billy felt justified in this denial, though at one time he had thought so himself.

"There don't seem t' be any one likely fur Janet hereabouts. A little larnin' spiles a gal, Billy."

"Is them yer sentimints?"

"They be."

"Well, folks differ. Janet pleases me."

"Yes, but ye can't 'spect to handle Janet's craft forever. She's got t' rely 'pon her own sailin' some day."

"Like as not, but when that time comes, Janet'll take the tiller without any fuss. That's the way she's built."

"Like as not."

Over on the mainland, James B. was comfortably happy. With the closing of Bluff Head, his unmistakable duty ended. He could take no other job while waiting for Billy's delayed surrender, and he could loaf at the village store or sleep behind his own kitchen stove in virtuous comfort. He was at peace with the world and had no desire to see Billy resign from the crew in his favor.

Social functions grew apace as winter clutched the coast in real earnest. The donation party was a brilliant success—from the congregation's point of view. They had a good time and made deep inroads into the provisions they had brought, leaving the cleaning up for the minister's wife. Christmas festivities lightened the time, too, and for a space made the hard-working men and women as gay as little children. Several travelling entertainments later had shown a fraternal spirit and "stopped over" at Quinton. They were always generously patronized and left a ripple of excitement behind them. One inspired some of the young people of the place to start a dramatic society. It began with an energy that threatened to swamp all other social and religious functions. After many rehearsals a play was announced, and the entire population turned out in force. The play was given in Deacon Thomas's parlor, because that had a rear room opening into it that could be used as a stage, but one scenic touch in the stage property doomed the aspiring artists to defeat and the society to annihilation.

A donkey was required in the play. No one had genius nor ambition enough to create an entire one, but a very realistic head was constructed, and this, fastened to a broomstick and thrust forward at the psychological moment, produced a startling and thrilling effect. The audience was stirred to its depth. Most of the young people were either on the stage or behind the curtain; but the few who were in the audience broke into cheers, which were quickly quelled by Deacon Thomas, whose son John had led the applause. He bent forward and gripped Deacon Farley by the shoulder.

"Silas!" he said, "I don't see anythin' sinful in the speakin' part, but that animal is too much like a theayter!"

That was the battle cry of defeat. The "theayter," to Quinton, was as pernicious as a bullfight would have been to a Puritan.

Janet, who was accountable for the donkey head, felt a real disappointment in the downfall of the dramatic society. It had appealed to her artistic, imaginative nature. In it she saw a glimmer of enjoyment which all the other village pastimes lacked. She loved dancing, but, without knowing why, she disliked to dance with the young men of the place. With the yearning of youth for popularity and companionship she felt the growing conviction that she was outside the inner circle. Davy had closed the lips of idle gossipers, but even he was unable to open the hearts of suspicious neighbors. The girl longed to draw to herself human love and loyalty, but her every attempt failed.

"Davy," she said with a deep sigh, "I reckon I'm just a bungler. Everything I do seems wrong. I'm afraid,"—and here she grew dreamy,—"I'm afraid I'm like the poor poplars. I see over the dunes. I see too much, and I frighten others."

"'T ain't overwise, Janet," mused Davy through the tobacco smoke, "to get t' thinkin' what ye are an' what ye ain't. Let other folks do that. Jest be somethin'."

"Yes, yes, Davy, but what? Everything I try to be, I fail in." Janet thought of the chance that lay in the distant city and wondered if she would have failed there.

"Well, I allus take it," Davy replied, "that the good God gives us jest as much t' do as we're able t' do, an' He wants it well done. He ain't goin' t' chuck jobs around t' folks that ain't equal t' doin' well what they has in hand. Fur instance," Davy pointed his remark with the stem of his pipe, "ye ain't such an all-fired good housekeeper as ye might be!"

"I know it, Davy."

"An' yer clo'es, while they become ye like as not, have a loose look in the sewin' that might be bettered. The fact is, Janet, ye ain't pertikiler 'bout the fussin' things! An' it may be, yer way lies in perfectin' yerself in the fussin's of life."

"Oh! you dear Davy!" Janet was laughing above her inclination to cry. "I do believe you are right. I'm going to pay particular attention to the little fussy things. Dear knows! if I do them all well, I'll have little time for discontent." She stood up—she and Davy were in the living room, while Mark was doing duty aloft—and flung her strong, young arms above her head.

"Davy, I wish just once in my life I could—let myself go! I don't care much how, but just go! I'd like to take a ship out to sea, not the bay but the open, middle ocean, and go just where I pleased."

"Ye'd get wrecked fust thing!" broke in Davy.

"But I'd be doing something big until I got wrecked. Or I'd like to be alone on a great desert where I could shout and dance and sing, and no one would be there to call me mad."

"But ye'd be mad, jest the same." Davy was watching the flashing face uneasily. The gossip that had drifted to him had but strengthened his love and care for Billy's girl. He was a hardy support now, protecting this free nature from outer harm and inward hurt.

"No, no, Janet! Don't hanker arter the ocean nor the desert till ye know how t' handle yerself. Oceans an' deserts ain't no jokes fur greenhorns. I heard Mark say the bay was froze over. That don't happen often, so early as this."

"I'm going to get my ice boat out to-morrow, Davy. Life on an ice boat is life! A sailboat is not bad with a good wind, but you always have to take the water into your reckoning then. But the ice—ah! There is nothing there but you and the wind to consider!"

"An' holes!" Davy added.

"You're just an old pessimist, Davy." Janet laughed.

"Like as not!" Davy agreed. He hadn't an idea what a pessimist was, but he never wasted time inquiring as to the labels others attached to him.

* * * * *

That night, winter, in its grimmest sense, settled upon Quinton. The bay became a glistening roadway between the mainland and the dunes. Children on skates or in ice boats filled the short, cold days with laughter and fun. Sleighing parties flashed hither and yonder with never a fear of a crack or hole; and beyond the dunes the life crew kept a keener watch upon the outer bar. Chunky ice formed near shore, and the tides bore it inward and left it high upon the beach. Day by day it grew in height like a shining, curving line of alabaster, showing where the high-water mark had been. And upon a certain threatening day, John Thomas came off and stopped at the Light to have a word with Davy.

"He didn't want me t' say anythin' t' ye, but it don't settle on my mind as jest right not t'. Billy's had a spell!"

Davy pulled up his trousers; with him a sure sign of deep emotion.

"What kind?" he asked.

"Sort o' peterin' out. He was peelin' taters in the Station, when all of a suddint he sot down kinder forcible on a chair, dropped the knife an' tater, an' looked at me as if I'd done somethin' t' him. I ran crost t' him an' stood by, so t' speak. Then he kinder laughed an' said, distant an' thick, 'That was comical! I felt like my works had run down!' Billy ain't what he once was."

Davy set his lips in a grim line.

"He ought t' have a lighter job!" he muttered. "How is he now?"

"Oh! he's come round. But spells is spells an' yer got t' look out. Don't tell Janet; Billy was sot agin that, somethin' fierce."

"I don't know as Billy should want t' shield her more'n common sense p'ints. I feel she ought t' know. 'T ain't pleasant t' get a knock in the back of yer head; an' that's what Janet's goin' t' get some day about Billy."