His hand was outstretched toward the latch, when the young lady spoke again.

"Wait a minute," she said. "Perhaps I had better not wake him now."

"Just as you say. The pleasure is—or will be—entirely mine, I assure you."

"No—o. On the whole, I think I'll wait until later. I may call again. Good morning."

She moved across the threshold. Then, standing on the mica slab which was the step to the kitchen door, she turned to say:

"You didn't swim yesterday."

"No—o. I—I was busy."

"I see."

She paused, as if expecting him to say something further on the subject. He was silent. Her manner changed.

"Good morning," she said, coldly, and walked off. The assistant watched her as she descended the path to the cove, but she did not once look back. Brown threw himself into a chair. He had never hated anyone as thoroughly as he hated himself at the moment.

"What a cheerful liar she must think I am," he reflected. "She caught me in that fool yarn about meeting her brother here last summer; and now, after deliberately promising to teach her that stroke, I don't go near her. What a miserable liar she must think I am! And I guess I am. By George, I can't be such a cad. I've got to make good somehow. I must give her ONE lesson. I must."

The tide served for bathing about three that afternoon. At ten minutes before that hour the substitute assistant keeper of Eastboro Twin-Lights tiptoed silently to the bedroom of his superior and peeped in. Seth was snoring peacefully. Brown stealthily withdrew. At three, precisely, he emerged from the boathouse on the wharf, clad in his bathing suit.

Fifteen minutes after three, Seth Atkins, in his stocking feet and with suspicion in his eye, crept along the path to the edge of the bluff. Crouching behind a convenient sand dune he raised his head and peered over it.

Below him was the cove, its pleasant waters a smooth, deep blue, streaked and bordered with pale green. But the water itself did not interest Seth. In that water was his helper, John Brown, of nowhere in particular, John Brown, the hater of females, busily engaged in teaching a young woman to swim.

Atkins watched this animated picture for some minutes. Then, carefully crawling back up to the path until he was well out of possible sight from the cove, he rose to his feet, raised both hands, and shook their clenched fists above his head.

"The liar!" grated Mr. Atkins, between his teeth. "The traitor! The young blackguard! After tellin' me that he . . . And after my doin' everything for him that . . . Oh, by Judas, wait! only wait till he comes back! I'LL l'arn him! I'LL show him! Oh, by jiminy crimps!"

He strode toward the doorway of the kitchen. There he stopped short. A woman was seated in the kitchen rocker; a stout woman, with her back toward him. The room, in contrast to the bright sunshine without, was shadowy, and Seth, for an instant, could see her but indistinctly. However, he knew who she must be—the housekeeper at the bungalow—"Basket" or "Biscuit" his helper had said was her name, as near as he could remember it. The lightkeeper ground his teeth. Another female! Well, he would teach this one a few things!

He stepped across the threshold.

"Ma'am," he began, sharply, "perhaps you'll tell me what you—"

He stopped. The stout woman had, at the sound of his step, risen from the chair, and turned to face him. And now she was staring at him, her face almost as white as the stone-china cups and saucers on the table.

"Why . . . why . . . SETH!" she gasped.

The lightkeeper staggered back until his shoulders struck the doorpost.

"Good Lord!" he cried; "good . . . LORD! Why—why—EMELINE!"

For over a minute the pair stared at each other, white and speechless. Then Mrs. Bascom hurried to the door, darted out, and fled along the path around the cove to the bungalow. Atkins did not follow her; he did not even look in the direction she had taken. Instead, he collapsed in the rocking-chair and put both hands to his head.



CHAPTER X

THE BUNGALOW WOMAN

When, an hour later, the swimming teacher, his guilty conscience pricking him, and the knowledge of having been false to his superior strong within him, came sneaking into the kitchen, he was startled and horrified to find the lightkeeper awake and dressed. Mentally he braced himself for the battery of embarrassing questions which, he felt sure, he should have to answer. It might be that he must face something more serious than questions. Quite possible Seth, finding him absent, had investigated—and seen. Well, if he had, then he had, that was all. The murder would be out, and Eastboro Twin-Lights would shortly be shy a substitute assistant keeper.

But there were no embarrassing questions. Atkins scarcely noticed him. Seated in the rocker, he looked up as the young man entered, and immediately looked down again. He seemed to be in a sort of waking dream and only dimly conscious of happenings about him.

"Hello!" hailed the assistant, with an assumption of casual cheerfulness.

"Hey? Oh! how be you?" was Mr. Atkins's reply.

"I've been for my dip," explained Brown. "The water was fine to-day."

"Want to know!"

"You're up early, aren't you?"

"Hey? Yes, I guess likely I be."

"What's wrong? Not sick, are you?"

"No. Course I ain't sick. Say!" Seth seemed to take a sudden interest in the conversation, "you come straight up from the cove, have you?"

"Yes. Why?"

"You ain't been hangin' around outside here, have you?"

"Hanging around outside? What do you mean?"

"Nothin'. Why do you stand there starin' at me as if I was some sort of dime show curiosity? Anything queer about me?"

"No. I didn't know I was staring." The young man was bewildered by this strange behavior. He was prepared for suspicion concerning his own actions; but Seth seemed rather to be defending himself from suspicion on the part of his helper.

"Humph!" The lightkeeper looked keenly at him for a moment. Then he said:

"Well, ain't there nothin' to do but stand around? Gettin' pretty nigh to supper time, ain't it? Put the kettle on and set the table."

It was not supper time, but Brown obeyed orders. Seth went to cooking. He spoke perhaps three words during the culinary operations, and a half dozen more during the meal, of which he ate scarcely a mouthful. After it was over, he put on his cap and went out, not to his usual lounging spot, the bench, but to walk a full half mile along the edge of the bluff and there sit in the seclusion of a clump of bayberry bushes and gaze stonily at nothing in particular. Here he remained until the deepening dusk reminded him that it was time the lights were burning. Returning, he lit the lanterns and sat down in the room at the top of the left-hand tower to think, and think, and think.

The shadows deepened; the last flush of twilight faded from the western sky; the stars came out; night and the black silence of night shrouded Eastboro Twin-Lights. The clock in the tower room ticked on to nine and then to ten. Still Seth sat, a huddled, dazed figure in the camp chair, by the great lantern. At last he rose and went out on the iron balcony. He looked down at the buildings below him; they were black shapes without a glimmer. Brown had evidently gone to bed. In the little stable Joshua thumped the side of his stall once or twice—dreaming, perhaps, that he was again pursued by the fly-papered Job—and subsided. Atkins turned his gaze across the inlet. In the rear window of the bungalow a dim light still burned. As he watched, it was extinguished. He groaned aloud, and, with his arms on the railing, thought and thought.

Suddenly he heard sounds, faint, but perceptible, above the low grumble of the surf. They were repeated, the sounds of breaking sticks, as if some one was moving through the briers and bushes beyond the stable. Some one was moving there, coming along the path from the upper end of the cove. Around the corner of the stable a bulky figure appeared. It came on until it stood beneath the balcony.

"Seth," called a low voice; "Seth, are you there?"

For a moment the agitated lightkeeper could not trust his voice to answer.

"Seth," repeated the voice; "Seth."

The figure was moving off in the direction of the other tower. Then Seth answered.

"Here—here I be," he stammered, in a hoarse whisper. "Who is it?"

He knew who it was, perfectly well; the question was quite superfluous.

"It's me," said the voice. "Let me in, I've got to talk to you."

Slowly, scarcely certain that this was not a part of some dreadful nightmare, Seth descended the iron ladder to the foot of the tower, dragged his faltering feet to the door, and slowly swung it open. The bulky figure entered instantly.

"Shut the door," said Mrs. Bascom.

"Hey? What?" stammered Seth.

"I say, shut that door. Hurry up! Land sakes, HURRY! Do you suppose I want anybody to know I'm here?"

The lightkeeper closed the door. The clang reverberated through the tower like distant thunder. The visitor started nervously.

"Mercy!" she exclaimed; "what a racket! What made you slam it?"

"Didn't," grumbled Seth. "Any kind of a noise sounds up in here."

"I should think as much. It's enough to wake the dead."

"Ain't nobody BUT the dead to wake in this place."

"Yes, there is; there's that young man of yours, that Brown one. He ain't dead, is he?"

"Humph! he's asleep, and that's next door to dead—with him."

"Well, I'm glad of it. My nerves are pretty steady as a general thing, but I declare I'm all of a twitter to-night—and no wonder. It's darker than a pocket in here. Can't we have a light?"

Atkins stumbled across the stone floor and took the lantern from the hook by the stairs. He struck a match, and it went out; he tried another, with the same result. Mrs. Bascom fidgeted.

"Mercy on us!" she cried; "what DOES ail the thing?"

Seth's trembling fingers could scarcely hold the third match. He raked it across the whitewashed wall and broke the head short off.

"Thunder to mighty!" he snarled, under his breath.

"But what DOES—"

"What does? What do you s'pose? You ain't the only one that's got nerves, are you?"

The next trial was successful, and the lantern was lighted. With it in his hand, he turned and faced his caller. They looked at each other. Mrs. Bascom drew a long breath.

"It is you," she said. "I couldn't scarcely believe it. It is really you."

Seth's answer was almost a groan. "It's you," he said. "You—down here."

This ended the conversation for another minute. Then the lady seemed to awake to the realities of the situation.

"Yes," she said, "it's me—and it's you. We're here, both of us. Though why on earth YOU should be, I don't know."

"Me? Me? Why, I belong here. But you—what in time sent you here? Unless," with returning suspicion, "you came because I—"

He paused, warned by the expression on his caller's face.

"What was that?" she demanded.

"Nothin'."

"Nothin', I guess. If you was flatterin' yourself with the idea that I came here to chase after you, you never was more mistaken in your life, or ever will be. You set down. You and I have got to talk. Set right down."

The lightkeeper hesitated. Then he obeyed orders by seating himself on an oil barrel lying on its side near the wall. The lantern he placed on the floor at his feet. Mrs. Bascom perched on one of the lower steps of the iron stairs.

"Now," she said, "we've got to talk. Seth Bascom—"

Seth started violently.

"What is it?" asked the lady. "Why did you jump like that? Nobody comin', is there?"

"No. No . . . But I couldn't help jumpin' when you called me that name."

"That name? It's your name, isn't it? Oh," she smiled slightly; "I remember now. You've taken the name of Atkins since we saw each other last."

"I didn't take it; it belonged to me. You know my middle name. I just dropped the Bascom, that's all."

"I see. Just as you dropped—some other responsibilities. Why didn't you drop the whole christenin' and start fresh? Why did you hang on to 'Seth'?"

The lightkeeper looked guilty. Mrs. Bascom's smile broadened. "I know," she went on. "You didn't really like to drop it all. It was too much of a thing to do on your hook, and there wasn't anybody to tell you to do it, and so you couldn't quite be spunky enough to—"

He interrupted her. "That wa'n't the reason," he said shortly.

"What was the reason?"

"You want to know, do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, the 'Bascom' part wa'n't mine no more—not all mine. I'd given it to you."

"O—oh! oh, I see. And you ran away from your name as you ran away from your wife. I see. And . . . why, of course! you came down here to run away from all the women. Miss Ruth said this mornin' she was told—I don't know who by—that the lightkeeper was a woman-hater. Are you the woman-hater, Seth?"

Mr. Atkins looked at the floor. "Yes, I be," he answered, sullenly. "Do you wonder?"

"I don't wonder at your runnin' away; that I should have expected. But there," more briskly, "this ain't gettin' us anywhere. You're here—and I'm here. Now what's your idea of the best thing to be done, under the circumstances?"

Seth shifted his feet. "One of us better go somewheres else, if you ask me," he declared.

"Run away again, you mean? Well, I sha'n't run away. I'm Miss Ruth's housekeeper for the summer. I answered her advertisement in the Boston paper and we agreed as to wages and so on. I like her and she likes me. Course if I'd known my husband was in the neighborhood, I shouldn't have come here; but I didn't know it. Now I'm here and I'll stay my time out. What are you goin' to do?"

"I'm goin' to send in my resignation as keeper of these lights. That's what I'm goin' to do, and I'll do it to-morrow."

"Run away again?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why? WHY? Emeline Bascom, do you ask me that?"

"I do, yes. See here, Seth, we ain't children, nor sentimental young folks. We're sensible, or we'd ought to be. Land knows we're old enough. I shall stay here and you ought to. Nobody knows I was your wife or that you was my husband, and nobody needs to know it. We ain't even got the same names. We're strangers, far's folks know, and we can stay strangers."

"But—but to see each other every day and—"

"Why not? We've seen each other often enough so that the sight won't be so wonderful. And we'll keep our bein' married a secret. I sha'n't boast of it, for one."

"But—but to SEE each other—"

"Well, we needn't see each other much. Why, we needn't see each other any, unless I have to run over to borrer somethin', same as neighbors have to every once in a while. I can guess what's troublin' you; it's young Brown. You've told him you're a woman-hater, haven't you?"

"Yes, I have."

"Humph! Is he one, too?"

The lightkeeper's mouth was twisted with a violent emotion. He remembered his view of that afternoon's swimming lesson.

"He said he was," he snarled. "He pretends he is."

Mrs. Bascom smiled. "I want to know," she said. "Umph! I thought . . . However, it's no matter. Perhaps he is. Anyhow he can pretend to be and you can pretend to believe him. That'll be the easiest way, I guess. Of course," she added, "I ain't tellin' you what to do with any idea that you'll do it because I say so. The time for that is all past and gone. But it seems to me that, for once in my life, I'd be man enough to stick it out. I wouldn't run away again."

Seth did not answer. He scowled and stared at the circle of lantern light on the stone floor. Mrs. Bascom rose from her seat on the stairs.

"Well," she observed, "I must be gettin' back to the house if I want to get any sleep to-night. I doubt if I get much, for a body don't get over a shock, such as I've had, in a minute. But I'm goin' to get over it and I'm goin' to stay right here and do my work; I'm goin' to go through with what seems to be my duty, no matter how hard it is. I've done it afore, and I'll do it again. I've promised, and I keep my promises. Good night."

She started toward the door. Her husband sprang from the oil barrel.

"Hold on," he cried; "you wait a minute. I've got somethin' to say."

She shook her head. "I can't wait," she said; "I've got to go."

"No, you ain't, neither. You can stay a spell longer, if you want to."

"Perhaps, but I don't want to."

"Why not? What are you afraid of?"

"Afraid! I don't know as I'm afraid of anything—that is," with a contemptuous sniff, "nothin' I see around here."

"Then what are YOU runnin' away for?"

This was putting the matter in a new light. Mrs. Bascom regarded her husband with wrathful amazement, which slowly changed to an amused smile.

"Oh," she said, "if you think I'm runnin' away, why—"

"I don't see what else 'tis. If I ain't scart to have you here, I don't see why you should be scart to stay. Set down on them stairs again; I want to talk to you."

The lady hesitated an instant and then returned to her former seat. Seth went back to his barrel.

"Emeline," he said. "I'll stay here on my job."

She looked surprised, but she nodded.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said. "I'm glad you've got that much spunk."

"Yup; well, I have. I came down here to get clear of everybody, women most of all. Now the one woman that—that—"

"That you 'specially wanted to get clear of—"

"No! No! that ain't the truth, and you know it. She set out to get clear of me—and I let her have her way, same as I done in everything else."

"She didn't set out to get clear of you."

"She did."

"No, she didn't."

"I say she did."

Mrs. Bascom rose once more. "Seth Bascom," she declared, "if all you wanted me to stay here for is to be one of a pair of katydids, hollerin' at each other, I'm goin'. I'm no bug; I'm a woman."

"Emeline, you set down. You've hove out a whole lot of hints about my not bein' a man because I run away from your house. Do you think I'd have been more of a man if I'd stayed in it? Stayed there and been a yaller dog to be kicked out of one corner and into another by you and—and that brother-in-law of yours. That's all I was—a dog."

"Humph! if a dog's the right breed—and big enough—it's his own fault if he's kicked twice."

"Not if he cares more for his master than he does for himself—'taint."

"Why, yes, it is. He can make his master respect him by provin' he ain't the kind of dog to kick. And maybe one of his masters—his real master, for he hadn't ought to have but one—might be needin' the right kind of watchdog around the house. Might be in trouble her—himself, I mean; and be hopin' and prayin' for the dog to protect her—him, I should say. And then the—"

"Emeline, what are you talkin' about?"

"Oh, nothin', nothin'. Seth, what's the use of us two settin' here at twelve o'clock at night and quarrelin' over what's past and settled? I sha'n't do it, for one. I don't want to quarrel with you."

Seth sighed. "And I don't want to quarrel with you, Emeline," he agreed. "As you say, there's no sense in it. Dear! dear! this, when you come to think of it, is the queerest thing altogether that ever was in the world, I guess. Us two had all creation to roam 'round in, and we landed at Eastboro Twin-Lights. It seems almost as if Providence done it, for some purpose or other."

"Yes; or the other critter, for HIS purposes. How did you ever come to be keeper of a light, Seth?"

"Why—why—I don't know. I used to be in the service, 'fore I went to sea much. You remember I told you I did. And I sort of drifted down here. I didn't care much what became of me, and I wanted a lonesome hole to hide in, and this filled the bill. I've been here ever since I left—left—where I used to be. But, Emeline, how did YOU come here? You answered an advertisement, you told me; but why?"

"'Cause I wanted to do somethin' to earn my livin'. I was alone, and I rented my house and boarded. But boardin' ain't much comfort, 'specially when you board where everybody knows you, and knows your story. So I—"

"Wait a minute. You was alone, you say? Where was—was HE?"

"He?"

"Yes. You know who I mean."

He would not speak the hated name. His wife spoke it for him.

"Bennie?" she asked. "Oh, he ain't been with me for 'most two year now. He—he went away. He's in New York now. And I was alone and I saw Miss Graham's advertisement for a housekeeper and answered it. I needed the money and—"

"Hold on! You needed the money? Why, you had money."

"Abner left me a little, but it didn't last forever. And—"

"You had more'n a little. I wrote to bank folks there and turned over my account to you. And I sent 'em a power of attorney turnin' over some stocks—you know what they was—to you, too. I done that soon's I got to Boston. Didn't they tell you?"

"Yes, they told me."

"Well, then, that ought to have helped along."

"You don't s'pose I took it, do you?"

"Why—why not?"

"Why not! Do you s'pose I'd use the money that belonged to the husband that run off and left me? I ain't that kind of a woman. The money and stocks are at the bank yet, I s'pose; anyhow they're there for all of me."

The lightkeeper's mouth opened and stayed open for seconds before he could use it as a talking machine. He could scarcely believe what he had heard.

"But—but I wanted you to have it," he gasped. "I left it for you."

"Well, I didn't take it; 'tain't likely!" with fiery indignation. "Did you think I could be bought off like a—a mean—oh, I don't know what?"

"But—but I left it at the bank—for you. What—what'll I do with it?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. You might give it to Sarah Ann Christy; I wouldn't wonder if she was less particular than I be."

Seth's guns were spiked, for the moment. He felt the blood rush to face, and his fists, as he brandished them in the air, trembled.

"I—I—you—you—" he stammered. "I—I—you think I—"

He knew that his companion would regard his agitation as an evidence of conscious guilt, and this knowledge did not help to calm him. He strode up and down the floor.

"Look out," said Mrs. Bascom, coldly, "you'll kick over the lantern."

Her husband stopped in his stride. "Darn the lantern!" he shouted.

"S-sh-sh! you'll wake up the Brown man."

This warning was more effective. But Seth was still furious.

"Emeline Bascom," he snarled, shaking his forefinger in her face, "you've said over and over that I wa'n't a man. You have, haven't you?"

She was looking at his shirt cuff, then but a few inches from her nose.

"Who sewed on that button?" she asked.

This was so unexpected that his wrath was, for the instant, displaced by astonishment.

"What?" he asked. "What button?"

"That one on your shirt sleeve. Who sewed it on?"

"Why, I did, of course. What a crazy question that is!"

She smiled. "I guessed you did," she said. "Nobody but a man would sew a white button on a white shirt—or one that was white once—with black thread."

He looked at the button and then at her. His anger returned.

"You said I wa'n't a man, didn't you?" he demanded.

"Yes, I did. But I'll have to take part of it back. You're half a man anyhow; that sewin' proves it."

"Huh! I want to know. Well, maybe I ain't a man; maybe I'm only half a one. But I ain't a fool! I ain't a fool!"

She sighed wearily. "Well, all right," she admitted. "I sha'n't argue it."

"You needn't. I ain't—or anyhow I ain't an EVERLASTIN' fool. And nobody but the everlastin'est of all fools would chase Sarah Ann Christy. I didn't. That whole business was just one of your—your Bennie D.'s lies. You know that, too."

"I know some one lied; I heard 'em. They denied seein' Sarah Ann, and I saw 'em with her—with my own eyes I saw 'em. . . . But there, there," she added; "this is enough of such talk. I'm goin' now."

"I didn't lie; I forgot."

"All right, then, you forgot. I ain't jealous, Seth. I wa'n't even jealous then. Even then I give you a chance, and you didn't take it—you 'forgot' instead. I'm goin' back to the bungalow, but afore I go let's understand this: you're to stay here at the lights, and I stay where I am as housekeeper. We don't see each other any oftener than we have to, and then only when nobody else is around. We won't let my Miss Graham nor your Brown nor anybody know we've ever met afore—or are meetin' now. Is that it?"

Seth hesitated. "Yes," he said, slowly, "I guess that's it. But," he added, anxiously, "I—I wish you'd be 'specially careful not to let that young feller who's workin' for me know. Him and me had a—a sort of agreement and—and I—I—"

"He sha'n't know. Good-by."

She fumbled with the latch of the heavy door. He stepped forward and opened it for her. The night was very dark; a heavy fog, almost a rain, had drifted in while they were together. She didn't seem to notice or mind the fog or blackness, but went out and disappeared beyond the faint radiance which the lantern cast through the open door. She blundered on and turned the corner of the house; then she heard steps behind her.

"Who is it?" she whispered, in some alarm.

"Me," whispered the lightkeeper, gruffly. "I'll go with you a ways."

"No, of course you won't. I'm goin' alone."

"It's too dark for you to go alone. You'll lose the way."

"I'm goin' alone, I tell you! Go back. I don't want you."

"I know you don't; but I'm goin'. You'll fetch up in the cove or somewheres if you try to navigate this path on your own hook."

"I sha'n't. I'm used to findin' my own way, and I'm goin' alone—as I've had to do for a good while. Go back."

She stopped short. Seth stopped, also.

"Go back," she insisted, adding scornfully: "I don't care for your help at all. I'm partic'lar about my company."

"I ain't," sullenly. "Anyhow, I'm goin' to pilot you around the end of that cove. You sha'n't say I let you get into trouble when I might have kept you out of it."

"Say? Who would I say it to? Think I'm so proud of this night's cruise that I'll brag of it? WILL you go back?"

"No."

They descended the hill, Mrs. Bascom in advance. She could not see the path, but plunged angrily on through the dripping grass and bushes.

"Emeline—Emeline," whispered Seth. She paid no attention to him. They reached the foot of the slope and suddenly the lady realized that her shoes, already wet, were now ankle deep in water. And there seemed to be water amid the long grass all about her.

"Why? What in the world?" she exclaimed involuntarily. "What is it?"

"The salt marsh at the end of the cove," answered the lightkeeper. "I told you you'd fetch up in it if you tried to go alone. Been tryin' to tell you you was off the track, but you wouldn't listen to me."

And she would not listen to him now. Turning, she splashed past him.

"Hold on," he whispered, seizing her arm. "That ain't the way."

She shook herself from his grasp.

"WILL you let me be, and mind your own business?" she hissed.

"No, I won't. I've set out to get you home, and I'll do it if I have to carry you."

"Carry me? You? You DARE!"

His answer was to pick her up in his arms. She was no light weight, and she fought and wriggled fiercely, but Seth was big and strong and he held her tight. She did not scream; she was too anxious not to wake either the substitute assistant or Miss Graham, but she made her bearer all the trouble she could. They splashed on for some distance; then Seth set her on her feet, and beneath them was dry ground.

"There!" he grumbled, breathlessly. "Now I cal'late you can't miss the rest of it. There's the bungalow right in front of you."

"You—you—" she gasped, chokingly.

"Ugh!" grunted her husband, and stalked off into the dark.



CHAPTER XI

BEHIND THE SAND DUNE

"A fog last night, wasn't there?" inquired Brown. Breakfast was over, and Seth was preparing for his day's sleep.

"Yes, some consider'ble," was the gruff answer; then, more sharply, "How'd you know? 'Twas all gone this mornin'."

"Oh, I guessed, that's all."

"Humph! Guessed, hey? You wa'n't up in the night, was you?"

"No. Slept like a top all through."

"Humph! . . . Well, that's good; sleep's a good thing. Cal'late I'll turn in and get a little myself."

He moved toward the living room. At the door he paused and asked another question.

"How'd you—er—guess there was fog last night?" he inquired.

"Oh, that was easy; everything—grass and bushes—were so wet this morning. Those boots of yours, for example," pointing to the pair the lightkeeper had just taken off, "they look as if you had worn them wading."

His back was toward his superior as he spoke, therefore he did not see the start which the latter gave at this innocent observation, nor the horrified glare at the soaked boots. But he could not help noticing the change in Seth's voice.

"Wa—wadin'?" repeated Atkins faintly. "What's that you say?"

"I said the boots were as wet as if you had been wading. Why?"

"Wha—what made you say a fool thing like that? How could I go wadin' on top of a lighthouse?"

"I don't know. . . . There, there!" impatiently, "don't ask any more questions. I didn't say you had been wading, and I didn't suppose you really had. I was only joking. What IS the matter with you?"

"Nothin' . . . nothin'. So you was just jokin', hey? Ha, ha! Yes, yes, wadin' up in a lighthouse would be a pretty good joke. I—I didn't see it at first, you know. Ha, ha! I thought you must be off your head. Thought you'd been swimmin' too much or somethin'. So long, I'm goin' to bed."

But now it was the helper's turn to start and stammer.

"Wait!" he cried. "What—what did you say about my—er—swimming, was it?"

"Oh, nothin', nothin'. I was just jokin', same as you was about the wadin'. Ha, ha!"

"Ha, ha!"

Both laughed with great heartiness. The door shut between them, and each stared doubtfully at his side of it for several moments before turning away.

That forenoon was a dismal one for John Brown. His troublesome conscience, stirred by Seth's reference to swimming, was again in full working order. He tried to stifle its reproaches, tried to give his entire attention to his labors about the lights and in the kitchen, but the consciousness of guilt was too strong. He felt mean and traitorous, a Benedict Arnold on a small scale. He had certainly treated Atkins shabbily; Atkins, the man who trusted him and believed in him, whom he had loftily reproved for "spying" and then betrayed. Yet, in a way his treason, so far, had been unavoidable. He had promised—had even OFFERED to teach the Graham girl the "side stroke." He had not meant to make such an offer or promise, but Fate had tricked him into it, and he could not, as a gentleman, back out altogether. He had been compelled to give her one lesson. But he need not give her another. He need not meet her again. He would not. He would keep the agreement with Seth and forget the tenants of the bungalow altogether. Good old Atkins! Good old Seth, the woman-hater! How true he was to his creed, the creed which he, Brown, had so lately professed. It was a good creed, too. Women were at the bottom of all the world's troubles. They deserved to be hated. He would never, never—

"Well, by George!" he exclaimed aloud.

He was looking once more at the lightkeeper's big leather boots. One of them was lying on its side, and the upturned sole and heel were thickly coated with blue clay. He crossed the room, picked up the boots and examined them. Each was smeared with the clay. He put them down again, shook his head, wandered over to the rocking-chair and sat down.

Seth had cleaned and greased those boots before he went to bed the day before; Brown had seen him doing it. He had put them on after supper, just before going on watch; the substitute assistant had seen him do that, also. Therefore, the clay must have been acquired sometime during the evening or night just past. And certainly there was no clay at the "top of the lighthouse," or anywhere in the neighborhood except at one spot—the salt marsh at the inner end of the cove. Seth must have visited that marsh in the nighttime. But why? And, if he had done so, why did he not mention the fact? And, now that the helper thought of it, why had he been so agitated at the casual remark concerning wading? What was he up to? Now that the Daisy M. and story of the wife were no longer secrets, what had Seth Atkins to conceal?

Brown thought and guessed and surmised, but guesses and surmises were fruitless. He finished his dishwashing and began another of the loathed housekeeping tasks, that of rummaging the pantry and seeing what eatables were available for his luncheon and the evening meal.

He spread the various odds and ends on the kitchen table, preparatory to taking account of stock. A part of a slab of bacon, a salt codfish, some cold clam fritters, a few molasses cookies, and half a loaf of bread. He had gotten thus far in the inventory when a shadow darkened the doorway. He turned and saw Mrs. Bascom, the bungalow housekeeper.

"Good mornin'," said Mrs. Bascom.

Brown answered coldly. Why on earth was it always his luck to be present when these female nuisances made their appearance? And why couldn't they let him alone, just as he had determined to let them alone—in the future? Of course he was glad that the caller was not Miss Graham, but this one was bad enough.

"Morning," he grunted, and took another dish, this one containing a section of dry and ancient cake, Seth's manufacture, from the pantry.

"What you doin'? Gettin' breakfast this time of day?" asked the housekeeper, entering the kitchen. She had a small bowl in her hand.

"No," replied Brown.

"Dinner, then? Pretty early for that, ain't it?"

"I am not getting either breakfast or dinner—or supper, madam," replied the helper, with emphasis. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well, I don't know but there is. I come over hopin' you might. How's the stings?"

"The what?"

"The wasp bites."

"They're all, right, thank you."

"You're welcome, I'm sure. Did you put the cold mud on 'em, same as I told you to?"

"No. . . . What was it you wanted?"

Mrs. Bascom looked about for a seat. The rocker was at the opposite side of the room, and the other chair contained a garment belonging to Mr. Atkins, one which that gentleman, with characteristic disregard of the conventionalities, had discarded before leaving the kitchen and had forgotten to take with him. The lady picked up the garment, looked at it, and sat down in the chair.

"Your boss is to bed, I s'pose likely?" she asked.

"You mean Mr. Atkins? I suppose likely he is."

"Um. I judged he was by"—with a glance at the garment which she still held—"the looks of things. What in the world ARE you doin'—cleanin' house?"

The young man sighed wearily. "Yes," he said with forced resignation, "something of that sort."

"Seein' what there was to eat, I guess."

"You guess right. You said you had an errand, I think."

"Did I? Well, I come to see if I couldn't . . . What's that stuff? Cake?"

She rose, picked up a slice of the dry cake, broke it between her fingers, smelled of it, and replaced it on the plate.

"'Tis cake, ain't it?" she observed; "or it was, sometime or other. Who made it? You?"

"No."

"Oh, your boss, Mr.—er—Atkins, hey?"

"Yes. Considering that there are only two of us here, and I didn't make it, it would seem pretty certain that he must have."

"Yes, I guess that's right; unless 'twas some that washed ashore from Noah's Ark, and it's too dry for that. What on earth are these?" picking up one of the molasses cookies; "stove lids?"

Brown grinned, in spite of his annoyance.

"Those are supposed to be cookies," he admitted.

"Are they? Yes, yes. Mr. Atkins responsible for them?"

"No—o. I'm afraid those are one of my experiments, under Mr. Atkins's directions and orders. I'm rather proud of those cookies, myself."

"You'd ought to be. There, there!" with a smile, "I guess you think I'm pretty free with my criticism and remarks, don't you? You must excuse me. Housekeepin'—'specially the cookin' part—is my hobby, as you might say, and I was interested to see how a couple of men got along with the job. I mustn't set around and keep you from your work. You might want to make some more cookies, or somethin'."

The substitute assistant laughed aloud. "I wasn't thinking of it," he said; "but I shall be glad to make the attempt if it would afford you amusement."

Mrs. Bascom laughed, too. "I guess you're better natured than I thought you was," she observed. "It might amuse me some, I will admit, but I ain't got the time. I came to borrow some butter, if you've got any to spare. Down here we're as far from supplies as the feller that run the Ark I was mentionin', old Noah himself."

Brown took the bowl from her hands and went to the pantry to get the butter. When he turned again she was standing by the door, one hand hidden beneath her apron. She took the bowl with the other.

"Much obliged," she said. "I'll fetch this back soon's the grocery cart comes. Miss Graham made arrangements to have him drive across every Saturday. Or, rather, I arranged for it myself. Her head's too full of paintin' and scenery to think of much else. I tell her you can't eat an ile paintin'—unless you're born a goat. Good-by."

She went away. Brown chuckled and went on with his account of stock.

Seth "turned out" rather early that day. At half past one he appeared in the kitchen, partially dressed.

"Where in time is my shirt?" he demanded impatiently.

"Your what?"

"My shirt. I thought I took it off out here. Could have sworn I did. Guess likely I didn't, though. Must be gettin' absent-minded."

He was on his way back to the bedroom when his helper called.

"You did take it off out here," he cried. "It was on that chair there. I remember seeing it. Probably it has fallen on the floor somewhere."

Atkins returned, grumbling that the kitchen floor was a "healthy place to heave a shirt."

"Where is it?" he asked after a hurried search. "I can't find it nowheres. Didn't put it in the fire, did ye?"

"Of course I didn't. I saw it. . . . Why, I remember that woman's picking it up when she sat down."

"Woman? What woman?"

"That Baskin—Buskin—whatever her name is. The housekeeper at the bungalow."

"Was she—HERE?" Seth's question was almost a shout. His helper stared at him.

"Yes," he answered; "she was. She came to borrow some butter."

"To—to borrow—butter?"

"Why, yes. You didn't think I invited her in for a morning call, did you? Don't act as if you had been struck by lightning. It's not so very serious. We've got to expect some trouble of that kind. I got rid of her as soon as I could."

"You—you did?"

"Yes, I did. You should thank me. I am on duty during the day, and I suppose most of that sort of thing will fall on me. You're lucky. Our neighbors aren't likely to make many calls after dark. . . . What's the matter now? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Seth walked to the door and leaned against the post. Brown repeated his question. "What IS the matter?" he asked. "You act just as you did when I first happened into this forsak—this place. If you've got any more hideous secrets up your sleeve I'm going to quit."

"Secrets!" Atkins laughed, or tried to. "I ain't got any secrets," he declared, "any more than you have."

The latter half of this speech shut off further questioning. Brown turned hastily away, and the lightkeeper went into his bedroom and finished dressing.

"Find your shirt?" asked the young man an hour or so later.

"Hey? Yes, yes; I found it."

"In your room? That's odd. I could have sworn I saw it out here. Is that it you're wearing?"

"Hey? No. That was—was sort of s'iled, so I put on my other one. I—I cal'late I'll go over and work on the Daisy M. a spell, unless you need me."

"I don't need you. Go ahead."

The time dragged for John Brown after his superior's departure. There was work enough to be done, but he did not feel like doing it. He wandered around the house and lights, gloomy, restless and despondent. Occasionally he glanced at the clock.

It was a beautiful afternoon, just the afternoon for a swim, and he was debarred from swimming, not only that day, but for all the summer days to come. No matter what Seth's new secret might be, it was surely not connected with the female sex, and Brown would be true to the solemn compact between them. He could not bathe in the cove because Miss Graham would be there.

At four o'clock he stood in the shadow of the light tower looking across the cove. As he looked he saw Miss Graham, in bathing attire, emerge from the bungalow and descend the bluff. She did not see him and, to make sure that she might not, he dodged back out of sight. Then he saw something else.

Out on the dunes back of the barn he caught a glimpse of a figure darting to cover behind a clump of bushes. The figure was a familiar one, but what was it doing there? He watched the bushes, but they did not move. Then he entered the house, went upstairs, and cautiously peered from the back attic window.

The bushes remained motionless for some minutes. Then they stirred ever so slightly, and above them appeared the head of Seth Atkins. Seth seemed to be watching the cove and the lights. For another minute he peered over the bushes, first at the bathing waters below and then at his own dwelling. Brown ground his teeth. The light-keeper was "spying" again, was watching to see if he violated his contract.

But no, that could not be, for now Seth, apparently sure that the coast was clear, emerged from his hiding place and ran in a stooping posture until he reached another clump further off and nearer the end of the cove. He remained there an instant and then ran, still crouching, until he disappeared behind a high dune at the rear of the bungalow. And there he stayed; at least Brown did not see him come out.

What he did see, however, was just as astonishing. The landward door of the bungalow opened, and Mrs. Bascom, the housekeeper, stepped out into the yard. She seemed to be listening and looking. Apparently she must have heard something, for she moved away for some little distance and stood still. Then, above the edge of the dune, showed Seth's head and arm. He beckoned to her. She walked briskly across the intervening space, turned the ragged, grass-grown corner of the knoll and disappeared, also. Brown, scarcely believing his eyes, waited and watched, but he saw no more. Neither Seth nor the housekeeper came out from behind that dune.

But the substitute assistant had seen enough—quite enough. Seth Atkins, Seth, the woman-hater, the man who had threatened him with all sorts of penalties if he ever so much as looked at a female, was meeting one of the sex himself, meeting her on the sly. What it meant Brown could not imagine. Probably it explained the clay smears on the boots and Seth's discomfiture of the morning; but that was immaterial. The fact, the one essential fact, was this: the compact was broken. Seth had broken it. Brown was relieved of all responsibility. If he wished to swim in that cove, no matter who might be there, he was perfectly free to do it. And he would do it, by George! He had been betrayed, scandalously, meanly betrayed, and it would serve the betrayer right if he paid him in his own coin. He darted down the attic stairs, ran down the path to the boathouse, hurriedly changed his clothes for his bathing suit, ran along the shore of the creek and plunged in.

Miss Graham waved a hand to him as he shook the water from his eyes.

Over behind the sand dune a more or less interesting interview was taking place. Seth, having made sure that his whistles were heard and his signals seen, sank down in the shadow and awaited developments. They were not long in coming. A firm footstep crunched the sand, and Mrs. Bascom appeared.

"Well," she inquired coldly, "what's the matter now?"

Mr. Atkins waved an agitated hand.

"Set down," he begged. "Scooch down out of sight, Emeline, for the land sakes. Don't stand up there where everybody can see you."

The lady refused to "scooch."

"If I ain't ashamed of bein' seen," she observed, "I don't know why you should be. What are you doin' over here anyhow; skippin' 'round in the sand like a hoptoad?"

The lightkeeper repeated his plea.

"Do set down, Emeline, please," he urged. "I thought you and me'd agreed that nobody'd ought to see us together."

Mrs. Bascom gathered her skirts about her and with great deliberation seated herself upon a hummock.

"We did have some such bargain," she replied. "That's why I can't understand your hidin' at my back door and whistlin' and wavin' like a young one. What did you come here for, anyway?"

Seth answered with righteous indignation.

"I come for my shirt," he declared.

"Your shirt?"

"Yes, my other shirt. I left it in the kitchen this mornin', and that—that helper of mine says you was in the chair along with it."

"Humph! Did he have the impudence to say I took it?"

"No—o. No, course he didn't. But it's gone and—and—"

"What would I want of your shirt? Didn't think I was cal'latin' to wear it, did you?"

"No, but—"

"I should hope not. I ain't a Doctor Mary Walker, or whatever her name is."

"But you did take it, just the same. I'm sartin you did. You must have."

The lady's mouth relaxed, and there was a twinkle in her eye.

"All right, Seth," she said. "Suppose I did; what then?"

"I want it back, that's all."

"You can have it. Now what do you s'pose I took it for?"

"I—I—I don't know."

"You don't know? Humph! Did you think I wanted to keep it as a souveneer of last night's doin's?"

Her companion looked rather foolish. He picked up a handful of sand and sifted it through his fingers.

"No—o," he stammered. "I—I know how partic'lar you are—you used to be about such things, and I thought maybe you didn't like the way that button was sewed on."

He glanced up at her with an embarrassed smile, which broadened as he noticed her expression.

"Well," she admitted, "you guessed right. There's some things I can't bear to have in my neighborhood, and your kind of sewin' is one of 'em. Besides, I owed you that much for keepin' me out of the wet last night."

"Oh! I judged by the way you lit into me for luggin' you acrost that marsh that all you owed me was a grudge. I DID lug you, though, in spite of your kickin', didn't I?"

He nodded with grim triumph. She smiled.

"You did, that's a fact," she said. "I was pretty mad at the time, but when I come to think it over I felt diff'rent. Anyhow I've sewed on those buttons the way they'd ought to be."

"Much obliged. I guess they'll stay now for a spell. You always could sew on buttons better'n anybody ever I see."

"Humph!" . . . Then, after an interval of silence: "What are you grinnin' to yourself about?"

"Hey? . . . Oh, I was just thinkin' how you mended up that Rogers young one's duds when he fell out of our Bartlett pear tree. He was the raggedest mess ever I come acrost when I picked him up. Yellin' like a wild thing he was, and his clothes half tore off."

"No wonder he yelled. Caught stealin' pears—he expected to be thrashed for that—and he KNEW Melindy Rogers would whip him, for tearin' his Sunday suit. Poor little thing! Least I could do was to make his clothes whole. I always pity a child with a stepmother, special when she's Melindy's kind."

"What's become of them Rogerses? Still livin' in the Perry house, are they?"

"No. Old Abel Perry turned 'em out of that when the rent got behind. He's the meanest skinflint that ever strained skim milk. He got married again a year ago."

"NO! Who was the victim? Somebody from the Feeble-Minded Home?"

She gave the name of Mr. Perry's bride, and before they knew it the pair were deep in village gossip. For many minutes they discussed the happenings in the Cape Ann hamlet, and then Seth was recalled to the present by a casual glance at his watch.

"Land!" he exclaimed. "Look at the time! This talk with you has seemed so—so natural and old-timey, that . . . Well, I've got to go."

He was scrambling to his feet. She also attempted to rise, but found it difficult.

"Here," he cried, "give me your hand. I'll help you up."

"I don't want any help. Let me alone. Let me ALONE, I tell you."

His answer was to seize her about the waist and swing her bodily to her feet. She was flushed and embarrassed. Then she laughed shortly and shook her head.

"What are you laughin' at?" he demanded, peering over the knoll to make sure that neither John Brown nor Miss Graham was in sight.

"Oh, not much," she answered. "You kind of surprise me, Seth."

"Why?"

"'Cause you've changed so."

"Changed? How?"

"Oh, changed, that's all. You seem to have more spunk than you used to have."

"Humph! Think so, do you?"

"Yes, I do. I think bein' a lightkeeper must be good for some folks—some kind of folks."

"I want to know!"

"Yes, you better be careful, or you'll be a real man some day."

His answer was an angry stare and a snort. Then he turned on his heel and was striding off.

"Wait!" she called. "Hold on! Don't you want your shirt? Stay here, and I'll go into the house and fetch it."

He waited, sullen and reluctant, until she returned with the article of apparel in one hand and the other concealed beneath her apron.

"Here it is," she said, presenting the shirt to him.

"Thank you," he grumbled, taking it. "Much obliged for sewin' on the button."

"You're welcome. It squares us for your pilotin' me over the marsh, that's all. 'Twa'n't any favor; I owed it to you."

He was turning the shirt over in his hands.

"Well," he began, then stopped and looked fixedly at the garment.

"I see you've mended that hole in the sleeve," he said. "You didn't owe me that, did you?"

She changed color slightly.

"Oh," she said, with a toss of her head, "that's nothin'. Just for good measure. I never could abide rags on anybody that—that I had to look at whether I wanted to or not."

"'Twas real good of you to mend it, Emeline. Say," he stirred the sand with his boot, "you mentioned that you cal'lated I'd changed some, was more of a man than I used to be. Do you know why?"

"No. Unless," with sarcasm, "it was because I wa'n't around."

"It ain't that. It's because, Emeline, it's because down here I'm nigher bein' where I belong than anywheres else but one place. That place is at sea. When I'm on salt water I'm a man—you don't believe it, but I am. On land I—I don't seem to fit in right. Keepin' a light like this is next door to bein' at sea."

"Seth, I want to ask you a question. Why didn't you go to sea when you ran—when you left me? I s'posed of course you had. Why didn't you?"

He looked at her in surprise.

"Go to sea?" he repeated. "Go to SEA? How could I? Didn't I promise you I'd never go to sea again?"

"Was that the reason?"

"Sartin. What else?"

She did not answer. There was an odd expression on her face. He turned to go.

"Well, good-by," he said.

"Good-by. Er—Seth."

"Yes; what is it?"

"I—I want to tell you," she stammered, "that I appreciated your leavin' that money and stocks at the bank in my name. I couldn't take 'em, of course, but 'twas good of you. I appreciated it."

"That's all right."

"Wait. Here! Maybe you'd like these." She took the hand from beneath her apron and extended it toward him. It held a pan heaped with objects flat, brown, and deliciously fragrant. He looked at the pan and its contents uncomprehendingly.

"What's them?" he demanded.

"They're molasses cookies. I've been bakin', and these are some extry ones I had left over. You can have 'em if you want 'em."

"Why—why, Emeline! this is mighty kind of you."

"Not a mite," sharply. "I baked a good many more'n Miss Ruth and I can dispose of, and that poor helper man of yours ought to be glad to get 'em after the cast-iron pound-weights that you and he have been tryin' to live on. Mercy on us! the thoughts of the cookies he showed me this mornin' have stayed in my head ever since. Made me feel as if I was partly responsible for murder."

"But it's kind of you, just the same."

"Rubbish! I'd do as much for a pig any day. There! you've got your shirt; now you'd better go home."

She forced the pan of cookies into his hand and moved off. The lightkeeper hesitated.

"I—I'll fetch the pan back to-morrer," he called after her in a loud whisper.



CHAPTER XII

THE LETTER AND THE 'PHONE

The cookies appeared on the table that evening. Brown noticed them at once.

"When did you bake these?" he asked.

Atkins made no reply, so the question was repeated with a variation.

"Did you bake these this afternoon?" inquired the substitute assistant.

"Humph? Hey? Oh, yes, I guess so. Why? Anything the matter with 'em?"

"Matter with them? No. They're the finest things I've tasted since I came here. New receipt, isn't it?"

"Cal'late so."

"I thought it must be. I'll take another."

He took another, and many others thereafter. He and his superior cleared the plate between them.

Brown was prepared for questions concerning his occupation of the afternoon and was ready with some defiant queries of his own. But no occasion arose for either defiance or cross-examination. Seth never hinted at a suspicion nor mentioned the young lady at the bungalow. Brown therefore remained silent concerning what he had seen from the attic window. He would hold that in reserve, and if Atkins ever did accuse him of bad faith or breach of contract he could retort in kind. His conscience was clear now—he was no more of a traitor than Seth himself—and, this being so, he felt delightfully independent. If trouble came he was ready for it, and in the meantime he should do as he pleased.

But no trouble came. That day, and for many days thereafter, the lightkeeper was sweetness itself. He and his helper had never been more anxious to please each other, and the house at Twin-Lights was—to all appearances—an abode of perfect trust and peace. Every day, when Seth was asleep or out of the way, "working on the Daisy M.," the assistant swam to the cove, and every day he met Miss Graham there! During the first week he returned from his dips expecting to be confronted by his superior, and ready with counter accusations of his own. After this he ceased to care. Seth did not ask a question and was so trustful and unsuspecting that Brown decided his secret was undiscovered. In fact, the lightkeeper was so innocent that the young man felt almost wicked, as if he were deceiving a child. He very nearly forgot the meeting behind the sand dune, having other and much more important things to think of.

July passed, and the first three weeks of August followed suit. The weather, which had been glorious, suddenly gave that part of the coast a surprise party in the form of a three days' storm. It was an offshore gale, but fierce, and the lighthouse buildings rocked in its grasp. Bathing was out of the question, and one of Seth's dories broke its anchor rope and went to pieces in the breakers. Atkins and Brown slept but little during the storm, both being on duty the greater part of the time.

The fourth day broke clear, but the wind had changed to the east and the barometer threatened more bad weather to come. When Seth came in to breakfast he found his helper sound asleep in a kitchen chair, his head on the table. The young man was pretty well worn out. Atkins insisted upon his going to bed for the forenoon.

"Of course I sha'n't," protested Brown. "It's my watch, and you need sleep yourself."

"No, I don't, neither," was the decided answer. "I slept between times up in the tower, off and on. You go and turn in. I've got to drive over to Eastboro by and by, and I want you to be wide awake while I'm away. We ain't done with this spell of weather yet. We'll have rain and an easterly blow by night, see if we don't. You go right straight to bed."

"I shall do nothing of the sort."

"Yes, you will. I'm your boss and I order you to do it. No back talk, now. Go!"

So Brown went, unwilling but very tired. He was sound asleep in ten minutes.

Seth busied himself about the house, occasionally stepping to the window to look out at the weather. An observer would have noticed that before leaving the window on each of these occasions, his gaze invariably turned toward the bungalow. His thoughts were more constant than his gaze; they never left his little cottage across the cove. In fact, they had scarcely left it for the past month. He washed the breakfast dishes, set the room in order, and was turning once more toward the window, when he heard a footstep approaching the open door. He knew the step; it was one with which he had been familiar during other and happier days, and now, once more—after all the years and his savage determination to forget and to hate—it had the power to awaken strange emotions in his breast. Yet his first move was to run into the living room and close his helper's chamber door. When he came back to the kitchen, shutting the living-room door carefully behind him, Mrs. Bascom was standing on the sill. She started when she saw him.

"Land sakes!" she exclaimed. "You? I cal'lated, of course, you was abed and asleep."

The lightkeeper waved his hands.

"S-sh-h!" he whispered.

"What shall I s-sh-h about? Your young man's gone somewhere, I s'pose, else you wouldn't be here."

"No, he ain't. He's turned in, tired out."

"Oh, then I guess I'd better go back home. 'Twas him I expected to see, else, of course, I shouldn't have come."

"Oh, I know that," with a sigh. "Where's your boss, Miss Graham?"

"She's gone for a walk along shore. I came over to—to bring back them eggs I borrowed."

"Did you? Where are they?"

The housekeeper seemed embarrassed, and her plump cheeks reddened.

"I—I declare I forgot to bring 'em after all," she stammered.

"I want to know. That's funny. You don't often—that is, you didn't use to forget things hardly ever, Emeline."

"Hum! you remember a lot, don't you."

"I remember more'n you think I do, Emeline."

"That's enough of that, Seth. Remember what I told you last time we saw each other."

"Oh, all right, all right. I ain't rakin' up bygones. I s'pose I deserve all I'm gettin'."

"I s'pose you do. Well, long's I forgot the eggs I guess I might as well be trottin' back. . . . You—you've been all right—you and Mr. Brown, I mean—for the last few days, while the storm was goin' on?"

"Um-h'm," gloomily. "How about you two over to the bungalow? You've kept dry and snug, I judge."

"Yes."

"I didn't know but you might be kind of nervous and scart when 'twas blowin'. All alone so."

"Humph! I've got used to bein' alone. As for Miss Ruth, I don't think she's scart of anythin'."

"Well, I was sort of nervous about you, if you wa'n't about yourself. 'Twas consider'ble of a gale of wind. I thought one spell I'd blow out of the top of the tower."

"So did I. I could see your shadow movin' 'round up there once in a while. What made you come out on the gallery in the worst of it night afore last?"

"Oh, the birds was smashin' themselves to pieces against the glass same as they always do in a storm, and I . . . But say! 'twas after twelve when I came out. How'd you come to see me? What was your doin' up that time of night?"

Mrs. Bascom's color deepened. She seemed put out by the question.

"So much racket a body couldn't sleep," she explained sharply. "I thought the shingles would lift right off the roof."

"But you wa'n't lookin' at the shingles. You was lookin' at the lighthouses; you jest said so. Emeline, was you lookin' for me? Was you worried about me?"

He bent forward eagerly.

"Hush!" she said, "you'll wake up the other woman-hater."

"I don't care. I don't care if I wake up all creation. Emeline, I believe you was worried about me, same as I was about you. More'n that," he added, conviction and exultation in his tone, "I don't believe 'twas eggs that fetched you here this mornin' at all. I believe you came to find out if we—if I was all right. Didn't you?"

"I didn't come to SEE you, be sure of that," with emphatic scorn.

"I know. But you was goin' to see Brown and find out from him. Answer me. Answer me now, didn't—"

She stepped toward the door. He extended an arm and held her back.

"You answer me," he commanded.

She tried to pass him, but his arm was like an iron bar. She hesitated a moment and then laughed nervously.

"You certainly have took to orderin' folks round since the old days," she said. "Why, yes, then; I did come to find out if you hadn't got cold, or somethin'. You're such a child and I'm such a soft-headed fool I couldn't help it, I cal'late?"

"Emeline, s'pose I had got cold. S'pose you found I was sick—what then?"

"Why—why, then I guess likely I'd have seen the doctor on my way through Eastboro. I shall be goin' that way to-morrer when I leave here."

"When you leave here? What do you mean by that?"

"Just what I say. Miss Graham's goin' to Boston to-morrer, and I'm goin' with her—as far as the city."

"But—but you're comin' back!"

"What should I come back here for? My summer job's over. If you want to know, my principal reason for comin' here this mornin' was to say good-by—to Mr. Brown, of course."

Seth's arm dropped. He leaned heavily against the doorpost.

"You're goin' away!" he exclaimed. "You're goin' away! Where?"

"I don't know. Back home, I s'pose. Though what I'll do when I get there I don't know. I've sold the house, so I don't exactly know where I'll put up. But I guess I'll find a place."

"You've sold your house? The house we used to live in?"

"Yes. The man that's been hirin' it has bought it. I'm glad, for I need the money. So good-by, Seth. 'Tain't likely we'll meet again in this life."

She started toward the door once more, and this time he was too greatly disturbed and shaken by what she had told him to detain her. At the threshhold she turned and looked at him.

"Good-by, Seth," she said again. "I hope you'll be happy. And," with a half smile, "if I was you I'd stay keepin' lights; it, or somethin' else, has improved you a whole lot. Good-by."

Then he sprang forward. "Emeline," he cried, "Emeline, wait. You mustn't go. I can't let you go this way. I . . . What's that?"

"That" was the sound of horse's feet and the rattle of wheels. The lightkeeper ran to the window.

"It's Henry G.'s grocery cart," he said. "I cal'late he's fetchin' some truck I ordered last week. Do you want him to see you here?"

"I don't care. He don't know but what you and me are the best of friends. Yet, I don't know. Maybe it's just as well he don't see me; then there'll be no excuse for talk. I'll step inside and wait."

She returned to the kitchen, and Seth went out to meet the wagon. Its driver was the boy who had brought the flypaper and "Job."

"Hello," hailed the youngster, pulling in his steed; "how be you, Mr. Atkins? I've got some of them things you ordered. The rest ain't come from Boston yet. Soon's they do, Henry G.'ll send 'em down. How you feelin' these days? Ain't bought no more dogs, have you?"

Seth curtly replied that he "wa'n't speculatin' in dogs to no great extent any more," and took the packages which the boy handed him. With them was a bundle of newspapers and an accumulation of mail matter.

"I fetched the mail for the bungalow, too," said the boy. "There's two or three letters for that Graham girl and one for Mrs. Bascom. She's housekeeper there, you know."

"Yes. Here, you might's well leave their mail along with mine. I'll see it's delivered, all right."

"Will you? Much obliged. Goin' to take it over yourself? Better look out, hadn't you? That Graham girl's a peach; all the fellers at the store's talkin' about her. Seems a pity she's wastin' her sassiety on a woman-hater like you; that's what they say. You ain't gettin' over your female hate, are you? Haw, haw!"

Mr. Atkins regarded his questioner with stern disapproval.

"There's some things—such as chronic sassiness—some folks never get over," he observed caustically. "Though when green hides are too fresh they can be tanned; don't forget that, young feller. Any more chatty remarks you've got to heave over? No? Well, all right; then I'd be trottin' back home if I was you. Henry G.'ll have to shut up shop if you deprive him of your valuable services too long. Good day to you."

The driver, somewhat abashed, gathered up the reins. "I didn't mean to make you mad," he observed. "Anything in our line you want to order?"

"No. I'm cal'latin' to go to the village myself this afternoon, and if I want any more groceries I'll order 'em then. As for makin' me mad—well, don't you flatter yourself. A moskeeter can pester me, but he don't make me mad but once—and his funeral's held right afterwards. Now trot along and keep in the shade much as you can. You're so fresh the sun might spile you."

The boy, looking rather foolish, laughed and drove out of the yard. Seth, his arms full, went back to the kitchen. He dumped the packages and newspapers on the table and began sorting the letters.

"Here you are, Emeline," he said. "Here's Miss Graham's mail and somethin' for you."

"For me?" The housekeeper was surprised. "A letter for me! What is it, I wonder? Somethin' about sellin' the house maybe."

She took the letter from him and turned to the light before opening it. Seth sat down in the rocker and began inspecting his own assortment of circulars and papers. Suddenly he heard a sound from his companion. Glancing up he saw that she was leaning against the doorpost, the open letter in her hand, and on her face an expression which caused him to spring from his chair.

"What is it, Emeline?" he demanded. "Any bad news?"

She scarcely noticed him until he spoke again. Then she shook her head.

"No," she said slowly. "Nothin' but—but what I might have expected."

"But what is it? It is bad news. Can't I help you? Please let me, if I can. I—I'd like to."

She looked at him strangely, and then turned away. "I guess nobody can help me," she answered. "Least of all, you."

"Why not? I'd like to; honest, I would. If it's about that house business maybe I—"

"It ain't"

"Then what is it? Please, Emeline. I know you don't think much of me. Maybe you've got good reasons; I'm past the place where I'd deny that. I—I've been feelin' meaner'n meaner every day lately. I—I don't know's I done right in runnin' off and leavin' you the way I did. Don't you s'pose you could give me another chance? Emeline, I—"

"Seth Bascom, what do you mean?"

"Just what I say. Emeline, you and me was mighty happy together once. Let's try it again. I will, if you will."

She was staring at him in good earnest now.

"Why, Seth!" she exclaimed. "What are you talkin' about? You—the chronic woman-hater!"

"That be blessed! I wa'n't really a woman-hater. I only thought I was. And—and I never hated you. Right through the worst of it I never did. Let's try it again, Emeline. You're in trouble. You need somebody to help you. Give me the chance."

There was a wistful look in her eyes; she seemed, or so he thought, to be wavering. But she shook her head. "I was in trouble before, Seth," she said, "and you didn't help me then. You run off and left me."

"You just as much as told me to go. You know you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Well, you didn't tell me to stay."

"It never seemed to me that a husband—if he was a man—would need to be coaxed to stay by his wife."

"But don't you care about me at all? You used to; I know it. And I always cared for you. What is it? Honest, Emeline, you never took any stock in that Sarah Ann Christy doin's, you know you didn't; now, did you?"

She was close to tears, but she smiled in spite of them.

"Well, no, Seth," she answered. "I will confess that Sarah Ann never worried me much."

"Then DON'T you care for me, Emeline?"

"I care for you much as I ever did. I never stopped carin' for you, fool that I am. But as for livin' with you again and runnin' the risk of—"

"You won't run any risk. You say I've improved, yourself. Your principal fault with me was, as I understand it, that I was too—too—somethin' or other. That I wa'n't man enough. By jiminy crimps, I'll show you that I'm a man! Give me the chance, and nothin' nor nobody can make me leave you again. Besides, there's nobody to come between us now. We was all right until that—that Bennie D. came along. He was the one that took the starch out of me. Now he's out of the way. HE won't bother us any more and . . . Why, what is it, Emeline?"

For she was looking at him with an expression even more strange. And again she shook her head.

"I guess," she began, and was interrupted by the jingle of the telephone bell.

The instrument was fastened to the kitchen wall, and the lightkeeper hastened to answer the ring.

"Testin' the wire after the storm, most likely," he explained, taking the receiver from the hook. "Hello! . . . Hello! . . . Yep, this is Eastboro Lights. . . . I'm the lightkeeper, yes. . . . Hey? . . . Miss Graham? . . . Right next door. . . . Yes. . . . WHO?" Then, turning to his companion, he said in an astonished voice: "It's somebody wants to talk with you, Emeline."

"With ME?" Mrs. Bascom could hardly believe it. "Are you sure?"

"So they say. Asked me if I could get you to the 'phone without any trouble. She's right here now," he added, speaking into the transmitter. "I'll call her."

The housekeeper wonderingly took the receiver from his hand.

"Hello!" she began. "Yes, this is Mrs. Bascom. . . . Who? . . . What? . . . OH!"

The last exclamation was almost a gasp, but Seth did not hear it. As she stepped forward to the 'phone she had dropped her letter. Atkins went over and picked it up. It lay face downward on the floor, and the last page, with the final sentence and signature, was uppermost. He could not help seeing it. "So we shall soon be together as of old. Your loving brother, Benjamin."

When Mrs. Bascom turned away from the 'phone after a rather protracted conversation she looked more troubled than ever. But Seth was not looking at her. He sat in the rocking-chair and did not move nor raise his head. She waited for him to speak, but he did not.

"Well," she said with a sigh, "I guess I must go. Good-by, Seth."

The lightkeeper slowly rose to his feet. "Emeline," he stammered, "you ain't goin' without—"

He stopped without finishing the sentence. She waited a moment and then finished it for him.

"I'll answer your question, if that's what you mean," she said. "And the answer is no. All things considered, I guess that's best."

"But Emeline, I—I—"

"Good-by, Seth."

"Sha'n't I," desperately, "sha'n't I see you again?"

"I expect to be around here for another day or so. But I can't see anythin' to be gained by our meetin'. Good-by."

Taking her letter and those addressed to Miss Graham from the table she went out of the kitchen. Seth followed her as far as the door, then turned and collapsed in the rocking-chair.



CHAPTER XIII

"JOHN BROWN" CHANGES HIS NAME

"So we shall soon be together again as of old. Your loving brother, Benjamin."

The sentence which had met his eyes as he picked up the note which his caller had dropped was still before them, burned into his memory. Benjamin! "Bennie D."! the loathed and feared and hated Bennie D., cause of all the Bascom matrimonial heartbreaks, had written to say that he and his sister-in-law were soon to be together as they used to be. That meant that there had been no quarrel, but merely a temporary separation. That she and he were still friendly. That they had been in correspondence and that the "inventor" was coming back to take his old place as autocrat in the household with all his old influence over Emeline. Seth's new-found courage and manhood had vanished at the thought. Bennie D.'s name had scarcely been mentioned during the various interviews between the lightkeeper and his wife. She had said her first husband's brother had been in New York for two years, and her manner of saying it led Seth to imagine a permanent separation following some sort of disagreement. And now! and now! He remembered Bennie D.'s superior airs, his polite sneers, his way of turning every trick to his advantage and of perverting and misrepresenting his, Seth's, most innocent speech and action into crimes of the first magnitude. He remembered the meaning of those last few months in the Cape Ann homestead. All his fiery determination to be what he had once been—Seth Bascom, the self-respecting man and husband—collapsed and vanished. He groaned in abject surrender. He could not go through it again; he was afraid. Of any other person on earth he would not have been, but the unexpected resurrection of Bennie D. made him a hesitating coward. Therefore he was silent when his wife left him, and he realized that his opportunity was gone, gone forever.

In utter misery and self-hatred he sat, with his head in his hands, beside the kitchen table until eleven o'clock. Then he rose, got dinner, and called Brown to eat it. He ate nothing himself, saying that he'd lost his appetite somehow or other. After the meal he harnessed Joshua to the little wagon and started on his drive to Eastboro. "I'll be back early, I cal'late," were his last words as he drove out of the yard.

After he had gone, and Brown had finished clearing away and the other housekeeping tasks which were now such a burden, the substitute assistant went out to sit on the bench and smoke. The threatened easterly wind had begun to blow, and the sky was dark with tumbling clouds. The young man paid little attention to the weather, however. All skies were gloomy so far as he was concerned, and the darkest day was no blacker than his thoughts. Occasionally he glanced at the bungalow, and on one such occasion was surprised to see a carriage, one of the turnouts supplied by the Eastboro livery stable, roll up to its door and Mrs. Bascom, the housekeeper, emerge, climb to the seat beside the driver, and be driven away in the direction of the village. He idly wondered where she was going, but was not particularly interested. When, a half hour later, Ruth Graham left the bungalow and strolled off along the path at the top of the bluff, he was very much interested indeed. He realized, as he had been realizing for weeks, that he was more interested in that young woman than in anything else on earth. Also, that he had no right—miserable outcast that he was—to be interested in her; and certainly it would be the wildest insanity to imagine that she could be interested in him.

For what the lightkeeper might say or do, in the event of his secret being discovered, he did not care in the least. He was long past that point. And for the breaking of their solemn compact he did not care either. Seth might or might not have played the traitor; that, too, was a matter of no importance. Seth himself was of no importance; neither was he. There was but one important person in the whole world, and she was strolling along the bluff path at that moment. Therefore he left his seat on the bench, hurried down the slope to the inner end of the cove, noting absently that the tide of the previous night must have been unusually high, climbed to the bungalow, turned the corner, and walked slowly in the direction of the trim figure in the blue suit, which was walking, even more slowly, just ahead of him.

It may be gathered that John Brown's feelings concerning the opposite sex had changed. They had, and he had changed in other ways, also. How much of a change had taken place he did not himself realize, until this very afternoon. He did not realize it even then until, after he and the girl in blue had met, and the customary expressions of surprise at their casual meeting had been exchanged, the young lady seated herself on a dune overlooking the tumbling sea and observed thoughtfully:

"I shall miss all this"—with a wave of her hand toward the waves—"next week, when I am back again in the city."

Brown's cap was in his hand as she began to speak. After she had finished he stooped to pick up the cap, which had fallen to the ground.

"You are going away—next week?" he said slowly.

"We are going to-morrow. I shall remain in Boston for a few days. Then I shall visit a friend in the Berkshires. After that I may join my brother in Europe; I'm not sure as to that."

"To-morrow?"

"Yes!"

There was another one of those embarrassing intervals of silence which of late seemed to occur so often in their conversation. Miss Graham, as usual, was the first to speak.

"Mr. Brown," she began. The substitute assistant interrupted her.

"Please don't call me that," he blurted involuntarily. "It—oh, confound it, it isn't my name!"

She should have been very much surprised. He expected her to be. Instead she answered quite calmly.

"I know it," she said.

"You DO?"

"Yes. You are 'Russ' Brooks, aren't you?"

Russell Brooks, alias John Brown, dropped his cap again, but did not pick it up. He swallowed hard.

"How on earth did you know that?" he asked as soon as he could say anything.

"Oh, it was simple enough. I didn't really know; I only guessed. You weren't a real lightkeeper, that was plain. And you weren't used to washing dishes or doing housework—that," with the irrepressible curl of the corners of her lips, "was just as plain. When you told me that fib about meeting my brother here last summer I was sure you had met him somewhere, probably at college. So in my next letter to him I described you as well as I could, mentioned that you were as good or a better swimmer than he, and asked for particulars. He answered that the only fellow he could think of who fitted your description was 'Russ' Brooks—Russell, I suppose—of New York; though what Russ Brooks was doing as lightkeeper's assistant at Eastboro Twin-Lights he DIDN'T know. Neither did I. But then, THAT was not my business."

The substitute assistant did not answer: he could not, on such short notice.

"So," continued the girl, "I felt almost as if I had known you for a long time. You and Horace were such good friends at college, and he had often told me of you. I was very glad to meet you in real life, especially here, where I had no one but Mrs. Bascom to talk to; Mr. Atkins, by reason of his aversion to my unfortunate sex, being barred."

Mr. Brown's—or Mr. Brooks'—next speech harked back to her previous one.

"I'll tell you while I'm here," he began.

"You needn't, unless you wish," she said. "I have no right to know"—adding, with characteristic femininity, "though I'm dying to."

"But I want you to know. As I told Atkins when I first came, I haven't murdered anyone and I haven't stolen anything. I'm not a crook running from justice. I'm just a plain idiot who fell overboard from a steamer and"—bitterly—"hadn't the good luck to drown."

She made no comment, and he began his story, telling it much as he had told it to the lightkeeper.

"There!" he said in conclusion, "that's the whole fool business. That's why I'm here. No need to ask what you think of it, I suppose."

She was silent, gazing at the breakers. He drew his own conclusions from her silence.

"I see," he said. "Well, I admit it. I'm a low down chump. Still, if I had it to do over again, I should do pretty much the same. A few things differently, but in general the very same."

"What would you do differently?" she asked, still without looking at him.

"For one thing, I wouldn't run away. I'd stay and face the music. Earn my living or starve."

"And now you're going to stay here?"

"No longer than I can help. If I get the appointment as assistant keeper I'll begin to save every cent I can. Just as soon as I get enough to warrant risking it I'll head for Boston once more and begin the earning or starving process. And," with a snap of his jaws, "I don't intend to starve."

"You won't go back to your father?"

"If he sees fit to beg my pardon and acknowledge that I was right—not otherwise. And he must do it of his own accord. I told him that when I walked out of his office. It was my contribution to our fond farewell. His was that he would see me damned first. Possibly he may."

She smiled.

"You must have been a charming pair of pepper pots," she observed. "And the young lady—what of her?"

"She knows that I am fired, cut off even without the usual shilling. That will be quite sufficient for her, I think."

"How do you know it will? How do you know she might not have been willing to wait while you earned that living you are so sure is coming?"

"Wait? She wait for me? Ann Davidson wait for a man without a cent while he tried to earn a good many dollars? Humph! you amuse me."

"Why not? You didn't give her a chance. You calmly took it for granted that she wanted only money and social position and you walked off and left her. How do you know she wouldn't have liked you better for telling her just how you felt. If a girl really cared for a man it seems to me that she would be willing to wait for him, years and years if it were necessary, provided that, during that time, he was trying his best for her."

"But—but—she isn't that kind of a girl."

"How do you know? You didn't put her to the test. You owed her that. It seems to me you owe it to her now."

The answer to this was on his tongue. It was ready behind his closed lips, eager to burst forth. That he didn't love the Davidson girl, never had loved her. That during the past month he had come to realize there was but one woman in the wide world for him. And did that woman mean what she said about waiting years—and years—provided she cared? And did she care?

He didn't utter one word of this. He wanted to, but it seemed so preposterous. Such an idiotic, outrageous thing to ask. Yet it is probable that he would have asked it if the young lady had given him the chance. But she did not; after a sidelong glance at his face, she hurriedly rose from the rock and announced that she must be getting back to the house.

"I have some packing to do," she explained; "and, besides, I think it is going to rain."

"But, Miss Graham, I—"

A big drop of rain splashing upon his shoe confirmed the weather prophecy. She began to walk briskly toward the bungalow, and he walked at her side.

"Another storm," she said. "I should think the one we have just passed through was sufficient for a while. I hope Mrs. Bascom won't get wet."

"She has gone to the village, hasn't she?"

"Yes. She has received some message or other—I don't know how it came—which sent her off in a hurry. A livery carriage came for her. She will be back before night."

"Atkins has gone, too. He had some errands, I believe. I can't make out what has come over him of late. He has changed greatly. He used to be so jolly and good-humored, except when female picnickers came. Now he is as solemn as an owl. When he went away he scarcely spoke a word. I thought he seemed to be in trouble, but when I asked him, he shut me up so promptly that I didn't press the matter."

"Did he? That's odd. Mrs. Bascom seemed to be in trouble, too. I thought she had been crying when she came out of her room to go to the carriage. She denied it, but her eyes looked red. What can be the matter?"

"I don't know."

"Nor I. Mr.—er—Brooks—Or shall I still call you 'Brown'?"

"No. Brown is dead; drowned. Let him stay so."

"Very well. Mr. Brooks, has it occurred to you that your Mr. Atkins is a peculiar character? That he acts peculiarly?"

"He has acted peculiarly ever since I knew him. But to what particular peculiarity do you refer?"

"His queer behavior. Several times I have seen him—I am almost sure it was he—hiding or crouching behind the sand hills at the rear of our bungalow."

"You have? Why, I—"

He hesitated. Before he could go on or she continue, the rain came in a deluge. They reached the porch just in time.

"Well, I'm safe and reasonably dry," she panted. "I'm afraid you will be drenched before you get to the lights. Don't you want an umbrella?"

"No. No, indeed, thank you."

"Well, you must hurry then. Good-by."

"But, Miss Graham," anxiously, "I shall see you again before you go. To-morrow, at bathing time, perhaps?"

"Judging by the outlook just at present, bathing will be out of the question to-morrow."

"But I want to see you. I must."

She shook her head doubtfully. "I don't know," she said. "I shall be very busy getting ready to leave; but perhaps we may meet again."

"We must. I—Miss Graham, I—"

She had closed the door. He ran homeward through the rain, the storm which soaked him to the skin being but a trifle compared to the tornado in his breast.

He spent the balance of the day somehow, he could not have told how. The rain and wind continued; six o'clock came, and Seth should have returned an hour before, but there was no sign of him. He wondered if Mrs. Bascom had returned. He had not seen the carriage, but she might have come while he was inside the house. The lightkeeper's nonappearance began to worry him a trifle.

At seven, as it was dark, he took upon himself the responsibility of climbing the winding stairs in each tower and lighting the great lanterns. It was the first time he had done it, but he knew how, and the duty was successfully accomplished. Then, as Atkins was still absent and there was nothing to do but wait, he sat in the chair in the kitchen and thought. Occasionally, and it showed the trend of his thoughts, he rose and peered from the window across the dark to the bungalow. In the living room of the latter structure a light burned. At ten it was extinguished.

At half past ten he went to Seth's bedroom, found a meager assortment of pens, ink and note paper, returned to the kitchen, sat down by the table and began to write.

For an hour he thought, wrote, tore up what he had written, and began again. At last the result of his labor read something like this:

"DEAR MISS GRAHAM:

"I could not say it this afternoon, although if you had stayed I think I should. But I must say it now or it may be too late. I can't let you go without saying it. I love you. Will you wait for me? It may be a very long wait, although God knows I mean to try harder than I have ever tried for anything in my life. If I live I will make something of myself yet, with you as my inspiration. You know you said if a girl really cared for a man she would willingly wait years for him. Do you care for me as much as that? With you, or for you, I believe I can accomplish anything. DO you care?

"RUSSELL BROOKS."

He put this in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and without stopping to put on either cap or raincoat went out in the night.

The rain was still falling, although not as heavily, but the wind was coming in fierce squalls. He descended the path to the cove, floundering through the wet bushes. At the foot of the hill he was surprised to find the salt marsh a sea of water not a vestige of ground above the surface. This was indeed a record-breaking tide, such as he had never known before. He did not pause to reflect upon tides or such trivialities, but, with a growl at being obliged to make the long detour, he rounded the end of the cove and climbed up to the door of the bungalow. Under the edge of that door he tucked the note he had written. As soon as this was accomplished he became aware that he had expressed himself very clumsily. He had not written as he might. A dozen brilliant thoughts came to him. He must rewrite that note at all hazards.

So he spent five frantic minutes trying to coax that envelope from under the door. But, in his care to push it far enough, it had dropped beyond the sill, and he could not reach it. The thing was done for better or for worse. Perfectly certain that it was for worse, he splashed mournfully back to the lights. In the lantern room of the right-hand tower he spent the remainder of the night, occasionally wandering out on the gallery to note the weather.

The storm was dying out. The squalls were less and less frequent, and the rain had been succeeded by a thick fog. The breakers pounded in the dark below him, and from afar the foghorns moaned and wailed. It was a bad night, a night during which no lightkeeper should be absent from his post. And where was Seth?



CHAPTER XIV

"BENNIE D."

Seth's drive to Eastboro was a dismal journey. Joshua pounded along over the wet sand or through ruts filled with water, and not once during the trip was he ordered to "Giddap" or "Show some signs of life." Not until the first scattered houses of the village were reached did the lightkeeper awaken from his trance sufficiently to notice that the old horse was limping slightly with the right forefoot.

"Hello!" exclaimed Seth. "What's the matter with you, Josh?"

Joshua slopped on, but this was a sort of three-legged progress. The driver leaned forward and then pulled on the reins.

"Whoa!" he ordered. "Stand still!"

Joshua stood still, almost with enthusiasm. Seth tucked the end of the reins between the whip socket and the dashboard, and swung out of the wagon to make an examination. Lifting the lame foot, he found the trouble at once. The shoe was loose.

"Humph!" he soliloquized. "Cal'late you and me'll have to give Benijah a job. Well," climbing back into the vehicle, "I said I'd never give him another after the row we had about the last, but I ain't got ambition enough to go clear over to the Denboro blacksmith's. I don't care. I don't care about nothin' any more. Giddap."

Benijah Ellis's little, tumble-down blacksmith shop was located in the main street of Eastboro, if that hit-or-miss town can be said to possess a main street. Atkins drove up to its door, before which he found Benijah and a group of loungers inspecting an automobile, the body of which had been removed in order that the engine and running gear might be the easier reached. The blacksmith was bending over the car, his head and shoulders down amidst the machinery; a big wrench was in his hand, and other wrenches, hammers, and tools of various sizes were scattered on the ground beside him.

"Hello, Benije," grunted Seth.

Ellis removed his nose from its close proximity to the gear shaft and straightened up. He was a near-sighted, elderly man, and wore spectacles. Just now his hands, arms, and apron were covered with grease and oil, and, as he wiped his forehead with the hand not holding the wrench, he left a wide mourning band across it.

"Well?" he panted. "Who is it? Who wants me?"

One of the loafers, who had been assisting the blacksmith by holding his pipe while he dove into the machinery, languidly motioned toward the new arrival. Benijah adjusted his spectacles and walked over to the wagon.

"Who is it?" he asked crossly. Then, as he recognized his visitor, he grunted: "Ugh! it's you, hey. Well, what do YOU want?"

"Want you to put a new shoe on this horse of mine," replied Seth, not too graciously.

"Is that so! Well, I'm busy."

"I don't care if you be. I guess you ain't so busy you can't do a job of work. If you are, you're richer'n I ever heard you was."

"I want to know! Maybe I'm particular who I work for, Seth Atkins."

"Maybe you are. I ain't so particular; if I was, I wouldn't come here, I tell you that. This horse of mine's got a loose shoe, and I want him attended to quick."

"Thought you said you'd never trust me with another job."

"I ain't trustin' you now. I'll be here while it's done. And I ain't askin' you to trust me, neither. I'll pay cash—cash, d'ye understand?"

The bystanders grinned. Mr. Ellis's frown deepened. "I'm busy," he declared, with importance. "I've got Mr. Delancey Barry's automobile to fix, and I can't stop to bother with horses—specially certain kind of horses."

This sneer at Joshua roused his owner's ire. He dropped the reins and sprang to the ground.

"See here, Benije Ellis," he growled, advancing upon the repairer of automobiles, who retreated a step or two with promptness. "I don't care what you're fixin', nor whose it is, neither. I guess 'twill be 'fixed' all right when you get through with it, but that ain't neither here nor there. And it don't make no difference if it does belong to Mr. Barry. If 'twas Elijah's chariot of fire 'twould be just the same. That auto won't be done this afternoon, and nobody expects it to be. Here's my horse sufferin' to be shod; I want him shod and I've got the money to pay for it. When it's winter time you're around cryin' that you can't earn money to pay your bills. Now, just because it's summer and there's city big-bugs in the neighborhood innocent enough to let you tinker with their autos—though they'll never do it but once—I don't propose to be put off. If you won't shoe this horse of mine I'll know it's because you've got so much money you don't need more. And if that's the case, there's a whole lot of folks would be mighty glad to know it—Henry G. Goodspeed for one. I'm goin' up to his store now. Shall I tell him?"