The WomanHaters ............................................................................................................................................1

Joseph C. Lincoln....................................................................................................................................1

A story of mine called, like this, "The WomanHaters," appeared recently in one of the magazines. That story

was not this one, except in partthe part dealing with "John Brown" and Miss Ruth Graham. Readers of the

former tale who perhaps imagine they know all about Seth Atkins and Mrs. Emeline Bascom will be

surprised to find they really know so little. The truth is that, when I began to revise and rearrange the

magazine story for publication as a book, new ideas came, grew, and developed. I discovered that I had been

misinformed concerning the lightkeeper's past and present relations with the housekeeper at the bungalow.

And there was "Bennie D." whom I had overlooked, had not mentioned at all; and that rejuvenated craft, the

Daisy M.; and the high tide which is, or should be, talked about in Eastboro even yet; all these I had omitted

for the very good reason that I never knew of them. I have tried to be more careful this time. During the

revising process "The WomanHaters" has more than doubled in length and, let us hope, in accuracy. Even

now it is, of course, not a novel, but merely a summer farcecomedy, a "yarn." And this, by the way, is all

The stars, like incandescent lights fed by a fast weakening dynamo, grew pale, faded, and, one by one, went

out. The slatecolored sea, with its tumbling waves, changed color, becoming a light gray, then a faint blue,

and, as the red sun rolled up over the edge of the eastern horizon, a brilliant sapphire, trimmed with a silver

Seth Atkins, keeper of the Eastboro TwinLights, yawned, stretched, and glanced through the seaward

windows of the octagonshaped, glassenclosed room at the top of the north tower, where he had spent the

night just passed. Then he rose from his chair and extinguished the blaze in the great lantern beside him.

Morning had come, the mists had rolled away, and the dots scattered along the horizonschooners, tugs, and

coal barges, for the most partno longer needed the glare of Eastboro TwinLights to warn them against

close proximity to the dangerous, shoalbordered coast. Incidentally, it was no longer necessary for Mr.

Atkins to remain on watch. He drew the curtains over the polished glass and brass of the lantern, yawned

again, and descended the winding iron stairs to the door at the foot of the tower, opened it and emerged into

Crossing this yard, before the small white house which the government provided as a dwelling place for its

lightkeepers, he opened the door of the south tower, mounted the stairs there and repeated the extinguishing

process with the other lantern. Before again descending to earth, however, he stepped out on the iron balcony

The view, such as it was, was extensive. To the east the open sea, the wide Atlantic, rolling lazily in the

morning light, a faint breeze rippling the surfaces of the groundswell. A few sails in sight, far out. Not a

sound except the hiss and splash of the surf, which, because of a week of calms and light winds, was low

To the north stretched the shores of the back of the Cape. High clay bluffs, rainwashed and wrinkled,

sloping sharply to the white sand of the beach a hundred feet below. Only one building, except those

connected with the lighthouses, near at hand, this a small, grayshingled bungalow about two hundred yards

away, separated from the lights by the narrow stream called Clam CreekSeth always spoke of it as the

"Crick"which, turning in behind the long surfbeaten sandspit known, for some forgotten reason, as

"Black Man's Point," continued to the saltwater pond which was named "The Cove." A path led down from

the lighthouses to a bend in the "Crick," and there, on a small wharf, was a shanty where Seth kept his spare

lobster and eelpots, dory sails, nets, and the like. The dory itself, with the oars in her, was moored in the

A mile off, to the south, the line of bluffs was broken by another inlet, the entrance to Pounddug Slough. This

poetically named channel twisted and wound tortuously inland through salt marshes and between mudbanks,

widening at last to become Eastboro Back Harbor, a goodsized body of water, with the village of Eastboro

at its upper end. In the old days, when Eastboro amounted to something as a fishing port, the mackerel fleet

unloaded its catch at the wharves in the Back Harbor. Then Pounddug Slough was kept thoroughly dredged

and buoyed. Now it was weedgrown and neglected. Only an occasional lobsterman's dory traversed its

winding ways, which the storms and tides of each succeeding winter rendered more difficult to navigate. The

abandoned fish houses along its shores were falling to pieces, and at intervals the stranded hulk of a fishing

sloop or a little schooner, rotting in the sun, was a dismal reminder that Eastboro's ambitious young men no

longer got their living alongshore. The town itself had gone to sleep, awakening only in the summer, when

Behind the lighthouse buildings, to the westand in the direction of the villagewere five miles of nothing

in particular. A desolate wilderness of rolling sanddunes, beach grass, huckleberry and bayberry bushes,

cedar swamps, and small clumps of pitchpines. Through this desert the three or four rutted, crooked sand

roads, leading to and from the lights, turned and twisted. Along their borders dwelt no human being; but life

was there, life in abundance. Ezra Payne, late assistant keeper at the TwinLights, was ready at all times to

"My godfreys domino!" Ezra had exclaimed, after returning from a drive to Eastboro village, "I give you my

word, Seth, they dummed nigh et me alive. They covered the horse all up, so that he looked for all the world

like a sheep, woolly. I don't mind moskeeters in moderation, but when they roost on my eyelids and make 'em

so heavy I can't open 'em, then I'm ready to swear. But I couldn't get even that relief, because every time I

unbattened my mouth a million or so flew in and choked me. That's what I saida million. Some moskeeters

are fat, but these don't get a square meal often enough to be anything but hideracks filled with cussedness.

Ezra was no longer assistant lightkeeper. He and his superior had quarreled two days before. The quarrel was

the culmination, on Ezra's part, of a gradually developing "grouch" brought on by the loneliness of his

surroundings. After a night of duty he had marched into the house, packed his belongings in a battered canvas

"To the everlastin' brimstone with the job!" he snarled, addressing Mr. Atkins, who, partially dressed,

emerged from the bedroom in bewilderment and sleepy astonishment. "To thunder with it, I say! I've had all

the gov'ment jobs I want. Lifesavin' service was bad enough, trampin' the condemned beach in a howlin'

no'theaster, with the sand cuttin' furrers in your face, and the icicles on your mustache so heavy you got

roundshouldered luggin' 'em. But when your tramp was over, you had somebody to talk to. Here, by

godfreys! there ain't nothin' nor nobody. I'm goin' fishin' again, where I can be sociable."

"Humph!" commented Seth, "you must be lonesome all to once. Ain't my company good enough for you?"

"Company! A heap of company you are! When I'm awake you're alseep and snorin' and"

"What? YOU'LL snore when you're dead, and wake up the whole graveyard. Lonesome!" he continued,

without giving his companion a chance to retort, "lonesome ain't no name for this place. No company but

green flies and them moskeeters, and nothin' to look at but salt water and sand andanddummed if I can

think of anything else. Five miles from town and the only house in sight shut tight. When I come here you

"Don't expect picnickers to be such crazy loons as to come here in winter time, do you?"

"I don't know. If they're fools enough to come here ANY time, I wouldn't be responsible for 'em. There ain't

so many moskeeters in winter. But just LOOK at this hole. Just put on your specs and LOOK at it! Not a

"Ah ha! ah ha! NOW we're gettin' at it! Not a girl! That's what's the matter with you. You want to be up in the

village, where you can go courtin'. You're too fur from Elsie Peters, that's where the shoe pinches. I've heard

how you used to set out in her dad's backyard, with your arm round her waist, lookin' at each other, mushy as

a couple of sassers of hastypuddin'. Bah! I'll take care my next assistant ain't girlstruck."

"Girlstruck! I'd enough sight ruther be girlstruck than always ravin' and rippin' against females. And all

because some woman way back in Methusalem's time had sense enough to heave you over. At least, that's

what everybody cal'lates must be the reason. You pretend to be a womanhater. All round this part of the

"There ain't no pretendin' about it. I've got brains enough to keep clear of petticoats. And when you get to be

as old as I be and know as much as I dothough that ain't no ways likely, even if you live to be nine hundred

"Aw, come off! Womanhater! You hate women same as the boy at the poorhouse hated ice cream'cause

This was the end of the dialogue, because Mr. Payne was obliged to break off his harangue and dodge the

stovelifter flung at him by the outraged lightkeeper. As the lifter was about to be followed by the teakettle,

Ezra took to his heels, bolted from the house and began his long tramp to the village. When he reached the

first clumps of bayberry bushes bordering the deeply rutted road, a joyful cloud of mosquitoes rose and

So Seth Atkins was left alone to do double duty at Eastboro Twin Lights, pending the appointment of

another assistant. The two days and nights following Ezra's departure had been strenuous and provoking.

Doing all the housework, preparation of meals included, tending both lights, rubbing brass work, sweeping

and scouring, sleeping when he could and keeping awake when he must, nobody to talk to, nobody to

helpthe fortyeight hours of solitude had already convinced Mr. Atkins that the sooner a helper was

provided the better. At times he even wished the disrespectful Payne back again, wished that he had soothed

instead of irritated the departed one. Then he remembered certain fragments of their last conversation and

Now, standing on the gallery of the south tower, he was conscious of a desire for breakfast. Preparing that

meal had been a part of his assistant's duties. Now he must prepare it himself, and he was hungry and sleepy.

He mentally vowed that he would no longer delay notifying the authorities of the desertion, and would urge

Grumbling aloud to himself, he moved around the circle of the gallery toward the door. His hand was on the

latch, when, turning, he cast another glance over the rail, this time directly downward toward the beach

below. And there he saw something which caused him to forget hunger and grievances of all kinds;

something which, after one horrified look to make sure, led him to dart into the light chamber, spring at a

reckless gait down the winding stair, out of the tower, rush to the edge of the bluff, and plunge headlong

On the sand, at the foot of the bluff below the lights, just beyond reach of the wash of the surf, lay a man, or

Once before, during his years of service as keeper of Eastboro Twin Lights, had Seth seen such a sight as

that which now caused him to make his dash for the shore. Once before, after the terrible storm of 1905,

when the great steamer Bay Queen went down with all on board, the exact spot of her sinking unknown even

to this day. Then the whole ocean side of the Cape, from Race Point to Orham, was strewn with ghastly

relics. But the Bay Queen met her fate in the winter season, amid a gale such as even the oldest residents

could not remember. Now it was early summer; the night before had been a flat calm. There had been no

wreck, or the lifesavers would have told him of it. There would be no excuse for a wreck, anyway.

All this, in disjointed fragments, passed through the lightkeeper's mind as he descended the path in frantic

bounds and plowed through the ankledeep white sand of the beach. As he approached the recumbent figure

he yelled a panted "Hi, there!" He did not expect the hail to be answered or even noticed. Therefore, he was

pleasantly disappointed when the figure rolled over, raised itself on one elbow, looked at him in a dazed sort

Seth stopped short, put a hand to the breast of his blue flannel shirt, and breathed a mighty sigh of relief.

"Gosh!" he exclaimed with fervor. Then, changing his labored gallop for a walk, he continued his progress

toward the man, who, as if his momentary curiosity was satisfied, lay down again. He did not rise when the

lightkeeper reached his side, but remained quiet, looking up from a pair of gray eyes and smiling slightly with

lips that were blue. He was a stranger to Atkins, a young fellow, rather good looking, dressed in blue serge

trousers, negligee shirt, blue socks, and without shoes or hat. His garments were soaked, and the salt water

dripped from his shoulders to the sand. The lightkeeper stared at him, and he returned the stare.

"Gosh!" repeated Seth, after an instant of silence. "Jiminy crimps! I feel better."

The stranger's smile broadened. "Glad to hear it, I'm sure," he said, slowly. "So do I, though there's still room

for improvement. What was your particular ailment? Mine seems to have been water on the brain."

He sat up and shakily ran a hand through his wet hair as he spoke. Atkins, his surprise doubled by this

"Good morning," continued the young man, as if the meeting had been the most casual and ordinary possible;

"I think you said a moment ago that you were feeling better. No relapse, I trust."

"Pleasant morn Why, say! IIwhat in time are you doin', layin' there all soaked through? You scared

"Did you? Well, to be honest, so did I, for a while. In fact, I'm not absolutely sure that I'm not, even yet.

You'll excuse me if I lie down again, won't you? I never tried a seaweed pillow before, but it isn't so bad."

"Well, if this don't beat me!" he exclaimed. "You're the coolest critter that ever II"

"I am cool," admitted the young man, with a slight shiver. "This stretch of ocean here isn't exactly a Turkish

bath. I've been swimming sincewell, an hour or two ago, and I am just a little chilled."

Another and emphatic shiver caused him to pause. The lightkeeper awoke to the realities of the situation.

"Good land of love!" he exclaimed. "What am I thinkin' of? Seein' you this way, and you talkin' so kind of

everyday and funny drove my senses clean out, I guess. Get right up off that wet place this minute. Come up

Seth didn't mind, which was fortunate, as his new acquaintance couldn't have risen unaided. His knees shook

"Steady now," counselled Atkins; "no hurry. Take it easy. If you've navigated water all alone for hours, I

cal'late between us we can manage to make a fiveminute cruise on dry land. . . . Even if the course we steer

would make an eel lame tryin' to follow it," he added, as the castaway staggered and reeled up the beach.

The climbing of the steep bluff was a struggle, but they accomplished it, and at length the stranger was seated

"Now, the fust thing," observed Seth, "is to get them wet clothes off you. Usually I'd have a good fire here,

but that miserable Ezry hasthat is, my assistant's left me, and I have to go it alone, as you might say. So

we'll get you to bed and . . . No, you can't undress yourself, neither. Set still, and I'll have you peeled in a

His guest was making feeble efforts to remove his socks. Atkins pushed him back into the chair and stripped

the blue and dripping rags from feet which were almost as blue from cold. The castaway attempted a weak

"I'm mightily obliged to you. I never realized before that a valet was such a blessing. Most of mine have been

"Land sakes! I don't care what you call me. I was out of my head once myselftyphoid fever 'twasand

they say the things I called the doctor was somethin' scandalous. You ain't responsible. You're beat out, and

your brain's weak, like the rest of you. Now hold on till I get you a nightgown."

"Just a minute," he observed. "Don't you think I had better move to a less conspicuous apartment? The door is

"Ladies!" Mr. Atkins regarded him frowningly. "In the fust place, there ain't a neighbor nigher'n four miles;

and, in the next, I'd have you understand no women come to this house. If you knew me better, young feller,

The nightshirt was one of the lightkeeper's own, and, although Seth was a goodsized man, it fitted the

castaway almost too tightly for comfort. However, it was dry and warm and, by leaving a button or two

unfastened at the neck, answered the purpose well enough. The stranger was piloted to the bedroom, assisted

into the depths of a feather bed, and covered with several layers of blankets and patchwork quilts.

"There!" observed Seth, contentedly, "now you go to sleep. If you get to sweatin', so much the better. 'Twill

He departed, closing the door after him. Then he built a fire in the range, got breakfast, ate it, washed the

dishes and continued his forenoon's work. Not a sound from the bedroom. Evidently the strange arrival had

taken the advice concerning going to sleep. But all the time he was washing dishes, rubbing brass work or

sweeping, Mr. Atkins's mind was busy with the puzzle which fate had handed him. Occasionally he chuckled,

and often he shook his head. He could make nothing out of it. One thing only was certainhe had never

It was half past twelve before there were signs of life in the bedroom. Seth was setting the table for dinner,

"Not a bit. I've got 'em out on the line, and they ain't dry yet. If you'll look on the chair by the sou'west

window you'll find a rigout of mine. I'm afraid 'twill fit you too quickyou're such an elephantbut I'll

Apparently the stranger was willing to risk it, for in a few moments he appeared, dressed in the Atkins

"Basin right there in the sink. Soap in the becket over top of it. Roller towel on the closet door. Ain't you had

"Does make a feller feel like a split herrin', if he ain't used to it. Think you can eat anything?"

"Can I?" The response was enthusiastic. "You watch me! My last meal was yesterday noon."

"Well, Iwell, to be frank, because I hadn't the price. It took my last cent to pay my fare on that blessed

"Two o'clock! What was you doin' up at two o'clock? Why wasn't you in your stateroom asleep?"

"Not altogether. Part of it on my back. But, if you'll excuse familiarity on short acquaintance, those things

"Them's clam fritters, and, if YOU'LL excuse my sayin' so that shouldn't, they ARE good. Set down and fill

The visitor ate nine of the fritters, a slice of driedapple pie, and drank two cups of coffee. Seth, between

intervals of frying and eating, watched him with tremendous curiosity and as much patience as he could

muster. When the pie was finished he asked the first of the questions with which he had been bursting all the

"I'm not very certain just how it happened. I remember leaning over the rail and watching the waves. Then I

"I guess not. I'm a pretty good sailor. I'm inclined to think the cause was that empty stomach you mentioned."

"Gosh! no wonder you got dizzy. If I went without meals for a whole day I cal'late I'd be worse than dizzy.

"Yelled at first, but no one heard me. Then I saw some lights off in this direction and started to swim for

them. I made the shore finally, but I was so used up that I don't remember anything after the landing. Think I

"I presume likely. Wonder 'twasn't your everlastin' nap! Tut! tut! tut! Think of it!"

"I don't want to, thank you. It isn't pleasant enough to think of. I'm here andby the way, where IS here?"

"This is Eastboro townshipEastboro, Cape Cod. Them lights out there are Eastboro TwinLights. I'm the

Seth was embarrassed, but not much. "Well," he admitted, "I don't know's you did say it, come to think of it.

"Oh, whymy name is BrownerJohn Brown. Not the gentleman who was hanged, of course; distant

"Yaas," he drawled slowly, "when you call it strange you ain't exaggeratin' none wuth mentionin'. I s'pose,"

he added, after a moment, during which he stared intently at Mr. Brown, who smiled in polite

acknowledgment of the stare; "I s'pose likely you couldn't possibly remember what port you hailed from?"

"Well," he observed, "I've been up all night, too, and it's past my bedtime. As I told you, my assistant's left all

of a sudden and I'm alone in charge of gov'ment property. I ought to turn in, but" he hesitated.

"Mr. Atkins," he said, "my memory seems to be pretty bad, but I haven't forgotten everything. For instance,"

his smile disappeared, and his tone became earnest, "I can remember perfectly well that I'm not a crook, that I

haven't done anything to be ashamed ofas I see itthat I'm very grateful to you, and that I don't steal. If

you care to believe that and, also, that, being neither a sneak or a thief, I sha'n't clear out with the spoons

The lightkeeper did not answer immediately. The pair looked each other straight in the eye.

"I�ll risk it," he said, curtly. "If I ain't awake by six o'clock I wish you'd call me. You'll find some spare clay

He entered the bedroom and closed the door. Mr. Brown stepped over to the mantel and helped himself to a

At half past five the lightkeeper opened the bedroom door and peeped out. The kitchen was empty. There was

no sign of Mr. Brown. It took Seth just four minutes to climb into the garments he had discarded and reach

the open air. His guest was seated on the bench beside the house, one of the clay pipes in his hand. He was

Atkins grinned. "No," he answered, "'tain't! not quite. But sence Ezry cleared out I've been a kind of human

"Yes, thank you. I say," holding up the pipe and regarding it respectfully, "is this tobacco of yours furnished

"No. Some I bought myself last time I was over to the Center. Why, what's the matter with it? Ain't it good?"

"Strong enough! You're disposed to be sarcastic. It's stronger than I am. What do they flavor it withtar?"

"Why, haw! haw! That's a piece of Ezry's chewin'. Some he left when he went away. It's 'Honest Friend.' 'TIS

"That explains why it bubbled so," he said. "I used twentytwo matches, by actual count, and then gave it up.

Bah!" he smacked his lips disgustedly and made a face: "'Honest Friend'is that the name of it? Meaning

that it'll stick to you through life, I presume. Water has no effect on the taste; I've tried it."

"Maybe some supper might help. I'll wash the dinner dishes and start gettin' it. All there seems to be to this

"Why, what's become of the dishes?" he demanded. "I left 'em here on the table."

"I washed them," he said. "I judged that you would have to if I didn't, and it seemed the least I could do,

"Um!" he grunted, turning the plate over, "that ain't such a bad job. Not so allfired bad, for a green hand.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I didn't see any towels in sight, except that one on the door; and, for various

"So I hunted around, and in the closet in the parlor, or living room, or whatever you call it, I found a whole

"That's it. I should have hung it up somewhere, I suppose. I'll lose my job if I don't look out."

"Only you washed them dishes with the sink cloth and wiped 'em with a piller case."

They looked at each other and burst into a roar of laughter. Brown was the first to recover.

"Well," he observed, "I guess it's up to me. If you'll kindly put me next to a genuine cloth, or sponge, or

whatever is the proper caper for dishwashing, I'll undertake to do them over again. And, for heaven's sake,

Seth protested, declaring that the dishes need not be rewashed that very minute, and that when he got a

chance he would do them himself. But the young man was firm, and, at last, the lightkeeper yielded.

"It's real kind of you," he declared, "and bein' as I've consider'ble to do, I don't know but I'll let you. Here's a

couple of dishcloths, and there's the towels. I'm goin' out to see to the lights, and I'll be back pretty soon and

Later in the evening, after supper, the housework done, they sat again on the bench beside the door, each with

a pipe, filled, this time, with genuine smoking tobacco. Before and below them was the quiet sea, rolling

lazily under the stars. Overhead the big lanterns in the towers thrust their parallel lances of light afar into the

darkness. The only sounds were the low wash of the surf and the hum of the eager mosquitoes. Brown was

silent, alternately puffing at the pipe and slapping at the insects, which latter, apparently finding his skin

easier to puncture than that of the tanned and leathery Atkins, were making the most of their opportunity.

Seth, whose curiosity had been checked but not smothered by his companion's evident desire to say nothing

concerning himself, was busy thinking of various guileful schemes with which to entrap the castaway into the

disclosure of his identity. Having prepared his bait, he proceeded to get over a line.

"Mr. Brown," he said, "I ain't mentioned it to you afore, 'count of your needin' rest and grub and all after your

fallin' overboard last night. But tomorrer you'll be feelin' fustrate again, and I cal'late you'll be wantin' to get

word to your folks. Now we can telephone to the Eastboro depot, where there's a telegraph, and the depot

master'll send a dispatch to your people, lettin' 'em know you're all safe and sound. If you'll just give me the

address and what you want to say, I'll 'tend to it myself. The depot master's a good friend of mine, and he'll

"Trouble! 'Tain't no trouble to telephone. Land sakes, I do it four or five times a day. Now who'll I send it

"I sha'n't send it. It really isn't worth while 'phoning or telegraphing either. I didn't drown, and I'm very

"Comf'table! Yes, you're comf'table, but how about your folks? Won't they learn, soon's that steamer gets

Seth swallowed hard and continued. "Well, wherever she was bound," he snapped. "Won't they learn that you

sot sail in her and never got there? Then they'll know that you MUST have fell overboard."

John Brown drew a mouthful of smoke through the stem of the pipe and blew it spitefully among the

"That'll be easy enough. There'll be your name, 'John Brown,' of such and such a place, written right on the

The lightkeeper felt very much as if this particular road to the truth had ended suddenly in a blind alley. He

pulled viciously at his chin whiskers. His companion shifted his position on the bench. Silence fell again, as

"Atkins," he said briskly, and with considerable bitterness in his tone, "don't you worry about my people.

They don't know where I am, andwell, some of them, at least, don't care. Maybe I'm a rolling stoneat

any rate, I haven't gathered any moss, any financial moss. I'm broke. I haven't any friends, any that I wish to

remember; I haven't any job. I am what you might call down and out. If I had drowned when I fell overboard

last night, it might have been a good thingor it might not. We won't argue the question, because just now

I'm ready to take either side. But let's talk about yourself. You're lightkeeper here?"

"And these particular lights seem to be a good way from everywhere and everybody."

"Five mile from Eastboro Center, sixteen from Denboro, and two from the nighest life savin' station. Why?"

"I noticed a bungalow just across the brook here. It seems to be shut up. Who owns it?"

"Bungawhich? Oh, that cottage over on t'other side the crick? That b'longs to a couple of paintin' fellers

from up Boston way. Not house painters, you understand, but fellers that put in their time paintin' pictures of

the water and the beach and the like of that. Seems a pretty silly job for grownup men, but they're real

pleasant and folksy. Don't put on no airs nor nothin.' They're most gen'rally here every June and July and

August, but I understand they ain't comin' this year, so the cottage'll be shut up. I'll miss 'em, kind of. One of

"Not many. Once in a while a picnic comes over in a livery four seater, but not often. The same gang never

It was an innocent question, but it had an astonishing effect. The lightkeeper bounced on the bench as if

Brown was surprised. "I asked if you were married, that's all," he said. "I can't see"

"Stop!" Seth's voice shook, and he bent down to glare through the darkness at his companion's face. "Stop!"

"Stop sayin' my words after me. Are you a man or a pollparrot? Can't you understand plain United States

language? What made you? Or WHO made you? Who told you to ask me that question?"

He pounded the bench with his fist. The pair stared at each other for a moment; then Brown leaned back and

"It's the mosquitoes," observed the young man, musingly. "They get through and puncture the brain after a

time, I presume. I'm not surprised exactly, but," with a sigh, "I'm very sorry."

"Well," slowly, "I'm not an expert in such cases, but when a perfectly simple, commonplace question sets a

chap to pounding and screaming and offering violence, thenwell, it's either insanity or an attempt at insult,

He scratched a match on his heel and relit his pipe. The lightkeeper still stared, suspicious and puzzled. Then

"Glad to hear it, I'm sure. If I were you, however, I should see a doctor for the other trouble."

"And I ain't crazy, neither. I beg your pardon for hollerin' and grabbin' hold of you."

"Thank ye. Now," hesitatingly, "would you mind tellin' me why you asked me if I was married?"

"Not in the least. I asked merely because it occurred to me that you might be. Of course, I had seen nothing of

your wife, but it was barely possible that she was away on a visit, or somewhere. There is no regulation

forbidding lightkeepers marryingat least, I never heard of anyand so I asked; that's all."

Seth nodded. "I see," he said, slowly; "yes, yes, I see. So you didn't have no special reason."

"I did not. Of course, if I had realized that you were subject to erfits, I should have been more careful."

"Hum! . . . Well, II beg your pardon again. II am kind of touchy on some p'ints. Didn't I tell you no

"Yes, you have. No grudge on my part, I assure you. Let's forget it and talk of something else."

They did, but the dialogue was rather jerky. Brown was thinking, and Atkins seemed moody and disinclined

to talk. After a time he announced that it was getting late and he cal'lated he would go up to the light room.

"Just a minute," said the young man. "Wait just a minute. Atkins, suppose I asked you another

"Yes. Well, this one is harmlessat least, I hope it is. I thought the other was, also, but I . . . There! there! be

calm. Sit down again and listen. This question is nothing like that. It's about that assistant of yours, the chap

who left a day or two before I drifted in. What were his duties? What did he have to do when he was here?"

"Waal," drawled Seth with sarcasm, resuming his seat on the bench; "he was SUPPOSED to do consider'ble

many things. Stand watch and watch with me, and scrub brass and clean up around, and sweep and wash

dishes andandwell, make himself gen'rally useful. Them was the duties he was supposed to have. What

"That's what I'm going to tell you. Have they appointed his successor yet? Have you got any one to take his

"No. Fact is, I'd ought to have telegraphed right off to the Board, but I ain't. I was so glad to see the last of

"Course I'll need to! Why not? Got to have somebody to help. That's rules and regulations; and, besides, I

The young man knocked the ashes from his pipe. Rising, he laid a hand on his companion's shoulder.

"Because you've got an assistant right here on the premises," he said. "Delivered by the Atlantic express right

at your door. Far be it from me to toot my horn, Mr. Atkins, or to proclaim my merits from the housetops.

But, speaking as one discerning person to another, when it comes to an A1, first chop lightkeeper's assistant, I

Seth's reply was not in words. The hand holding his pipe fell limp upon his lap, and he stared at the speaker.

"I repeat," he said, "'What's the matter with John Brown?' And echo answers, 'He's all right!' I am a candidate

"Not a fool. I mean it. I am here. I'm green, but in the sunshine of your experience I agree to ripen rapidly. I

"You wantin' to be assistant at a place like this! YOU! an edicated, able young chap, that's been used to valets

"'Cause, as I hinted to you a spell ago, I ain't altogether a dum fool. I can put two and two together and make

four, without having the example done for me on a blackboard. You're a rich man's son; you've been used to

sassiety and city ways and good clothes. YOU wantin' to put in your days and nights in a forsaken hole like

"No nonsense about it," he declared. "It is the hand of Fate. With the whole broadside of Cape Cod to land

upon, why was I washed ashore just at this particular spot? Answer:Because at this spot, at this time,

Eastboro TwinLights needed an assistant keeper. I like the spot. It is beautiful. 'Far from the madding

crowd's ignoble strife.' With your permission, I'll stay here. The leopard may or may not change his spots, but

I sha'n't. I like this one and here I stay. Yes, I mean it. I stayas your assistant. Come, what do you say? Is it

The lightkeeper rose once more. "I'm goin' on watch," he said with decision. "You turn in. You'll feel better

He started towards the tower. But John Brown sprang from the bench and followed him.

"Not until you've answered my question," he declared. "AM I to be your assistant?"

"No, course you ain't. It's dum foolishness. Besides, I ain't got the say; the government hires its own keepers."

"But you can square the government. That will be easy. Why," with a modest gesture, "look what the

"I sha'n't, neither. Let go of my arm. It's blame foolishness, I tell you. Why," impatiently, "course it's

Again the lightkeeper seemed unaccountably agitated. He stopped in his stride and whirled to face his

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded fiercely. Before the young man could reply, he turned again,

strode to the door of the light, flung it open, and disappeared within. The door closed behind him with a

John Brown gazed after him in bewilderment. Then he shrugged his shoulders and returned to the bench.

The surf at the foot of the bluff grumbled and chuckled wickedly, as if it knew all of poor humanity's secrets

The next morning Seth was gloomy and uncommunicative. At the breakfast table, when Brown glanced up

from his plate, he several times caught the lightkeeper looking intently at him with the distrustful,

halfsuspicious gaze of the night before. Though quite aware of this scrutiny, he made no comment upon it

"Look at me as if you expected me to explode at any minute. I sha'n't. I'm not loaded."

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," he stammered. "Have the moskeeters affected YOUR brains?"

"No. My brains, such as they are, are all right, and I want to keep them so. That's why I request you not to

"Yes, you do. You are wondering how much I know. I don't know anything and I'm not curious. That's the

"No; you see here. I'm not an Old Sleuth; I haven't any ambitions that way. I don't know anything about

"Done!" Seth leaned across the table so suddenly that he upset his chair. "Done?" he cried; "what do you

He brandished a clenched fist over the breakfast dishes. Brown leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Call me when the patient recovers his senses," he drawled wearily. "This delirium is painful to a sensitive

Atkins's fist wavered in midair, opened, and was drawn across its owner's forehead.

"Well, by jiminy!" exclaimed the lightkeeper with emphasis, "this isis . . . I guess I BE crazy. If I ain't,

"It is not the mosquitoes," continued his companion, in apparent soliloquy; "there are no mosquitoes at

present. It must be the other thing, of course. But so early in the morning, and so violent. Alcohol is"

"Addressin' you! For thunder sakes, who else would I be ad . . . There! there! Now I cal'late you're hintin'

"Yes, indeed. And I ain't out of my headnot yet; though keepin' company with a Bedlamite may have some

effect, I shouldn't wonder. Mr. John Brownif that's your name, which I doubtyou listen to me."

"Very well, Mr. Seth Atkinsif that is your name, which I neither doubt nor believe, not being particularly

"You told me last night that you wanted the job of assistant keeper here at these lights. Course you didn't

Seth looked at him, and he looked at Seth. At length the lightkeeper spoke again.

"Well," he said, slowly, "I don't understand it at all, but never mind. Whatever happens, we've got to

understand each other. Mind I don't say the job's yours, even if we do; but we can't even think of it unless we

understand each other plain. To begin with, I want to tell you that I ain't done nothin' that's crooked, nor

wicked, nor nothin' but what I think is right and what I'd do over again. Do you believe that?"

"Certainly. As I told you, I'm not interested, but I'll believe it with pleasure if you wish me to."

"I don't wish nothin'. You've GOT to believe it. And whether you stay here ten minutes or ten years you've

got to mind your own business. I won't have any hints or questions about mefrom you nor nobody else.

'Mind your own business,' that's the motto of Eastboro TwinLights, while I'm boss of 'em. If you don't like

it well, the village is only five mile off, and I'll p'int out the road to you."

He delivered this ultimatum with extraordinary energy. Then he reached for his overturned chair, set it on its

legs, and threw himself into it. "Well," he demanded, after a moment; "what do you say to that?"

"Hurrah? For the land sakes! . . . Say, CAN'T you talk sensible, if you try real hard and set your mind to it?

"Everything. The whole situation. Atkins," Brown leaned forward now and spoke with earnestness, "I like

your motto. It suits me. 'Mind your own business' suits me down to the ground. It proves that you and I were

"You do know. Why, just think: each of us has pleaded 'not guilty.' We've done nothingwe're entirely

innocentand we want to forget it. I agree not to ask you how old you are, nor why you wear your brand of

whiskers, nor how you like them, nornor anything. I agree not to ask questions at all."

"Purely by accident. You didn't answer them. You asked me some, also, if you will remember, and I didn't

"I know. Neither have I. Let the dead past be its own undertaker, so far as we are concerned. I'm honest,

Atkins, and tolerably straight. I believe you are; I really do. But we don't care to talk about ourselves, that's

all. And, fortunately, kind Providence has brought us together in a place where there's no one else TO talk. I

"Hey? Ho, ho!" Seth laughed, in spite of himself. "Young man," he observed, "you ain't cultivated your

Brown smiled. "Joking aside," he said, "I don't see why I shouldn't, in time, make an ideal assistant

lightkeeper. Give me a trial, at any rate. I need an employer; you need a helper. Here we both are. Come; it is

Of course, had Eastboro TwinLights been an important station, the possibility of John Brown's remaining

there would have been nonexistent. If it had been winter, or even early spring or fall, a regular assistant

would have been appointed at once, and the castaway given his walking papers. If Seth Atkins had not been

Seth Atkins, particular friend of the district superintendent, matters might have been different. But the

Eastboro lights were unimportant, merely a halfway mark between Orham on the one hand and the powerful

Seaboard Heights beacon on the other. It was the beginning of summer, when wrecks almost never occurred.

And the superintendent liked Seth, and Seth liked him. So, although Mr. Atkins still scoffed at his guest's

becoming a permanent fixture at the lights, and merely consented, after more parley, to see if he couldn't

arrange for him to "hang around and help a spell until somebody else was sent," the conversation with the

superintendent over the long distance 'phone resulted more favorably for Brown than that nonchalant young

"The Lord knows who I can send you now, Atkins!" said the superintendent. "I can't think of a man anywhere

that can be spared. If you can get on for a day or two longer, I'll try to get a helper down! but where he's

Then Seth sprung the news that he had a "sort of helper" already. "He's a likely young chap enough,"

admitted the lightkeeper, whispering the words into the transmitter, in order that the "likely young chap"

might not hear; "but he's purty green yet. He wants the reg'lar job and, give me time enough, I cal'late I can

break him in. Yes, I'm pretty sure I can. And it's the off season, so there really ain't no danger. In a month

"Name's Brown. He come fromfrom off here a ways," was the strictly truthful answer. "He used to be on a

"All right. If you'll take a share of the responsibility, I'll take the rest. And, as soon as I can, I'll send you a

"I can't pay you no steady wages," Seth explained to his new helper. "Salaries come from the gov'ment, and,

until they say so, I ain't got no right to do it. And I can't let you monkey with the lights, except to clean up

around and such. If you want to stay a spell, until an assistant's app'inted, I'll undertake to be responsible for

your keep. And if you need some new shoes or stockin's or a cap, or the like of that, I'll see you get 'em.

Further'n that I can't go yet. It's a pretty poor job for a fellow like you, and if I was you I wouldn't take it."

"Oh, yes, you would," replied Brown, with conviction. "If you were I, you would take it with bells on. Others

may yearn for the strenuous life, but not your humble servant. As for me, I stay here and 'clean up around.'"

And stay he did, performing the cleaning up and other duties with unexpected success and zeal. Atkins, for

the first day or two, watched him intently, being still a trifle suspicious and fearful of his "substitute

assistant." But as time passed and the latter asked no more questions, seemed not in the least curious

concerning his superior, and remained the same cool, easygoing, cheerful individual whom Seth had found

asleep on the beach, the lightkeeper's suspicions were ended. It was true that Brown was as mysterious and

secretive as ever concerning his own past, but that had been a part of their bargain. Atkins, who prided

himself on being a judge of human nature, decided that his helper was a young gentleman in trouble, but that

the trouble, whatever it might be, involved nothing criminal or dishonest. That he was a gentleman, he was

surehis bearing and manner proved that; but he was a gentleman who did not "put on airs." Not that there

was any reason why he should put on airs, but, so far as that was concerned, there was no apparent reason for

the monumental conceit and condescension of some of the inflated city boarders in the village. Brown was

Seth had taken a fancy to him at their first meeting. Now his liking steadily increased. Companionship in a

lonely spot like Eastboro TwinLights is a test of a man's temper. Brown stood the test well. If he made

mistakes in the workand he did make some ridiculous oneshe cheerfully undid them when they were

pointed out to him. He was, for the most part, goodnatured and willing to talk, though there were periods

when he seemed depressed and wandered off by himself along the beach or sat by the edge of the bluff,

staring out to sea. The lightkeeper made no comment on this trait in his character. It helped to confirm his

own judgment concerning the young fellow's trouble. People in trouble were subject to fits of the "blues," and

during these fits they liked to be alone. Seth knew this from his own experience. There were times when he,

He trusted his helper more and more. He did not, of course, permit him to take the night watch in the lights,

but he did trust him to the extent of leaving him alone for a whole afternoon while he drove the old horse,

attached to the antique "open wagon"both steed and vehicle a part of the government propertyover to

Eastboro to purchase tobacco and newspapers at the store. On his return he found everything as it should be,

and this test led him to make others, each of which was successful in proving John Brown faithful over a few

things and, therefore, in time, to be intrusted with many and more important ones.

Brown, on his part, liked Seth. He had professed to like him during the conversation at the breakfast table

which resulted in his remaining at the lights, but then he was not entirely serious. He was, of course, grateful

for the kindness shown him by the odd longshoreman and enjoyed the latter's society and droll remarks as he

would have enjoyed anything out of the ordinary and quaintly amusing. But now he really liked the man. Seth

Atkins was a countryman, and a marked contrast to any individual Brown had ever met, but he was far from

being a fool. He possessed a fund of dry common sense, and his comments on people and happenings in the

worlda knowledge of which he derived from the newspapers and magazines obtained on his trips to

Eastborowere a constant delight. And, more than all, he respected his companion's desire to remain a

mystery. Brown decided that Atkins was, as he had jokingly called him, a man with a past. What that past

might be, he did not know or try to learn. "Mind your own business," Seth had declared to be the motto of

The lightkeeper stood watch in the tower at night. During most of the day he slept; but, after the first week

was over, and his trust in his helper became more firm, he developed the habit of rising at two in the

afternoon, eating a breakfastor dinner, or whatever the meal might be calledand wandering off along the

crooked road leading south and in the direction of Pounddug Slough. The road, little used and grass grown,

twisted and turned amid the dunes until it disappeared in a distant grove of scrub oaks and pitch pines. Each

afternoonexcept on Sundays and on the occasions of his excursions to the villageAtkins would rise from

the table, saunter to the door to look at the weather, and then, without excuse or explanation, start slowly

down the road. For the first hundred yards he sauntered, then the saunter became a brisk walk, and when he

reached the edge of the grove he was hurrying almost at a dog trot. Sometimes he carried a burden with him,

a brown paper parcel brought from Eastboro, a hammer, a saw, or a coil of rope. Once he descended to the

boathouse at the foot of the bluff by the inlet and emerged bearing a big bundle of canvas, apparently an old

sail; this he arranged, with some difficulty, on his shoulder and stumbled up the slope, past the corner of the

house and away toward the grove. Brown watched him wonderingly. Where was he going, and why? What

was the mysterious destination of all these tools and old junk? Where did Seth spend his afternoons and why,

when he returned, did his hands and clothes smell of tar? The substitute assistant was puzzled, but he asked

Yet the solution came, and in an unexpected way. Seth drove to the village one afternoon and returned with

literature, smoking materials and an announcement. The latter he made during supper.

"I tried to buy that fly paper we wanted today," he observed, as a preliminary. "Couldn't get none. All out."

"But will have some in very shortly, I presume," suggested the assistant, who knew the idiosyncrasies of

"Oh, yes, sartin! Expectin' it every minute. That store's got a consider'ble sight more expectations in it than it

has anything else. They're always six months ahead of the season or behind it in that store. When it's so cold

that the snow birds get chilblains they'll have the shelves chuck full of fly paper. Now, when it's hotter than a

kittle of pepper tea, the bulk of their stock is ice picks and mittens. Bah! However, they're goin' to send the

"Yup. That's what I was goin' to tell youabout the dog. I ordered a dog today. Didn't pay nothin' for him,

you understand. Henry G., the storekeeper, gave him to me. The boy'll fetch him down when he fetches the

"Sure thing. Why not? Got room enough to keep a whole zoological menagerie if we wanted to, ain't we?

Besides, a dog'll be handy to have around. Bill Foster, the life saver, told me that somebody busted into the

station henhouse one night a week ago and got away with four of their likeliest pullets. He cal'lates 'twas

tramps or boys. We don't keep hens, but there's some stuff in that boathouse I wouldn't want stole, and, bein'

as there's no lock on the door, a dog would be a sort of protection, as you might say."

"Why not? 'Tain't any further away from the rest of creation than the life savin' station, is it? Anyhow, Henry

G. give the dog to me free for nothin', and that's a miracle of itself. You'd say so, too, if you knew Henry. I

was so surprised that I said I'd take it right off; felt 'twould be flyin' in the face of Providence not to. A

miraclejumpin' Judas! I never knew Henry to give anybody anything aforeunless 'twas the smallpox,

"I don't know. Henry used to own the mother of it, and she was one quarter mastiff and the rest assorted

varieties. This one he's givin' me ain't a whole dog, you see; just a halfgrown pup. The varioloid all over

againhey? Ho, ho! I didn't really take him for sartin, you understand; just on trial. If we like him, we'll

The third afternoon following this announcement, Brown was alone in the kitchen, and busy. Seth had

departed on one of his mysterious excursions, carrying a coil of rope, a pulley and a gallon can of paint.

Before leaving the house he had given his helper some instructions concerning supper.

"Well, it's simple enough. All you've got to do is bile him. Bile him in hot water till he's done."

"I see." The substitute assistant was not enthusiastic. Cooking he did not love.

"Humph!" he grunted. "I imagined if he was boiled at all, it was be in hot water, not cold."

Atkins chuckled. "I mean you want to have the water bilin' hot when you put him in," he explained. "Wait till

"OherI can't tell you. You'll have to trust to your instinct, I cal'late. When he looks done, he IS done,

"Dear me! how clear you make it. Would you mind hintin' as to how he looks when he's done?"

"Yes, of course. How stupid of me! He is done when he looks done, and when he looks done he is done. Any

"No. Brown! the idea! Red, of course. He's green when you put him in the kittle, and when you take him out,

"Yes, that will help some. All right, I'll boil him till he's red, you needn't worry about that."

"Oh, I sha'n't worry. So long. I'll be back about six or so. Put him in when the water's good and hot, and you'll

"Who? the lobster? There's dozens down in the car by the wharf. Lift the cover and fish one out with the dip

net. Pick out the biggest one you can find, 'cause I'm likely to be hungry when I get back, and your appetite

ain't a hummin' bird's. There! I've got to go if I want to get anything done afore . . . Humph! never mind.

He hurried away, as if conscious that he had said more than he intended. At the corner of the house he turned

"I say! Brown! be kind of careful when you dip him out. None of 'em are plugged."

"I say none of them lobsters' claws are plugged. I didn't have time to plug the last lot I got from my pots, so

you want to handle 'em careful like, else they'll nip you. Tote the one you pick out up to the house in the

Evidently considering this warning sufficient to prevent any possible trouble, he departed. John Brown seated

himself in the armchair by the door and gazed at the sea. He gazed and thought until he could bear to think no

longer; then he rose and entered the kitchen, where he kindled a fire in the range and filled a kettle with

water. Having thus made ready the sacrificial altar, he took the longhandled dipnet from its nail and

The lobster car, a goodsized affair of laths with a hinged cover closing the opening in its upper surface, was

floating under the wharf, to which it was attached by a rope. Brown knelt on the stringpiece and peered

down at it. It floated deep in the water, the tide rippling strongly through it, between the laths. The cover was

The substitute assistant, after a deal of futile and exasperating poking with the handle of the net, managed to

turn the button and throw back the leatherhinged cover. Through the square opening the water beneath

looked darkly green. There was much seaweed in the car, and occasionally this weed was stirred by living

John Brown reversed the net, and, lying flat on the wharf, gingerly thrust the business end of the contrivance

through the opening and into the dark, weedstreaked water. Then he began feeling for his prey.

He could feel it. Apparently the car was alive with lobsters. As he moved the net through the water there was

always one just before it or behind it; but at least ten minutes elapsed before he managed to get one in it. At

length, when his arms were weary and his patience almost exhausted, the submerged net became heavy, and

the handle shook in his grasp. He shortened his hold and began to pull in hand over hand. He had a lobster, a

He could see a pair of claws opening and shutting wickedly. He raised the creature through the opening,

balanced the net on its edge, rose on one knee, tried to stand erect, stumbled, lost his hold on the handle and

shot the lobster neatly out of the meshes, over the edge of the car, and into the free waters of the channel.

Five minutes later he got another, but it was too small to be of use. In twenty minutes he netted three more,

two of which got away. The third, however, he dragged pantingly to the wharf and sat beside it, gloating. It

was his for keeps, and it was a big one, the greatgrandaddy of lobsters. Its claws clashed and snapped at the

Carrying it as far from his body as its weight at the end of the handle would permit, he bore it in triumph to

the kitchen. To boil a lobster alive had seemed a mean trick, and cruel, when Seth Atkins first ordered him to

do it. Now he didn't mind; it would serve the thing right for being so hard to catch. Entering the kitchen, he

balanced the net across a chair and stepped to the range to see if the water was boiling. It was not, and for a

The fire, newly kindled, had burned to the last ash. If he had been there to add more coal in season, it would

have survived; but he had been otherwise engaged. There was nothing to be done except rake out the ashes

and begin anew. This he did. When he removed the kettle he decided at once that it was much too small for

the purpose required of it. To boil a lobster of that size in a kettle of that size would necessitate boiling one

end at a time, and that, both for the victim and himself, would be troublesome and agonizing. He hunted

about for a larger kettle and, finding none, seized in desperation upon the wash boiler, filled it, and lifted it to

The fire burned slowly, and he sat down to rest and wait. As he sank into the chairnot that across which the

netted lobster was balanced, but anotherhe became aware of curious sounds from without. Distant sounds

they were, far off and faint, but growing steadily louder; wails and longdrawn howls, mournful and

"What in the world?" muttered Brown, and ran out of the kitchen and around the corner of the house.

There was nothing in sight, nothing strange or unusual, that is. Joshua, Seth's old horse, picketted to a post in

the back yard and grazing, or trying to graze, on the stubby beach grass, was the only living exhibit. But the

Over the rise of a dune, a hundred yards off, where the road to Eastboro village dipped towards a swampy

hollow, appeared a horse's head and the top of a covered wagon. A moment later the driver became visible, a

freckled faced boy grinning like a pumpkin lantern. The horse trotted through the sand up to the lights.

Joshua whinnied as if he enjoyed the prospect of company. From the back of the wagon, somewhere beneath

"For heaven's sake," exclaimed the lightkeeper's helper, running to meet the vehicle, "what is the matter?"

The boy grinned more expansively than ever. "Whoa!" he shouted, to the horse he was driving. The animal

stopped in his tracks, evidently glad of the opportunity. Another howl burst from the covered depths of the

"I've got him," said the boy, with a triumphant nod and a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder. "He's in there."

"Job. He's in there. Hear him? He's been goin' on like that ever since he finished his bone, and that was over

two mile back. Say," admiringly, "he's some singer, ain't he! Hear that, will ye?"

Another wail arose from the wagon. Brown hastened to the rear of the vehicle, on the canvas side of which

were painted the words "Henry G. Goodspeed, Groceries, Dry and Fancy Goods and Notions, Eastboro," and

peered in over the tailboard. The interior of the wagon was well nigh filled by a big box with strips of board

nailed across its top. From between these strips a tawny nose was uplifted. As the helper stared wonderingly

"That's him," declared the boy. "Hi, there, Job, tune up now! What's the matter with ye?"

His answer was an unearthly howl from the box, accompanied by a mighty scratching. The boy laughed

Brown stepped on the hub of a rear wheel, and, clinging to the post of the wagon cover, looked down into the

"Sure, it's a dog. Or he'll be a dog when he grows up. Nothin' but a pup now, he ain't. where's Seth?"

"Don't ye? When's he comin' back? HUSH UP!" This last was a command to the prisoner in the box, who

"I don't know when he'll be back. Do you want to see him personally? Won't I do? I'm in charge here till he

"Be ye? Oh, you're the new assistant from Boston. You'll do. All I want to do is unload himJob, I

meanand leave a couple bundles of fly paper Seth ordered. Here!" lowering the tailboard and climbing into

the wagon, you catch aholt of t'other end of the box, and I'll shove on this one. Hush up, Job! Nobody's goin'

He began pushing the box toward the open end of the wagon. The dog's whines and screams and scratchings

"Wait! Stop! For heaven's sake, wait!" shouted Brown. "What are you putting that brute off here for? I don't

"Yes, you do. Seth does, anyhow. Henry G. made him a present of Job last time Seth was over to the store.

Then the substitute assistant remembered. This was the "halfgrown pup" Atkins had said was to be brought

"Then stand by while I unload him. Here he comes now. H'ist him down easy as you can."

That was not too easy, for the end of the box slid from the tail board to the ground with a thump that shook

the breath from the prisoner within. But the breath came back again and furnished motive power for more and

worse howls and whines. Joshua pricked up his ears and trotted to the further end of his halter.

"There!" said Henry G.'s boy, jumping to the ground beside the box, "that's off my hands, thank the mercy!

Here's your fly paper. Five dozen sheets. You must have pretty nigh as many flies down here as you have

"Wait a minute," pleaded Brown. "What shall I do with thiser blessed dog? Is he savage? Why did you

"'Cause 'twas the easiest way. You couldn't tie him up, not in a cart no bigger'n this. Might's well tie up an

elephant. Besides, he won't stay tied up nowheres. Busted more clotheslines than I've got fingers and toes,

that pup has. He needs a chain cable to keep him to his moorin's. Don't ye, Job, you old earthquake? Hey?"

He pounded on the box, and the earthquake obliged with a renewed series of shocks and shakings.

"Henry G.'s cousin from Boston. He said he seemed to be always sufferin' and fillin' the land with roarin's,

like Job in the Bible. So, bein' as he hadn't no name except cuss words, that one stuck. I cal'late Henry G.'s

"No. That's the best part of the joke. Well," clambering to his seat and picking up the reins, "I've got five mile

of sand and moskeeters to navigate, so I've got to be joggin'. Oh, say! goin' to leave him in the box there, be

"Well, I wouldn't leave him too long. He's stronger'n Samson and the Philippines rolled together, and he's

humped up his back so much on the way acrost that he's started most of the nails in them slats over top of

him. I tell ye what you do: Give him a bone or a chunk of tough meat to chaw on. Then he'll rest easy for a

spell. Goodbye. I wish I could stay and see Seth when he looks at his present, but I can't. Giddap, January."

The grocery wagon rolled out of the yard. The forsaken Job sent a roar of regret after him. Also, he "humped

us his back," and the nails holding the slats in place started and gave alarmingly. John Brown hastened to the

He found one, after a time, the relic of a ham, with a good deal of meat on it. Atkins, economical soul, would

have protested in horror against the sinful waste, but his helper would cheerfully have sacrificed a whole hog

to quiet the wails from the box in the yard. He pushed the ham bone between the slats, and Job received it

greedily. The howls and whines ceased and were succeeded by gnawings and crunchings. Brown returned to

This time the fire was not out, but it burned slowly. The water in the wash boiler was only lukewarm. The big

lobster in the net balanced on the chair clashed his claws wickedly as the substitute assistant approached. The

door had been left open, and the room hummed with flies. Brown shut the door and, while waiting for the

water to heat, separated a dozen sheets of the sticky fly paper and placed them in conspicuous places. He

wondered as he did so what some of his former acquaintances would say if they could see him. HeHEa

cook, and a roustabout, a dishwasher and a scrubber of brass at Eastboro TwinLights! How long must he

stay there? For months at least. He should be thankful that he was there; thankful that there was such a place,

where no one came and where he could remain until he was forgotten. He was thankful, of course he was. But

He wondered what Atkins thought of him; how much the lightkeeper guessed concerning his identity and his

story. He could not guess within miles of the truth, but he must indulge in some curious speculations. Then he

fell to wondering about Seth himself. What was it that the lightkeeper was hiding from the world? Odd that

two people, each possessing a secret, should come together at that lonely spot. Where was it that Seth went

almost every afternoon? Had these daily absences any connection with the great mystery?

He distributed the sheets of fly paper about the room, in places where he judged them likely to do the most

good, and had the satisfaction of seeing a number of the tormenting insects caught immediately. Then he

He had almost forgotten the dog, but now was reminded by the animal itself, who, having apparently

swallowed the bone whole, began once more to howl lugubriously. Brown decided to let him howl for the

present, and, going into the livingroom, picked up an old magazine and began listlessly to read.

The howls from the yard continued, swelled to a crescendo of shrieks and then suddenly ceased. A moment

later there was a thump and a mighty scratching at the kitchen door. The substitute assistant dropped the

He did not finish the sentence. There was no need. If he had any doubts as to the cause of the racket at the

door they were dispelled by a howl like a fog whistle. "Job" had escaped from durance vile and was seeking

Brown muttered an exclamation of impatience and, opening the door a very little way, peeped through the

crack. The puphe looked like a scrawny young lionhailed his appearance with a series of wild yelps. His

mouth opened like a Mammoth Cave in miniature, and a foot of red tongue flapped like a danger signal.

Job did not get out. Instead he yelped again and capered with the grace of a cow. His feet and legs seemed to

have grown out of proportion to the rest of him; they were enormous. Down the length of his yellow back

were three raw furrows which the nails of the box cover had scraped as he climbed from under them.

The good old boy pranced joyfully and made a charge at the door. Brown slammed it shut just in time.

The answer was a mighty howl of disappointment and an assault on the door which threatened to shatter the

This would never do. The paint on that door had been furnished by the government, and Atkins was very

careful of it. Brown, within, pounded a protest and again commanded the dog to go and lie down. Job,

without, thumped and scratched and howled louder than ever. He had decidedly the best of the duet, and the

door was suffering every second. Brown picked up the fire shovel and threw the door wide open.

He brandished the shovel, expecting an assault. But none came. It was evident that Job knew a shovel when

he saw it, had encountered other shovels in the course of his brief young life. His ears and tail drooped, and

"Clear out!" repeated Brown, advancing threateningly. With each step of the advance, Job retreated a

corresponding distance. When the assistant stopped, he stopped. Brown lowered the shovel and looked at

"Humph!" grunted the young man; "I guess you're not as dangerous as you look. Stay where you are and keep

He turned to enter the kitchen, turning again just in time to find the pup at his heels. He lifted the shovel, and

Job jumped frantically out of reach, sat down in a clump of beach grass, lifted his nose to the sky and

"Goodheavens!" observed John Brown fervently, and, shifting the shovel to his left hand, rubbed his

forehead with his right. Job howled once more and gazed at him with sorrowful appeal. The situation was so

ridiculous that the young man began to laugh. This merriment appeared to encourage the pup, who stopped

howling and began to caper, throwing the loose sand from beneath his paws in showers.

"Humph! Well . . . well, all right. I'm not going to hurt you. Stay where you are, and I won't shut the door."

But this compromise was not satisfactory, because the moment the young man started to cross the threshold

the dog started to follow. When Brown halted, he followed suitand howled. Then the substitute assistant

"All right," he said. "Come in, then, if you want to. Come in! but for goodness sake keep still when you are

He strode into the kitchen, leaving the door open. Job slunk after him, and crouched with his muzzle across

the sill, evidently not yet certain that his victory was complete. He did not howl, however, and his late

Brown bethought himself of the water in the wash boiler and, removing the cover, tested it with his finger. It

was steadily heating, but not yet at the boiling point. He pushed the boiler aside, lifted a lid of the range and

inspected the fire. From behind him came a yelp, another, a thump, and then a series of thumps and yelps. He

The moment his back was turned, the pup had sneaked into the kitchen. It was not a large kitchen, and Job

was distinctly a large dog. Also, he was suspicious of further assaults with the fire shovel and had endeavored

to find a hiding place under the table. In crawling beneath this article of furniture he had knocked off a sheet

of the fly paper. This had fallen "butter side down" upon his back, and stuck fast. He reached aft to pull it

loose with his teeth and had encountered a second sheet laid on a chair. This had stuck to his neck. Job was

an apprehensive animal by nature and as the result of experience, and his nerves were easily unstrung. He

forgot the shovel, forgot the human whom he had been fearfully trying to propitiate, forgot everything except

the dreadful objects which clung to him and pulled his hair. He rolled from beneath the table, a shrieking,

He rolled and whirled for an instant, then scrambled to his feet and began running in widening circles. Brown

tried to seize him as he passed, but he might as well have seized a railroad train. Another chair, also loaded

with fly paper, upset, and Job added a third sheet to his collection. This one plastered itself across his nose

and eyes. He ceased running forward and began to leap high in the air and backwards. The net containing the

big lobster fell to the floor. Then John Brown fled to the open air, leaned against the side of the building and

Inside the kitchen the uproar was terrific. Howls, shrill yelps, thumps and crashes. Then came a crash louder

than any preceding it, a splash of water across the sill, and from the doorway leaped, or flew, an object

steaming and dripping, fluttering with fly paper, and with a giant lobster clamped firmly to its tail. The

lobster was knocked off against the door post, but the rest of the exhibit kept on around the corner of the

house, shrieking as it flew. Brown collapsed in the sand and laughed until his sides ached and he was too

At last he got up and staggered after it. He was still laughing when he reached the back yard, but there he

Of Job there was no sign, though from somewhere amid the dunes sounded yelps, screams and the breaking

of twigs as the persecuted one fled blindly through the bayberry and beachplum bushes. But Brown was not

anxious about the dog. What caused him to shout and then break into a run was the sight of Joshua, the old

horse, galloping at top speed along the road to the south. Even his sedate and ancient calm had not been proof

against the apparition which burst from the kitchen. In his fright he had broken his halter rope and

That horse was the apple of Seth Atkins's eye. The lightkeeper believed him to be a wonder of strength and

endurance, and never left the lights without cautioning his helper to keep an eye on Joshua, "'cause if

anything happened to him I'd have to hunt a mighty long spell to find another that could tech him." Brown

accepted this trust with composure, feeling morally certain that the only thing likely to happen to Joshua was

death from overeating or old age. And now something had happenedJoshua was running away.

There was but one course to take; Brown must leave the government's property in its own care and capture

that horse. He had laughed until running seemed an impossibility, but run he must, and did, after a fashion.

But Joshua was running, too, and he was frightened. He galloped like a colt, and the assistant lightkeeper

The road was crooked and hilly, and the sand in its ruts was deep. Brown would not have gained at all, but for

the fact that the horse, from long habit, kept to the roadway and never tried short cuts. His pursuer did, and,

therefore, just as Joshua entered the grove on the bluff above Pounddug Slough, Brown caught up with him

and made a grab at the end of the trailing halter. He missed it, and the horse took a fresh start.

The road through the grove was overgrown with young trees and bushes, and amid these the animal had a

distinct advantage. Not until the outer edge of the grove was reached did the panting assistant get another

But Joshua did not "whoa" at once. He kept on along the edge of the high, sandy slope. Brown, from the tail

of his eye, caught a glimpse of the winding channel of the Slough beneath him, of a small schooner heeled

over on the mud flat at its margin, and of the figure of a man at work beside it.

Perhaps the horse would have stood stillhe seemed about to do so but from the distance, somewhere on

the road he had just traversed, came a howl, longdrawn and terrifyingly familiar. Joshua heard it, jumped

sidewise, jerked at the halter and, as if playing "snap the whip," sent his wouldbe captor heels over head

over the edge of the bank and rolling down the sandy slope. The halter flew from Brown's hands, he rolled

and bumped and clutched at clumps of grass and bushes. Then he struck the beach and stopped,

Brown looked up. Seth Atkins, a paint pail in one hand and a dripping brush in the other, was standing beside

The substitute assistant raised himself to his knees, rubbed his back with one hand, and then, turning, sat in

the sand and returned his superior's astonished gaze with one of equal bewilderment.

"Hello!" he gasped. "Well, by George! it's you, isn't it! What are you doing here?"

"What am I doin'?" he repeated. "What am I doin'? Say!" His astonishment changed to suspicion and

wrath. "Never you mind what I'm doin'," he went on. "That's my affairs. What are YOU doin' here? That's

"You don't, hey? Well, you'd better find out. Maybe I can help you to remember. Sneakin' after me, wa'n't

He shook the wet paint brush angrily at his helper. Brown looked at him for an instant; then he rose to his

"Didn't I tell you that mindin' your own business was part of our dicker if you was goin' to stay at Eastboro

The young man answered with a contemptuous shrug. Turning on his heel, he started to walk away. Atkins

"Back to the lights. And you may go to the devil, or anywhere else that suits your convenience, and take your

From the top of the bluff came a crashing and a series of yelps. Through the thicket of beachplum bushes was

"Yes." From somewhere in the grove came a thrashing of branches and a frightened neigh. "And that," he

continued, "is Joshua, I presume. If there are more Old Testament patriarchs in the vicinity, I don't know

where they are, and I don't care. You may hunt for them yourself. I'm going to follow your advice and mind

He strode off up the beach. Job, at the top of the bank, started to follow, but a wellaimed pebble caused him

"Hold on!" roared the lightkeeper. "Maybe I made a mistake. Perhaps you wa'n't spyin' on me. Don't go off

But John Brown did not wait. He strode rapidly away up the beach. Seth stared after him. From the grove,

where his halter had caught firmly in the fork of a young pine, Joshua thrashed and neighed.

An hour later Atkins, leading the weary and homesick Joshua by the bridle, trudged in at the lighthouse yard.

Job, still ornamented with remnants of the fly paper, slunk at his heels. Seth stabled the horse and, after some

manoeuvering, managed to decoy the dog down the slope to the boathouse, where he closed the door upon

The table was set for one, and in the wash boiler on the range the giant lobster was cooking. Of the substitute

assistant keeper there was no sign, but, after searching, Seth found him in his room.

Brown did not seem interested. "Your supper is ready, I think," he answered. "I tried not to forget anything."

The lightkeeper stared, grunted, and then went out of the room. He ate a lonely meal, not of the lobsterhe

kept that for another occasionbut one made up of cold scraps from the pantry. He wandered uneasily about

the premises, quieted Job's wails for the time by a gift of eatable odds and ends tossed into the boathouse,

smoked, tried to read, and, when it grew dusk, lit the lamps in the towers. At last he walked to the closed door

"It's me, Atkins," he announced, hesitatingly. "I'd like to speak to you, if you don't mind."

"Well, nonot exactly. Say, Brown, I guess likely I'd ought to beg your pardon again. I cal'late I've made

another mistake. I jedge you wa'n't spyin' on me when you dove down that bankin'."

"No, I'm sartin you wa'n't. I apologize and take it all back. Now can I come in?"

The door was thrown open. Seth entered, looking sheepish, and sat down in the little caneseated rocker.

"Say," he began, after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "would you mindnow that I've begged your

pardon and alltellin' me what did happen while I was away. I imagine, judgin' by the looks of things in the

"I'll tell you," he said. "Of course you know where thater remarkable dog came from?"

"I can guess," drily. "Henry G.'s present, ain't he? Humph! Well, I'd ought to have known that anything Henry

would GIVE away was likely to be remarkable in all sorts of ways. All right! that's one Henry's got on me.

Tomorrow afternoon me and Job take a trip back to Eastboro, and one of us stays there. It may be me, but I

have my doubts. I agreed to take a DOG on trial, not a yellerjaundiced cow with a church organ inside of it.

Hear the critter whoopin' down there in the boathouse! And he's eat everything that's chewable on the

reservation already. He's a famine on legs, that pup. But never mind him. He's been triedand found guilty.

Brown began the tale of the afternoon's performances, beginning with his experience as a lobster catcher.

Seth smiled, then chuckled, and finally burst into roars of laughter, in which the narrator joined.

"Jiminy crimps!" exclaimed Seth, when the story was finished. "Oh, by jiminy crimps! that beats the Dutch,

and everybody's been told what the Dutch beat. Ha, ha! ho, ho! Brown, I apologize all over again. I don't

wonder you was put out when I accused you of spyin'. Wonder you hadn't riz up off that sand and butchered

me where I stood. Cal'late that's what I'd have done in your place. Well, I hope there's no hard feelin's now."

"That's good. Erersay, youyou must have been sort of surprised to see me paintin' the Daisy M."

"Yes, it's fair now, but looks sort of thick to the east'ard. I say you must have been surprised to see me

paintin' the Daisy M. I've been tinkerin' on that old boat, off and on, ever since last fall. Bought her for eight

dollars of the feller that owned her, and she was a hulk for sartin then. I've caulked her up and rigged her,

after a fashion. Now she might float, if she had a chance. Every afternoon, pretty nigh, I've been at her. Don't

know exactly why I do it, neither. And yet I do, too. Prob'ly you've wondered where I was takin" all that old

"Excuse me, Atkins. I mind my own business, you know. I ask no questions, and you are under no obligation

"I know, I know." The lightkeeper nodded solemnly. He clasped his knee with his hands and rocked back and

forth in his chair. "I know," he went on, an absent, wistful look in his eye; "but you must have wondered, just

the same. I bought that craft becausewell, because she reminded me of old times, I cal'late. I used to

command a schooner like her once; bigger and lots more able, of course, but a fishin' schooner, same as she

used to be. And I was a good skipper, if I do say it. My crews jumped when I said the word, now I tell you.

He paused. Brown made no comment. Seth continued to rock and to talk; he seemed to be thinking aloud.

"Yes, sir," he declared, with a sigh; "when I was afloat I was a man, and folks respected me. I just do love salt

water and sailin' craft. That's why I bought the Daisy M. I've been riggin' her and caulkin' her just for the fun

of doin' it. She'll never float again. It would take a tide like a flood to get her off them flats. But when I'm

aboard or putterin' around her, I'm happyhappier, I mean. It makes me forget I'm a goodfornothin'

derelict, stranded in an old woman's job of lightkeepin'. Ah, humaday, young feller, you don't know what it

is to have been somebody, and then, because you was a fool and did a fool thing, to be nothin'nothin'! You

John Brown caught his breath. His fist descended upon the window ledge beside him.

"Whywhy, yes," he said, hastily; "I s'pose likely you do. . . . Well, good night. I've got to go on watch. See

Seth was true to his promise concerning Job. The next afternoon that remarkable canine was decoyed, by the

usual bone, into the box in which he had arrived. Being in, the cover was securely renailed above him. Brown

and the lightkeeper lifted the box into the back part of the "open wagon," and Atkins drove triumphantly

away, the pup's agonized protests against the journey serving as spurs to urge Joshua faster along the road to

the village. When, about six o'clock, Seth reentered the yard, he was grinning broadly.

"Who? Henry G.? I don't know about the willin' part, but he'll take him back. I attended to that."

"What did he say? Did he think you ungrateful for refusing to accept his present?"

Atkins laughed aloud. "He didn't say nothin'," he declared. "He didn't know it when I left Eastboro. I wa'n't

such a fool as to cart that critter to the store, where all the gang 'round the store could holler and make fun.

Not much! I drove way round the other way, up the back road, and unloaded him at Henry's house. I cal'lated

to leave him with Aunt Olivethat's Henry's sister, keepin' house for himbut she'd gone out to sewin'

circle, and there wa'n't nobody to home. The side door was unlocked, so I lugged that box into the settin'

room and left it there. Pretty nigh broke my back; and that everlastin' Job hollered so I thought the whole

town would hear him and come runnin' to stop the murderin' that they'd cal'late was bein' done. But there ain't

no nigh neighbors, and those that are nighest ain't on speakin' terms with Henry; ruther have him murdered

than not, I shouldn't wonder. So I left Job in his box in the settin' room and cleared out."

"Good enough!" he exclaimed. "What a pleasant surprise for friend Henry or his housekeeper."

"Ho, ho! ain't it! I rather guess 'twill be Henry himself that's surprised fust. Aunt Olive never leaves sewin'

circle till the last bit of supper's eat upshe's got some of her brother's stinginess in her makeupso I

cal'late Henry'll get home afore she does. I shouldn't wonder," with an exuberant chuckle, "if that settin' room'

was some stirred up when he sees it. The pup had loosened the box cover afore I left. Ho, ho!"

"No, he won't. I left a note for him on the table. There was consider'ble ginger in every line of it. No, Job

won't be sent here, no matter what becomes of him. And if anything SHOULD be broke in that settin'

roomwell, there was SOME damage done to our kitchen. No, I guess Henry G. and me are square. He

It was a true prophecy. The storekeeper made no trouble, and Job remained at Eastboro until a foray on a

neighbor's chickens resulted in his removal from this vale of tears. Neither the lightkeeper nor his helper ever

saw him again, and when Seth next visited the store and solicitously inquired concerning the pup's health,

But the dog's short sojourn at the TwinLights had served to solve one mystery, that of Atkins's daily

excursions to Pounddug Slough. He went there to work on the old schooner, the Daisy M. Seth made no more

disclosures concerning his past lifethat remained a secretbut he did suggest his helper's going to inspect

the schooner. "Just walk across and look her over," he said. "I'd like to know what you think of her. See if I

ain't makin' a pretty good job out of nothin'. FOR nothin', of course," he added, gloomily; "but it keeps me

So the young man did go. He climbed aboard the stranded crafta forlorn picture she made, lying on her

side in the mudand was surprised to find how much had been manufactured "out of nothing." Her seams,

those which the sun had opened, were caulked neatly; her deck was clean and white; she was partially rigged,

with new and old canvas and ropes; and to his landsman's eyes she looked almost fit for sea. But when he

"Fit for nothin'," scoffed the lightkeeper. "I could make her fit, maybe, if I wanted to spend money enough,

but I don't. I can't get at her starboard side, that's down in the mud, and I cal'late she'd leak like a skimmer.

She's only got a fores'l and a jib, and the jib's only a little one that used to belong to a thirtyfoot sloop. Her

anchor's gone, and I wouldn't trust her main topmast to carry anything bigger'n a handkerchief, nor that in a

breeze no more powerful than a canary bird's breath. And, as I told you, it would take a tide like a flood to

float her. No, she's no good, and never will be; but," with a sigh, "I get a little fun fussin' over her."

"Erby the way," he added, a little later, "of course you won't mention to nobody what I told you

aboutabout my bein' a fishin' skipper once. Not that anybody ever comes here for you to mention it to, but

I wouldn't want . . . You see, nobody in Eastboro or anywheres on the Cape knows where I come from, and

so . . . Oh, all right, all right. I know you ain't the kind to talk. Mind our own business, that's the motto you

Yet, although the conversation in the substitute assistant's room was not again referred to by either, it had the

effect of making the oddly assorted pair a bit closer in their companionship. The mutual trust was

strengthened by the lightkeeper's half confidence and Brown's sympathetic reception of it. Each was lonely,

each had moments when he felt he must express his hidden feelings to some one, and, though neither

recognized the fact, it was certain that the time was coming when all mysteries would be mysteries no longer.

And one day occurred a series of ridiculous happenings which, bidding fair at first to end in a quarrel the

relationship between the two, instead revealed in both a kindred trait that removed the last barrier.

At a little before ten on this particular morning, Brown, busy in the kitchen, heard vigorous language outside.

It was Atkins who was speaking, and the assistant wondered who on earth he could be talking to. A glance

around the doorpost showed that he was, apparently, talking to himselfat least, there was no other human

being to be seen. He held in his hand a battered pair of marine glasses and occasionally he peered through

"Matter?" repeated Seth. "Matter enough! Here! take a squint through them glasses and tell me who's in that

The buggy, a black dot far down the sandy road leading from the village, was rocking and dipping over the

"And two women; that's what I thought. Dum idiots comin' over to picnic and spend the day, sure's taxes.

And they'll want to be showed round the lights and everywheres, and they'll ask more'n forty million

"Because," snarled Seth, "as I should think you'd know by this time, there ain't no other place round here they

"Oh, just a helper. I don't get any wages. You've told me yourself, over and over, that I have no regular

standing here. And, according to the government rules, those you've got posted in the kitchen, the lightkeeper

is obliged to show visitors about. I wouldn't break the rules for the world. Good morning. Think I'll go down

He stalked away whistling. Atkins, his face flaming, roared after him a profane opinion concerning his

Some twenty minutes later the helper heard his name shouted from the top of the bluff.

Brown clambered up the path. A little man, with grey throat whiskers, and wearing an antiquated straw hat,

"Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Brown," stammered the little man, "but you be Mr. Brown, ain't you?"

"Well, I cal'lated you was. My name's Stover, Abijah Stover. I live over to Trumet. Me and my wife drove

over for a sort of picnic like. We've got her cousin, Mrs. Sophia Hains, along. Sophi's a widow from Boston,

and she ain't never seen a lighthouse afore. I know Seth Atkins slightly, and I was cal'latin' he'd show us

"Why, yes. Didn't you know it? He's in the bedroom there groanin' somethin' terrible. He told me not to say

nothin' to the women folks, but to hail you, and you'd look out for us. Didn't you know he was laid up? Why,

Brown did not wait to hear more. He strode to the house, with Mr. Stover at his heels. On his way he caught a

glimpse of the buggy, the horse dozing between the shafts. On the seat of the buggy were two women, one

"Say, Mr. Brown," he whispered, as they entered the kitchen; "don't tell my wife nor Sophi about Seth's bein'

"'Causewell, 'cause Hannah's hobby is sick folks, as you might say. If there's a cat in the neighborhood

that's ailin' she's always dosin' of it up and fixin' medicine for it, and the like of that. And Sophi's one of them

'New Thoughters' and don't believe anybody's got any right to be sick. The two of 'em ain't done nothin' but

argue and row over diseases and imagination and medicines ever since Sophi got here. If they knew Seth was

laid up, I honestly believe they'd drop picnic and everythin' and start fightin' over whether he was really sick

Brown found the lightkeeper stretched on the bed in his room. He was dressed, with the exception of coat and

"No, no. No use gettin' the doctor. I'll be all right by and by. It's one of my attacks. I have 'em every once in a

while. Just let me alone, and let me lay here without bein' disturbed; then I'll get better, I guess."

"I know. They always come on that way. Now run along, like a good feller, and leave me to my suff'rin's.

Much troubled, Brown turned to the door. As he was going out he happened to look back. The dresser stood

against the wall beyond the bed, and in its mirror he caught a glimpse of the face of the sick man. On that

"Why, to show us round the lights. Sophi, she ain't never seen one afore. Atkins said that, bein' as he wasn't

"Hum!" Mr. Brown's tone was that of one upon whom, out of darkness, a light has suddenly burst. "I see," he

For a minute he stood still, evidently pondering. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he strode out of the house

"Good morning, ladies," he said, removing the new cap which Seth had recently purchased for him in

The plump woman answered. "Yes," she said, briskly, "we do. Are you a new keeper? Where's Mr. Atkins?"

"I shall be happy," concurred that young gentleman. "You must excuse me if I seem rather worried. Mr.

Atkins, my chiefI believe you know him, Mrs. Stoverhas been taken suddenly ill, and is, apparently,

"Sick?" The plump woman seemed actually to prick up her ears, like a sleepy cat at the sound of the dinner

bell. "Is Seth sick? And you all alone with him here? Can't I do anything to help?"

"All he wants is to be left alone," put in her husband anxiously. "He said so himself."

"Do you know what's the matter? Have you got any medicine for him?" Mrs. Stover was already climbing out

"Good thing!" she snapped. "Most medicine's nothing but opium and alcohol. Fill the poor creature full of

"I s'pose you'd set and preach New Thought at him!" snapped Mrs. Stover. "As if a body could be cured by

hot air! I believe I'll go right in and see him. Don't you s'pose I could help, Mr. Brown?"

Mr. Brown seemed pleased, but reluctant. "It's awfully good of you," he said. "I couldn't think of troubling

"Don't say another word!" Mrs. Stover's bulky figure was already on the way to the door of the house. "I'm

only too glad to do what I can. And, if I do say it, that shouldn't, I'm always real handy in a sick room. 'Bijah,

be quiet; I don't care if we ARE on a picnic; no human bein' shall suffer while I set around and do nothin'."

"You'll worry him to death," she declared. "You'll tell him how sick he is, and that he's goin' to die, and such

stuff. What he needs is cheerful conversation and mental uplift. It's too bad! Well, you sha'n't have your own

"You two goin' to march right into his BEDROOM?" screamed the irate Abijah. The women answered not.

He led the way to the chamber of the sick man. Mr. Atkins turned on his bed of pain, caught a glimpse of the

"Seth," said Brown, benignly, "this is Mrs. Stover of Eastboro. I think you know her. And Mrs. Hains of

Boston. These ladies have heard of your sickness, and, having had experience in such cases, have kindly

offered to stay with you and help in any way they can. Mrs. Stover, I will leave him in your hands. Please call

Without waiting for further comment from the patient, whose face was a picture, he hastened to the kitchen,

"Now you've done it!" wailed the little man. "NOW you've done it! Didn't I tell you? Oh, this'll be a hell of a

He stalked away, righteous indignation overcoming him. Brown sat down in a rocking chair and shook with

emotion. From the direction of the sick room came the sounds of three voices, each trying to outscream the

other. The substitute assistant listened to this for a while, and, as he did so, a new thought struck him. He

remembered a story he had read in a magazine years before. He crossed to the pantry, found an empty bottle,

rinsed it at the sink, stepped again to the pantry, and, entering it, closed the door behind him. There he busied

himself with the molasses jug, the softsoap bucket, the oil can, the pepper shaker, and a few other utensils

and their contents. Footsteps in the kitchen caused him to hurriedly reenter that apartment. Mrs. Stover was

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Brown!" she exclaimed. "I wondered where you'd gone to."

"H'm! he'd do well enough if he had the right treatment. I cal'late he's better now, even as 'tis; but, when a

person has to lay and hear over and over again that what ails 'em is nothin' but imagination, it ain't to be

wondered at that they get mad. What he needs is some sort of soothin' medicine, and I only wish 'twan't so fur

"I was wondering if some of my 'Stomach Balm' wouldn't help him. It's an old family receipt, handed down

from the Indians, I believe. I always have a bottle with me and . . . Still, I wouldn't prescribe, not knowing the

"Hum!" she said. "'Stomach Balm' sounds good. And he says his trouble is principally stomach. Some of

them Indian medicines are mighty powerful. Have youdid you say you had a bottle with you, Mr. Brown?"

The young man went again to the pantry and returned with the bottle he had so recently found there. Now,

however, it was two thirds full of a black sticky mixture. Mrs. Stover removed the cork and took an

"It is. Would you like to taste it?" handing her a tablespoon. He watched as she swallowed a spoonful.

"Ugh! oh!" she gasped; even her long suffering palate rebelled at THAT taste. "ItI should think that

"I should think so. It may be the very thing he needs. At any rate, it can't hurt him. It's quite harmless."

Mrs. Stover's face was still twisted, under the influence of the "Balm"; but her mind was made up.

"I'm goin' to try it," she declared. "I don't care if every New Thoughter in creation says no. He needs

"The dose," said Mr. Brown, gravely, "is two tablespoonfuls every fifteen minutes. I do hope it will help him.

The plump lady disappeared in the direction of the sick room. The substitute assistant lingered and listened.

He heard a shrill pow wow of feminine voices. Evidently "New Thought" and the practice of medicine had

once more clashed. The argument waxed and waned. Followed the click of a spoon against glass. And then

came a gasp, a gurgle, a choking yell; and high upon the salty air enveloping Eastboro TwinLights rose the

voice of Mr. Seth Atkins, expressing his opinion of the "Stomach Balm" and those who administered it.

John Brown darted out of the kitchen, dodged around the corner of the house, tiptoed past the bench by the

bluff, where Mr. Stover sat gloomily meditating, and ran lightly down the path to the creek and the wharf.

The boathouse at the end of the wharf offered a convenient refuge. Into the building he darted, closed the

At threethirty that afternoon, Mr. Atkins, apparently quite recovered, was sitting in the kitchen rocker,

reading a last week's newspaper, one of a number procured on his most recent trip to the village. The Stovers

and their guest had departed. Their buggy was out of sight beyond the dunes. A slight noise startled the

lightkeeper, and he looked up. His helper was standing in the doorway, upon his face an expression of intense

"Umhm. Pretty well, considerin', thank you. Been for a stroll up Washin'ton Street, have you? Or a little

The elaborate sarcasm of these questions was intended to be withering. Mr. Brown, however, did not wither.

"I have been," he said, "down at the boathouse. I knew you were in safe hands and well looked after, so I

"Hum! HEAR me suffer, hey? Much obliged, I'm sure. What have you been doin' there all this time? I hoped

you wasthat is, I begun to be afraid you was dead. Thought your sympathy for me had been too much for

Brown mournfully shook his head. "It wasalmost," he said, solemnly. "I think I dropped asleep. I was quite

"Hum! Better take a dose of that 'Stomach Balm,' hadn't you? That'll liven you up, I'll guarantee."

"No, thank you. The sight of you, well and strong again, is all the medicine I need. We must keep the 'Balm'

in case you have another attack. By the way, I notice the dinner dishes haven't been washed. I'll do them at

once. I know you must be tired, after your illness and the exertion of showing your guests about the

Atkins did not answer, although he seemed to want to very much. However, he made no objection when his

Seth was silent all the rest of the afternoon and during supper. But that evening, as Brown sat on the bench

"Hello!" replied the assistant, shortly. He had been thinking once more, and his thoughts were not pleasant.

"I s'pose you cal'late," began Atkins, "that maybe I've got a grudge against you on account of this mornin' and

"Yes. After the fust dose of that stufffor thunder sakes WHAT did you put in it?I was about ready to

murder you, but I've got over that. I don't blame you for gettin' even. We are even, you know."

"I be. But what I don't understand is why you didn't want to show them folks around."

"Oh, I don't know. I had my reasons, such as they were. Why didn't you want to do it yourself?"

Seth crossed his legs and was silent for a moment or two. Then he spoke firmly and as if his mind was made

"Young feller," he said, "I don't know whether you realize it or not, and perhaps I shouldn't be the one to

"Yes, but maybe you don't realize the amount of the obligations. I'm riskin' my job keepin' you here. If it

wa'n't for the superintendent bein' such a friend of mine, there'd have been a reg'lar assistant keeper app'inted

long ago. The gov'ment don't pick up its lightkeepers same as you would farm hands. There's civil service to

be gone through, and the like of that. But you wanted to stay, and I've kept you, riskin' my own job, as I said.

And now I cal'late we'd better have a plain understandin'. You've got to know just what your job is. I'm goin'

He stopped, as if to let this sink in. Brown nodded again. "All right," he observed, carelessly; "go on and tell

"Your job around the lights you know already, part of it. But there's somethin' else. Whenever men folks

come here, I'll do my share of showin' the place off. But when women comewomen, you

understandyou've got to be guide. I'll forgive you today's doin's. I tried to play a joke on you, and you

evened it up with a better one on me. That's all right. But, after this, showin' the lights to females is your job,

and you've got to do itor get out. No hard feelin's at all, and I'd really hate to lose you, but THAT'S got to

He rose, evidently considering the affair settled. Brown caught his coat and pulled him back to the bench.

"Wait, Atkins," he said. "I'm grateful to you for your kindness, I like you and I'd like to please you; but if

what you say is final, thenas they used to say in some play or other'I guess you'll have to hire another

"For reasons, as I told you. By the way, you haven't told me why you object to acting as guide tofemales."

Before his helper could comment on this declaration, it was repeated. The lightkeeper shook both his big fists

Seth breathed heavily, started to speak once more, closed his lips on the words, rose, walked away a few

"John Brown," he said, solemnly, "if you're jokin', the powers forgive you, for I won't. If you ain't, II . . .

See here, do you remember what you asked me that night when you struck me for the assistant keeper's job?

"You did. And I ain't been so shook up for many a day. Young feller, I'm goin' to tell you what no other man

"I'm married, and I've got a wife livin'," continued Seth; adding hurriedly and fiercely, "don't you say nothin'

to me! Don't you put me out. I'm goin' to tell you! I'm goin' to tell you all of it all, by time! I am, if I die for

He was speaking so rapidly that the words were jumbled together. He knocked his hat from his forehead with

a blow of his fist and actually panted for breath. Brown had never before seen him in this condition.

"Hold on! Wait," he cried. "Atkins, you needn't do this; you mustn't. I am asking no questions. We agreed

"Hush up!" Seth waved both hands in the air. "DON'T you talk! Let me get this off my chest. Good heavens

alive, I've been smotherin' myself with it for years, and, now I've got started, I'll blow off steam or my b'iler'll

"Yes, sir, I'm a married man," he went on. "I wa'n't always married, you understand. I used to be single once.

"Yes," he said, "I was single andand happy, by jiminy! I was skipper of a mack'rel schooner down Cape

Ann way, never mind where, and Seth Atkins is only part of my name; never mind that, neither. I sailed that

schooner and I run that schoonerI RUN her; and when I said 'boo' all hands aboard jumped, I tell you.

"However, this is what I didn't tell you nor nobody else in this part of the state: I stayed single till I got to be

past forty. Everybody set me down as an old bach. Then I met a woman; yes, sir, I met a woman."

He made this assertion as if it was something remarkable. His companion on the bench made no comment.

"She was a widow woman," went on Seth, "and she had a little property left her by her first husband. Owned

a house and land, she did, and had some money in the bank. Some folks cal'lated I married her for that, but

they cal'lated wrong. I wanted her for herself. And I got her. Her name was Emeline. I always thought

"Umhm. That's what I thought, and Emeline was a real pretty woman, for her age and heftshe was fleshy.

She had some consider'ble prejudice against my goin' to sea, so I agreed to stay on shore a spell and farm it,

as you might say. We lived in the house she owned and was real happy together. She bossed me around a

good deal, but I didn't mind bein' bossed by her. 'Twas a change, you see, for I'd always been used to bossin'

other folks. So I humored her. And, bein' on land made me lose mymy grip or somethin'; 'cause I seemed

to forget how to boss. But we was happy, and then then Bennie D. come. Consarn him!"

His teeth shut with a snap, and he struck his knee with his fist. "Consarn him! " he repeated, and was silent.

"What? Hey? Bennie D.? Oh, he was her brotherinlaw, her husband's brother from up Boston way. He was

a geniusat least, he said he wasand an inventor. The only invention I ever could l'arn he'd invented to a

finish was how to live without workin', but he'd got that brought to a science. However, he was forever fussin'

over some kind of machine that was sartin sure to give power to the universe, when 'twas done, and Emeline's

husbandhis name was Abnerthought the world and all of him. 'Fore he died he made Emeline promise

to always be kind to Bennie D., and she said she would. Abner left him a little money, and he spent it travelin'

'for his health.' I don't know where he traveled to, but, wherever 'twas, the health must have been there. He

"Well, his travels bein' over, down he comes to make his sisterin law a little visit. And he stays on and

stays on. He never took no shine to meI judge he figgered I hadn't no business sharin' Abner's

"Emeline noticed Bennie D. and me wa'n't fallin' on each other's necks any to speak of, and it troubled her.

She blamed me for it. Said Bennie was a genius, and geniuses had sensitive natures and had to be treated with

consideration and different from other folks. And that promise to Abner weighed on her conscience, I cal'late.

Anyhow, she petted that blame inventor, and it made me mad. And yet I didn't say muchnot so much as I'd

ought to, I guess. And Bennie D. was always heavin' out little side remarks about Emeline's bein' fitted for

better things than she was gettin', and how, when his invention was 'perfected,' HE'D see that she didn't slave

herself to death, and so on and so on. And he had consider'ble to say about folks tryin' to farm when they

didn't know a cucumber from a watermelon, and how 'farmin'' was a good excuse for doin' nothin', and such.

And I didn't have any good answer to that, 'cause I do know more about seaweed than I do cucumbers, and

"If he'd said these things right out plain, I guess likely I'd have give him what he deserved. But he didn't; he

just hinted and smiled and acted superior and pityin'. And if I got mad and hove out a little sailor talk by

accident, he'd look as sorry and shocked as the ComeOuter parson does when there's a baby born to a

Universalist family. He'd get up and shut the door, as if he was scart the neighbors' morals would

sufferthough the only neighbor within hearin' was an old critter that used to run a billiard saloon in

Gloucester, and HIS morals had been put out of their misery forty years aforeand he'd suggest that Emeline

better leave the room, maybe. And then I'd feel ashamed and wouldn't know what to do, and 'twould end,

"You can see how matters was driftin'. I could see plain enough, and I cal'late Emeline could, tooI'll give

her credit for that. She didn't begin to look as happy as she had, and that made me feel worse than ever. One

time, I found her cryin' in the wash room, and I went up and put my arm round her.

"'Emeline,' I says, 'don't; please don't. Don't cry. I know I ain't the husband I'd ought to be to you, but I'm

"She interrupted me quick, sort of half laughin' and half cryin'. 'No, Seth,' says she, 'you ain't, that's a fact.'

"That made me sort of mad. 'No, I ain't,' I says again; 'and if you ask me, I'd say one in the house was enough,

"''Taint that,' says I, which was a lie. 'It ain't that,' I says; 'but somehow I don't seem to fit around here. Bennie

"'He is Abner's brother,' she says, 'and I promised Abner. I can't tell him to go. I can't tell him to leave this

"Now, consarn it, there was another thing. It WAS Abner's house, or had been afore he died, and now 'twas

hers. If I ever forgot that fact, which wa'n't by no means likely to happen, Bennie D. took occasions enough to

remind me of it. So I was set back again with my canvas flappin', as you might say.

"'But you are my husband,' she says, lookin' at me kind of queer. Anyhow, it seems kind of queer to me now.

I've thought about that look a good deal since, and sometimes I've wondered ifif . . . However, that's all

"'Yes,' I says, pretty average bitter, 'but second husbands don't count for much.'

"Well, I WAS mad. 'I tell you what I CAN do,' I sings out. 'I can quit this landlubber's job where I'm nothin'

"'You've got Brother Bennie,' says I. 'He's a genius; I ain't nothin' but a man.'

"She laughed, pretty scornful. 'Are you sartin you're that?' she wanted to know.

"'Not since I been livin' here, I ain't,' I says. And that ended that try of makin' up.

"And from then on it got worse and worse. There wan't much comfort at home where the inventor was, so I

took to stayin' out nights. Went down to the store and hung around, listenin' to fools' gabble, and wishin' I

was dead. And the more I stayed out, the more Bennie D. laughed and sneered and hinted. And then come

that ridic'lous business about Sarah Ann Christy. That ended it for good and all."

"She was a born fool," he declared, with emphasis; "born that way and been developin' extry foolishness ever

since. She was a widow, too; been good lookin' once and couldn't forget it, and she lived down nigh the store.

When I'd be goin' down or comin' back, just as likely as not she was settin' on the piazza, and she'd hail me. I

"Well, I DIDN'T. And I didn't HAVE to talk. Couldn't if I wanted to; she done it all. Her tongue was hung on

ballbearin' hinges and was a selfwinder guaranteed to run an hour steady every time she set it goin'. Talk!

my jiminy crimps, how that woman could talk! I couldn't get away; I tried to, but, my soul, she wouldn't let

me. And, if 'twas a warm night, she'd more'n likely have a pitcher of lemonade or some sort of cold wash

"Well, there wa'n't no harm in her at all; she was just a fool that had to talk to somebody, males preferred. But

my stayin' out nights wasn't helpin' the joyfulness of things to home, and one evenin' one evenin' . . . Oh,

"This evenin' when I came home from the store I see somethin' was extry wrong soon's I struck the settin'

room. Emeline was there, and Bennie D., and I give you my word, I felt like turnin' up my coat collar, 'twas

so frosty. 'Twas hotter'n a steamer's stokehole outside, but that room was forty below zero.

"Nobody SAID nothin', you knowthat was the worst of it; but I'd have been glad if they had. Finally, I said

"No answer, so I tried again. 'Well, Emeline,' says I, 'I've fetched port finally.'

"She didn't answer me then, but Bennie D. laughed. He had a way of laughin' that made other folks want to

"'More nautical conversation, sister,' says he. 'He knows how fond you are of that sort of thing.'

"You see, Emeline never did like to hear me talk sailor talk; it reminded her too much that I used to be a

sailor, I s'pose. And that inventor knew she didn't like it, and so he rubbed it in every time I made a slip.

"'At last,' put in brotherinlaw, '"There is no place like home" when the other places are shut up.' And he

"'Stop, Bennie,' says Emeline, and he stopped. That was another of his little waysto do anything she asked

"She never paid no attention to the weather signals. 'Where 'bouts down street?' she wanted to know.

"'You go to the store a good deal, don't you,' says she. Bennie D. chuckled, and then begged her pardon. That

"'I go where folks seem to be glad to see me,' I says. 'Where they treat me as if I was somebody.'

"She looked at me hard, and her face sort of set. She didn't answer, but took up the sewin' in her lap and went

to work on it. I remember she dropped it once, and Bennie D. jumped to pick it up for her, quick as a wink. I

set down in the rockin' chair and took the Gloucester paper. But I didn't really read. The clock ticked and

ticked, and 'twas so still you could hear every stroke of the pendulum. Finally, I couldn't stand it no longer.

"'What on earth is the matter?' I sings out. 'What have I done this time? Don't you WANT me to go to the

"She put down her sewin'. 'Seth,' says she, quiet but awful cold, 'I want you to go anywheres that you want to

go. I never'll stand in your way. But I want you tell the truth about it afterwards.'

"'No,' says she. 'You've lied to me tonight. You've been callin' on the Christy woman, and you know it.'

"Well, you could have knocked me down with a baby's rattle. I'd forgot all about that fool Sarah Ann. I

cal'late I turned nineteen different shades of red, and for a minute I couldn't think of a word to say. And

"'Howhow did youhow do you know I see Sarah Ann Christy?' I hollered out, soon's I could get my

"'I did,' says she. 'I went down street myself, on an errand, and, bein' as you weren't here to go with me,

Bennie was good enough to go. It ain't pleasant for a woman to go out alone after dark, and and I have

"'You know I'd been tickled to death to go with you, Emeline,' I says. 'Any time, you know it. But you never

"'Do you really want me to go anywheres, Emeline?' says I, eager. 'Do you? I s'posed you didn't. If you'd

"'Why should I always do the askin'? Must a wife always ask her husband? Doesn't the husband ever do

anything on his own responsibility? Seth, I married you because I thought you was a strong, selfreliant man,

"That cussed inventor bust into the talk right here. I cal'late he thought twas time.

"'Excuse me, sister,' he says; 'don't humiliate yourself afore him. Remember you and me saw him tonight,

saw him with our own eyes, settin' on a dark piazza with another woman. Drinkin' with her and'

"''Twa'n't nothin' but lemonade I was drinkin',' I hollers, pretty nigh crazy. 'She asked me to stop and have a

glass 'cause 'twas so hot. And as for callin' on her, I wa'n't. I was just passin' by, and she sings out what a

dreadful night 'twas, and I said 'twas, too, and she says won't I have somethin' cold to drink. That's all there

"'Perhaps you'll tell us this was the first time you have visited her,' he purrs.

"Well, that was a sockdolager, 'cause twa'n't the first time. I don't know how many times 'twas. I never kept

no account of 'em. Too glad to get away from her everlastin' tongueclackin'. But when 'twas put right up to

me this way, II declare I was all fussed up. I felt sick and I guess I looked so. Emeline was lookin' at me

and seemin'ly waitin' for me to say somethin'; yet I couldn't say it. And Bennie D. laughed, quiet but wicked.

"'You mind your own business,' I roars. 'Ain't you ashamed, makin' trouble with a man's wife in his own

"'I was under the impression the house belonged to my sisterin law,' he says. And again I was knocked off

"'You great big loafer!' I yelled at him; 'settin' here doin' nothin' but raisin' the divil generally! II'

"He jumped as if I'd stuck a bradawl into him. The shocked expression came across his face again, and he

"'Sister, sister,' he says, quick, but gentle, 'this is no place for you. Language like that is . . . there! there! don't

"She didn't go. As I remember it now, it keeps comin' back to me that she didn't go. She just stood still and

'I didn't lie,' I shouts. 'I forgot, I tell you. I never thought that windmill of a Christy woman was enough

importance to remember. I didn't lie to youI never did. Oh, Emeline, you know I didn't. What's the matter

"'Yes,' I says to him, 'that's right, one of us is, and I don't know which. But I know this: you and I can't stay

"I can see that room now, as 'twas when I said that. Us three lookin' at each other, and the clock atickin', and

"And, while the words was on my lips, again it came to me strong that it wa'n't really my house at all. I turned

"She'd been lookin' at me again with that kind of queer look in her eyes, almost a hopeful look, seem's if

"'I can't tell him to go, Seth,' says she. 'I promised to give him a home as long as I had one.'

"And I went. Yes, sir, I went. Just as I was, without any hat or dunnage of any kind. When I slammed the

back door it seemed as if I heard her sing out my name. I waited, but I guess I was mistaken, for she didn't

The lightkeeper stopped. John Brown said nothing, but he laid a hand sympathetically on the older man's

"I cleared out of that town that very night," he said. "Walked clear into Gloucester, put up at a tavern there till

mornin', and then took the cars to Boston. I cal'lated fust that I'd ship as mate or somethin' on a foreign

voyage, but I couldn't; somehow I couldn't bring myself to do it. You see, I'd promised her I wouldn't ever go

to sea again, and sowell, I was a dum idiot, I s'pose, but I wouldn't break the promise. I knew the

superintendent of lighthouses in this district, and I'd been an assistant keeper when I was younger. I told him

my yarn, and he told me about this job. I changed my name, passed the examination and come directly here.

"I don't know. Livin' in her house back there on Cape Ann, I s'pose. She was, last I knew. I never ask no

questions. I want to forgetto forget, by time! . . . Hi hum! . . . Well, now you know what nobody this side

of Boston knows. And you can understand why I'm willin' to be buried alive down here. 'Cause a woman

wrecked my life; I'm done with women; and to this forsaken hole no women scarcely ever come. But, when

they DO come, you must understand that I expect you to show 'em round. After hearin' what I've been

"I'm sorry, Atkins," he observed, slowly; "and I certainly do sympathize with you. Butbut, as I said, 'I

"No. The other way around, if anything. Look here, Atkins! I'm not in the habit of discussing my private

affairs with acquaintances, but you've been frank with meand well, hang it! I've got to talk to somebody.

At least, I feel that way just now. Let's suppose a case. Suppose you were a young fellow not long out of

collegea young fellow whose mother was dead and whose dad was rich, and head over heels in

moneymaking, and with the idea that his will was no more to be disputed than a law of the Almighty. Just

"Suppose that you'd never been used to working or supporting yourself. Had a position, a nominal one, in

your dad's office but absolutely no responsibility, all the money you wanted, and so on. Suppose because

your father wanted you toand HER people felt the sameyou had become engaged to a girl, a nice

enough girl, too, in her way. But, then suppose that little by little you came to realize that her way wasn't

yours. You and she liked each other well enough, but the whole thing was a family arrangement, a money

arrangement, a perfectly respectable, buyandsell affair. That and nothing else. And the more you thought

about it, the surer you felt that it was so. But when you told your governor he got on his ear and sailed into

you, and you sailed back, until finally he swore that you should either marry that girl or he'd throw you out of

"Hey? Land sakes! I don't know. I always HAD to root, so I ain't a competent judge. Go on, you've got me

"Well, I said I'd root, that's all. But I didn't have the nerve to go and tell the girl. The engagement had been

announced, and all that, and I knew what a mess it would make for her. I sat in my room, among the things I

was packing in my grip to take with me, and thought and thought. If I went to her there would be a scene. If I

said I had been disinherited she would want to know whynaturally. I had quarreled with the

governoryes, but why? Then I should have to tell her the real reason: I didn't want to marry her or anybody

else on such a bargaincounter basis. That seemed such a rotten thing to say, and she might ask why it had

taken me such a long time to find it out. No, I just COULDN'T tell her that. So, after my think was over, I

wrote her a note saying that my father and I had had a disagreement and he had chucked me out, or words to

that effect. Naturally, under the circumstances, marriage was out of the question, and I released her from the

engagement. Good by and good luckor something similar. I mailed the letter and left the town the next

He paused. The lightkeeper made no comment. After a moment the young man continued.

"I landed in Boston," he said, "full of conceit and highminded ideas of working my own way up the ladder.

But in order to work up, you've got to get at least a handhold on the bottom rung. I couldn't get it. Nobody

wanted a genteel loafer, which was me. My money gave out. I bought a steamboat passage to another city,

but I didn't have enough left to buy a square meal. Then, by bull luck, I fell overboard and landed here. And

here I found the solution. I'm dead. If the governor gets softhearted and gets private detectives on my trail,

they'll find I disappeared from that steamer, that's all. Drowned, of course. SHE'LL think so, too. 'Good

riddance to bad rubbish' is the general verdict. I can stay here a year or so, and then, being dead and

forgotten, can go back to civilization and hustle for myself. BUT a woman is at the bottom of my trouble, and

I never want to see another. So, if my staying here depends upon my seeing them, I guess, as I've said twice

"Son," said the lightkeeper, "I'm sorry for you; I cal'late I know how you feel. I like you fustrate, and if it's a

possible thing, I'll fix it so's you can stay right here long's you want to. As for women folks that do

comewhy, we'll dodge 'em if we can, and share responsibility if we must. But there's one thing you've

GOT to understand. You're young, and maybe your woman hate'll wear off. If it does, out you go. I can't have

"If ever you catch me being even coldly familiar with a female of any age," he declared, "I hereby request

that you hit me, politely, but firmly, with that axe," pointing to the kindling hatchet leaning against the door

Seth chuckled. "Good stuff!" he exclaimed. "And, for my part, if ever you catch me gettin' confectionery with

a woman, I . . . well, don't stop to pray over me; just drown me, that's all I ask. It's a bargain. Shake!"

And now affairs at the lights settled down into a daily routine in which the lightkeeper and his helper each

played his appointed part. All mysteries now being solved, and the trust between them mutual and without

reserve, they no longer were on their guard in each other's presence, but talked freely on all sorts of topics,

and expressed their mutual dislike of woman with frequency and point. No regular assistant was appointed or

seemed likely to be, for the summer, at least. Seth and his friend, the superintendent, held another lengthy

conversation over the wire, and, while Brown's uncertain status remained the same, there was a tacit

understanding that, by the first of September, if the young man was sufficiently "broken in," the position

"You may change your mind by that time," observed Seth. "This ain't no place for a chap with your trainin',

and I know it. It does well enough for an old derelict like me, with nobody to care a hang whether he lives or

dies, but you're different. And even for me the lonesomeness of it drives me 'most crazy sometimes. I've

noticed you've been havin' blue streaks more often than when you first came. I cal'late that by fall you'll be

headin' somewheres else, Mr. 'John Brown,'" with significant emphasis upon the name.

Brown stoutly denied being "bluer" than usual, and his superior did not press the point. Seth busied himself in

his spare time with the work on the Daisy M. and with his occasional trips behind Joshua to the village.

Brown might have made some of these trips, but he did not care to. Solitude and seclusion he still desired,

The lightkeeper experimented with no more dogs, but he had evidently not forgotten the lifesaving man's

warning concerning possible thieves, for he purchased a big springlock in Eastboro and attached it to the

door of the boathouse on the little wharf. The lock was, at first, a good deal more of a nuisance than an

advantage, for the key was always being forgotten or mislaid, and, on one occasion, the door blew shut with

Atkins inside the building, and he pounded and shrieked for ten minutes before his helper heard him and

June crawled by, and July came. Crawled is the proper word, for John Brown had never known days so long

or weeks so unending as those of that early summer. The monotony was almost never broken, and he began

to find it deadly. He invented new duties about the lights and added swimming and walks up and down the

The swimming he especially enjoyed. The cove made a fine bathing place, and the boathouse was his

dressing room, though the fragrance of the ancient fish nets stored within it was not that of attar of roses. A

cheap bathing suit was one of the luxuries Atkins had bought for him, by request, in Eastboro. Seth bought

"I should think," the lightkeeper declared over and over again, "that you'd had salt water soak enough to last

Seth did not care for swimming; the washtub every Saturday night furnished him with baths sufficient.

He was particular to warn his helper against the tide in the inlet: "The cove's all right," he said, "but you want

to look out and not try to swim in the crick where it's narrow, or in that deep hole by the end of the wharf,

where the lobster car's moored. When the tide's comin' in or it's dead high water, the current's strong there.

On the ebb it'll snake you out into the breakers sure as I'm settin' here tellin' you. The cove's all right and

Swimming was good fun, and walking, on pleasant days, was an aid in shaking off depression; but, in spite of

his denials and his attempts at appearing contented, the substitute assistant realized that he was far from that

happy condition. He did not want to meet people, least of all people of his own station in lifehis former

station. Atkins was a fine chap, in his way; but . . . Brown was lonely . . . and when one is lonely, one thinks

of what might have been, and, perhaps, regrets. Regrets, unavailing regrets, are the poorest companions

The lightkeeper, too, seemed lonely, which, considering his years of experience in his present situation, was

odd. He explained his loneliness one evening by observing that he cal'lated he missed the painting chaps.

"Oh, them two young fellers that always used to come to the cottage what you call the bungalowacross

the cove there, the ones I told you about. They was real friendly, sociable young chaps, and I kind of liked to

have 'em runnin' in and out. Seems queer to have it July, and they not here to hail me and come over to

borrow stuff. And they was forever settin' around under white sunshades, sloppin' paint onto paper. I most

"Oh, you would; no perhaps about it. It don't seem right to see the bungalow all shuttered up and deserted this

time of year. You'd have liked to meet them young painters; they was your kind."

"Hey? . . . Oh, yes, yes; I see. I never thought of that. But 'tain't likely they'd know you; they hailed from

"No, you didn't, that's a fact. But, you said you left the city where you lived and came to Boston, so I sort of

guessed New York. But that's all right; I don't know and I don't care. Names and places you and me might

just as well not tell, even to each other. If we don't tell them, we can answer 'don't know' to questions and tell

One morning about a week later, Brown, his dish washing and sweeping done, was busy in the lightroom at

the top of the right hand tower, polishing the brass of the lantern. The curtains were drawn on the landward

side, and those toward the sea open. Seth, having finished his night watching and breakfast, was audibly

asleep in the house. Brown rubbed and polished leisurely, his thoughts far away, and a frown on his face. For

the thousandth time that week he decided that he was a loafer and a vagabond, and that it would have been

much better for himself, and creation generally, if he had never risen after the plunge over the steamer's rail.

He pulled the cloth cover over the glittering lantern and descended the iron stair to the ground floor. When he

emerged into the open air, he heard a sound which made him start and listen. The sound was the distant rattle

of wheels from the direction of the village. Was another "picnic" coming? He walked briskly to the corner of

the house and peered down the winding road. A carriage was in sight certainly, but it was going, not coming.

He watched it move further away each moment. Someonenot the grocer or a tradesmanwas driving to

the village. But where had he been, and who was he? Not Seth, for Seth was asleephe could hear him.

The driver of the carriage, whoever he was, had not visited the lights. And, as Atkins had said, there was

nowhere else to go on that road. Brown, puzzled, looked about him, at the sea, the lights, the house, the creek,

the cove, the bluff on the other side of the cove, the bungalowah! the bungalow!

For the door of the bungalow was open, and one or two of the shutters were down. The carriage had brought

some person or persons to the bungalow and left them there. Instantly, of course, Brown thought of the artists

from Boston. Probably they had changed their minds and decided to summer at Eastboro after all. His frown

Then, from across the cove, from the bungalow, came a shrill scream, a feminine scream. The assistant

started, scarcely believing his ears. Before he could gather his wits, a stout woman, with a checked apron in

her hand, rushed out of the bungalow door, looked about, saw him, and waved the apron like a flag.

"Hi!" she screamed. "Hi, you! Mr. Lighthouseman! come quick! do please come here quick and help us!"

There was but one thing to do, and Brown did it instinctively. He raced through the beach grass, down the

hill, in obedience to the call. As he ran, he wondered who on earth the stout woman could be. Seth had said

"Hurry up!" shrieked the stout woman, dancing an elephantine fandango in front of the bungalow. "Come

To run around the shore line of the cove would have taken a good deal of time. However, had the tide been at

flood there would have been no other wayexcepting by boatto reach the cottage. But the tide was out,

and the narrowest portion of the creek, the stream connecting the cove with the ocean, was but knee deep.

Through the water splashed the substitute assistant and clambered up the bank beyond.

"Wasps! They're in there! The room's full of 'em. If there's one thing on earth I'm scart of, it's . . . Don't stop

She indicated the door of a room adjoining the living room of the little cottage. From behind the door came

sounds of upsetting furniture and sharp slaps. Evidently the artists were having a lively time. But they must

be curious chaps to be afraid of wasps. Brown opened the door and entered, partly of his own volition, partly

The wasps were there, dozens of them, and they had built a nest in the upper corner of the room. But they

were not the astonishing part of the picture. A young woman was there, also; a young woman with dark hair

and eyes, the sleeves of a white shirtwaist rolled above her elbows, and a wet towel in her right hand. She

was skipping lightly about the room, slapping frantically at the humming insects.

Then she turned and saw Brown. For an instant she, too, seemed astonished. But only for an instant.

"Oh, I'm so glad you came!" she exclaimed. "Here! take this! you must hit quick and HARD."

"This" was the towel. The assistant took it mechanically. The young lady did not wait to give further orders.

She rushed out of the room and shut the door. Brown was alone with the wasps, and they were lively

company. When, at last, the battle was over, the last wasp was dead, the nest was a crumpled gray heap over

in the corner, and the assistant's brow was ornamented with four red and smarting punctures, which promised

to shortly become picturesque and painful lumps. Rubbing these absently with one hand, and bearing the

The two women were awaiting him. He found them standing directly in front of him as he emerged.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried the dark haired girl. "I'mweare so much obliged to you."

"If there's any critters on earth," declared the stout woman, "that I can't stand, it's wasps and hornets and such.

"But when I walked into that room and seen that nest in the corner I was pretty nigh knocked overand," she

The assistant looked at her. "Yes," he said, absently, "I should think it might. That is, I meanII beg your

He paused and wiped his forehead with the towel. The young lady burst into a peal of laughter, in which the

stout woman joined. The laugh was so infectious that even Brown was obliged to smile.

"I apologize," he stammered. "I didn't mean that exactly as it sounded. I'm not responsible mentallyyetI

"I don't wonder." It was the stout woman who answered. The girl had turned away and was looking out the

window; her shoulders shook. "I shouldn't think you would be. Hauled in bodily, as you might say, and shut

up in a room to fight wasps! And by folks you never saw afore and don't know from Adam! You needn't

apologize. I'd forgive you if you said somethin' a good deal worse'n that. I'm long past the age where I'm

"And we ARE so much obliged to you." The girl was facing him once more, and she was serious, though the

corners of her mouth still twitched. "The whole affair is perfectly ridiculous," she said, "but Mrs. Bascom

The assistant turned to go. His brain was beginning to regain a little of its normal poise, and he was dimly

"Maybe you'd like to know who 'tis you've helped," observed the stout woman. "And, considerin' that we're

likely to be nextdoor neighbors for a spell, I cal'late introductions are the proper thing. My name's Bascom.

"Graham?" he repeated. "Where?" Then, remembering a portion of what Seth had told him, he added, "I see!

"My brother is an artist. He and his friend, Mr. Hamilton, own this bungalow. They are abroad this summer,

and I am going to camp here for a few weeksMrs. Bascom and I. I paint a little, too, but only for fun."

Brown murmured a conventionality concerning his delight at meeting the pair, and once more headed for the

"I thought," she said, "when I see you standin' over there by the lights, that you must be one of the keepers.

Not the head keeperI knew you wa'n't himbut an assistant, maybe. But I guess you're only a visitor,

"You don't say!" Mrs. Bascom looked surprised. So, too, did Miss Graham. "You don't look like a lighthouse

keeper," continued the former. "Oh, I don't mean your clothes!" noticing the young man's embarrassed glance

at his wet and far from immaculate garments. "I mean the way you talk and act. You ain't been here long,

Brown hesitated. Miss Graham, noticing his hesitation, hastened to end the inquisition.

"Mr. Brown can't stop to answer questions, Mrs. Bascom," she said. "I'm sure he wants to get back to his

work. Good morning, Mr. Brown. No doubt we shall see each other often, being the only neighbors in sight.

"Say!" The stout woman took a step forward. "Speakin' of wasps . . . stand still a minute, Mr. Brown, won't

you. What's them lumps on your forehead? Why, I do believe you've been bit. You have, sure and sartin!"

Miss Graham was very much concerned. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed; "I hope not. Let me see."

"No, indeed!" The assistant was on the step by this time and moving rapidly. "Nothing at all. No

He almost ran down the hill and crossed the creek at the wading place. As he splashed through, the voice of

"Cold mud's the best thing," she screamed. "Put it on thick. It takes out the smart. Good and thick, mind!"

For the next hour or two the lightkeeper's helper moved about his household tasks in a curious frame of mind.

He was thoroughly angryor thought he wasand very much disturbed. Neighbors of any kind were likely

to be a confounded nuisance, but two women! Heavens! And the stout woman was sure to be running in for

calls and to borrow things. As for the other, she seemed a nice girl enough, but he never wanted to see

another girl, nice or otherwise. Her eyes were pretty, so was her hair, but what of it? Oh, hang the luck! Just

here he banged his swollen forehead on the sharp edge of the door, and found relief in profanity.

Seth Atkins was profane, also, when he heard the news. Brown said nothing until his superior discovered

with his own eyes that the bungalow was open. Then, in answer to the lightkeeper's questions, came the

"Women!" roared Seth. "You say there's two WOMEN goin' to live there? By Judas! I don't believe it!"

"I went because I couldn't help myself. Went to help some one else, in fact. I expected to find Graham and

During the following day the occupants of the lightkeeper's dwelling saw little or nothing of the newcomers

at the bungalow. Brown, his forehead resembling a section of a relief map of the Rocky Mountains, remained

indoors as much as possible, working when there was anything to do, and reading backnumber magazines

when there was not. Seth went, as usual, to his room soon after noon. His slumbers must, however, have been

fitful ones, for several times the substitute assistant, turning quickly, saw the bedroom door swing silently

shut. The third time that this happened he ran to the door and threw it open in season to catch Mr. Atkins in

an undignified dive for the bed. A tremendous snore followed the dive. The young man regarded him in

silence for a few moments, during which the snores continued. Then he shook his head.

"Humph!" he soliloquized; "I must 'phone for the doctor at once. Either the doctor or the superintendent. If he

He turned away. The slumberer stirred uneasily, rolled over, opened one eye, and sat up.

"Course I'm awake! What a fool question that is. Think I'm settin' up here and talkin' in my sleep?"

"Why didn't you know? And, see here! what did you mean by sayin' you was goin' to 'phone the doctor or the

"Course I was awake! Couldn't have heard you unless I was, could I? What ails you? Them stings go clear

"This is dreadful!" he murmured. "He walks in his sleep, and snores when he's awake. I MUST call the

"Whatwhat" The lightkeeper's wrath was interfering with his utterance. He swung his legs over the side

"Be calm, Atkins," coaxed the assistant. "Don't complicate your diseases by adding heart trouble. Three times

today I've caught you peeping at me through the crack of that door. Within fifteen seconds of the last peep I

"But why did you snore? You couldn't have fallen asleep between the door and the bed. And you hadn't quite

Brown smiled blandly. "I will," he said, "provided you promise to keep this door shut and don't do any more

"Just what I said. You and I had a discussion concerning that same practice when I fell over the bank at the

Slough a while ago. I was not spying then, but you thought I was, and you didn't like it. Now I think you are,

"Whwhatwhat would I be spyin' on you for? Whwhat reason would I have for doin' it?"

"No good reason; because I have no intention of visiting our new neighborsnone whatever. That being

"Well," he said, after a moment's reflection, "I beg your pardon. But I couldn't help feelin' kind of uneasy.

II ought to know better, I s'pose; but, with a young, goodlookin' girl landed unexpected right next to us,

"No, you didn't, butbut . . . John Brown, I've been young myself, and I know that at your age most ANY

He delivered this bit of wisdom with emphasis and a savage nod of the head. Brown had no answer ready,

"I mean what are you goin' to do now that things down here's changed, and you and me ain't alone, same as

"What? Clear out? Run away and leave me alone toto . . . By time! I didn't think you was a deserter."

The substitute assistant laughed bitterly. "You needn't worry," he said. "I couldn't go far, even if I wanted to. I

"That's so." Seth was evidently relieved. "All right," he observed; "don't you worry. 'Twon't be but a couple

of months anyway, and we'll fight it through together. But ain't it a shame! Ain't it an everlastin' shame that

this had to happen just as we'd come to understand each other and was so contented and friendly! Well,

there's only one thing to do; that's to make the best of it for us and the worst for them. We'll keep to ourselves

and pay no attention to em no more'n if they wa'n't there. We'll forget 'em altogether; hey? . . . I say we'll

"Yes," he said, and slammed the door behind him. Seth slowly shook his head before he laid it on the pillow.

However, there was no more spying, and the lightkeeper did not mention the bungalow tenants when he

appeared at supper time. After the meal he bolted to the lights, and was on watch in the tower when his helper

Early the next afternoon Brown descended the path to the boathouse. He had omitted his swim the day

before. Now, however, he intended to have it. Simply because those female nuisances had seen fit to intrude

where they had no business was no reason why he should resign all pleasure. He gave a quick glance upward

at the opposite bank as he reached the wharf. There was no sign of life about the bungalow.

He entered the boathouse, undressed, and donned his bathing suit. In a few minutes he was ready, and,

emerging upon the wharf, walked briskly back along the shore of the creek to where it widened into the cove.

He swam with long, confident strokes, those of a practiced swimmer. This was worth while. It was the one

place where he could forget that he was no longer the only son of a wealthy father, heir to a respected

namewhich was NOT Browna young man with all sorts of brilliant prospects; could forget that he was

now a disinherited vagabond, a loafer who had been unable to secure a respectable position, an outcast. He

swam and dove and splashed, rejoicing in his strength and youth and the freedom of all outdoors.

Then, as he lay lazily paddling in deep water, he heard the rattle of gravel on the steep bank of the other side

of the cove. Looking up, he saw, to his huge disgust, a female figure in a trim bathing suit descending the

bluff from the bungalow. It was the girl who had left him to fight the wasps. Her dark hair was covered with a

jauntily tied colored handkerchief, and, against the yellow sand of the bluff, she made a very pretty picture.

She saw him and waved a hand. "Good morning," she called. "Beautiful day for a swim, isn't it?"

"Yes," growled the young man, brusquely. He turned and began to swim in the opposite direction, up the

cove. The girl looked after him, raised a puzzled eyebrow, and then, with a shrug, waded into the water. The

next time the assistant looked at her, she was swimming with long, sweeping strokes down the narrow creek

to the bend and the deep hole at the end of the wharf. Round that bend and through that hole the tide whirled,

like a rapid, out into the miniature bay behind Black Man's Point. It was against that tide that Seth Atkins had

And the girl was swimming directly toward the dangerous narrows. Brown growled an exclamation of

disgust. He had no mind to continue the acquaintance, and yet he couldn't permit her to do that.

"You mustn't" shouted Brown. Then he remembered that he must not shout. Shouting might awaken the

lightkeeper, and the latter would misunderstand the situation, of course. So he cut his warning to one word.

"Wait!" he called, and began swimming toward her. She did not come to meet him, but merely ceased

swimming and turned on her back to float. And, floating, the tide would carry her on almost as rapidly as if

she assisted it. That tide did not need any assistance. Brown swung on his side and settled into the racing

He reached her in a time so short that she was surprised into an admiring comment.

He did not thank her for the compliment. There was no time for that, even if he had felt like it.

"It isn't safe. A little farther, and the tide would carry you out to sea. Come back, back up to the cove at

He expected her to ask more questions, but she did not. Instead she turned and struck out in silence. Against

"By Jove!" he panted, as they swung into the quiet water of the cove and stood erect in the shallows, "that

"Thank you," she answered, breathlessly. "It WAS a tug, wasn't it? Thank you for warning me. Now tell me

"I'm so glad. This water is glorious, and I began to be afraid I should have to give it up."

"The creek, and even the bay itself are safe enough at flood," he went on. "I often go there then. When the

He paused. She finished the sentence for him. "Even for a girl, you were going to say." She waded forward to

where the shoal ended and the deeper part began. There she turned to look at him over her shoulder.

"I'm going to that beach over there," she said, pointing across the cove. "Do you want to race?"

Without waiting to see whether he did or not, she struck out for the beach. And, without stopping to consider

The race was not so onesided. Brown won it by some yards, but he had to work hard. His competitor did not

"Well," she gasped, "you beat me, didn't you? I never could get that side stroke, and it's ever so much faster."

"You are the strongest swimmer, Miss Graham, for a girl, that I ever saw. You must have practiced a great

"Yes, Horacemy brothertaught me. He is a splendid swimmer, one of the very best."

The surprise in her tone was evident. Brown bit his lip. He remembered that Cape Cod lightkeepers' helpers

were not, as a usual thing, supposed to be widely acquainted in college athletic circles.

"But where" she began; and then, "why, of course! you met him here. I forgot that he has been your

"It's odd he didn't mention you," she observed. "He has told me a great deal about the bungalow, and the sea

views, and the loneliness and the quaintness of it all. That was what made me wish to spend a month down

here and experience it myself. And he has often spoken," with an irrepressible smile, "of yourof the

"I want to meet him. Horace said he waswell, rather odd, but, when you knew him, a fine fellow and full

Brown smiled, alsoand broadly. He mentally pictured Seth's reception of the news that he was "liked" by

the young lady across the cove. And then it occurred to him, with startling suddenness, that he had been

conversing very familiarly with that young lady, notwithstanding the solemn interchange of vows between

He waded to the shore and strode rapidly back toward the boathouse. His companion called after him.

"I shall expect you tomorrow afternoon," she said. "You've promised to teach me that side stroke,

Brown dressed in a great hurry and climbed the path to the lights at the double quick. All was safe and serene

in the house, and he breathed more freely. Atkins was sound asleep, really asleep, in the bedroom, and when

he emerged he was evidently quite unaware of his helper's unpremeditated treason. Brown's conscience

pricked him, however, and he went to bed that night vowing over and over that he would be more careful

thereafter. He would take care not to meet the Graham girl again. Having reached this decision, there

remained nothing but to put her out of his mind entirely; which he succeeded in doing at a quarter after

eleven, when he fell asleep. Even then she was not entirely absent, for he dreamed a ridiculous dream about

Next day he did not go for a swim, but remained in the house. Seth, at supper, demanded to know what ailed

"You're as mum as the oldest inhabitant of a deaf and dumb asylum," was the lightkeeper's comment. "And

"Humph! better take somethin' for it, seems to me. Little 'Stomach Balm,' hey? No? Well, GO to bed! Your

The helper's ill nature was in evidence again at breakfast time. Seth endeavored to joke him out of it, but, not

succeeding, and finding his best jokes received with groans instead of laughter, gave it up in disgust and

retired. The young man cleared the table, piled the dishes in the sink, heated a kettleful of water and began

Why had he had the ill luck to fall overboard from that steamer. Or why didn't he drown when he did fall

overboard? Then he would have been comfortably dead, at all events. Why hadn't he stayed in New York or

Boston or somewhere and kept on trying for a position, for workany kind of work? He might have starved

while trying, but people who were starving were selfrespecting, and when they met other peoplefor

instance, sisters of fellows they used to know had nothing to be ashamed of and needn't lieunless they

wanted to. He was a common loafer, under a false name, down on a sandheap washing dishes. At this point

He stooped to pick up the fragments of the plate, and, rising once more to an erect position, found himself

"Don't mind me, please," she said. "No doubt I should feel the same way if it were my plate."

The young man's first move, after recovery, was to make sure that the door between the kitchen and the hall

leading to the lightkeeper's bedroom was shut. It was, fortunately. The young lady watched him in silence,

"If he's busy, I can wait." She seated herself in a chair. "Don't let me interrupt you," she continued. "You

"Yes. Washing and sweeping and doing scrubwoman's work are my regular employments."

"Indeed! Then I'm just in time to help. Is this the dish towel?" regarding it dubiously.

"Of course you do. Everyone is glad to be helped at doing dishes. I may as well make myself useful while I'm

She picked up a platter and proceeded to wipe it, quite as a matter of course. Brown, swearing inwardly,

"Oh, no; I wanted to make his acquaintance, that's all. Horace told me so many interesting things about him.

By the way, was it last summer, or the summer before, that you met my brother here?"

No answer. Miss Graham repeated her question. "Was it last summer or the summer before?" she asked.

"Why, you must remember. How could any one forget anything that happened down here? So few things do

"I say it is odd, because, when Mrs. Bascom and I first met you, you told us this was your first summer here."

There wasn't any answer to this; at least the assistant could think of none at the moment.

"Do you wish me to call Atkins?" he asked, sharply. "He's asleep, but I can wake him."

"Oh! he's asleep. Now I understand why you whisper even when you swthat is, when you break a plate.

Brown put down the dishcloth. "It isn't altogether consideration for himor for myself," he said grimly. "I

"Because, Miss Graham, Seth Atkins took the position of lightkeeper here almost for the sole reason that no

women ever came here. Mr. Atkins is a womanhater of the most rabid type. I'll wake him up if you wish,

The young lady stared at him in surprise, delighted surprise apparently, judging by the expression of her face.

"He is." Mr. Brown neglected to add that he also had declared himself a member of the same fraternity.

"A womanhater!" Miss Graham fairly bubbled with mischievous joy. "Oh, jolly! now I'm CRAZY to meet

The assistant moved toward the hall door. "Very good!" he observed with grim determination. "I think he'll

"Noo. 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

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

"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

The tide served for bathing about three that afternoon. At ten minutes before that hour the substitute assistant

keeper of Eastboro TwinLights 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

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

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

"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

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 bethe

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 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 stonechina cups and saucers on the table.

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 rockingchair and put both hands to his

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 investigatedand seen. Well, if he had, then he had,

that was all. The murder would be out, and Eastboro TwinLights would shortly be shy a substitute assistant

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

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

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

"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

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

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 lefthand tower to

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 TwinLights. 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

twicedreaming, perhaps, that he was again pursued by the flypapered Joband 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

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

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

"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

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

"Well, I'm glad of it. My nerves are pretty steady as a general thing, but I declare I'm all of a twitter

tonightand 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,

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

"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.

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

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

"Me? Me? Why, I belong here. But youwhat in time sent you here? Unless," with returning suspicion,

"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

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

"That name? It's your name, isn't it? Oh," she smiled slightly; "I remember now. You've taken the name of

"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 droppedsome other responsibilities. Why didn't you drop the whole christenin' and start

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

"Ooh! 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 toldI

don't know who bythat the lightkeeper was a woman hater. Are you the womanhater, 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 hereand I'm here. Now what's your idea of the best thing to be done, under the

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

"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

"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

"Why not? We've seen each other often enough so that the sight won't be so wonderful. And we'll keep our

"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

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

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

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

"Well," she observed, "I must be gettin' back to the house if I want to get any sleep tonight. 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."

"Afraid! I don't know as I'm afraid of anythingthat is," with a contemptuous sniff, "nothin' I see around

This was putting the matter in a new light. Mrs. Bascom regarded her husband with wrathful amazement,

"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

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

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

"No! No! that ain't the truth, and you know it. She set out to get clear of meand I let her have her way,

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 andand that brotherinlaw of yours. That's all

"Humph! if a dog's the right breedand big enoughit's his own fault if he's kicked twice."

"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 mastershis real master, for he hadn't ought to have but onemight be needin' the right kind of

watchdog around the house. Might be in trouble herhimself, I mean; and be hopin' and prayin' for the dog

"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 TwinLights. It seems almost as

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

"WhywhyI 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 leftleftwhere I used to be. But, Emeline, how

"'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.

"Bennie?" she asked. "Oh, he ain't been with me for 'most two year now. Hehe 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

"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 stocksyou know what they wasto you, too. I done that soon's I got

"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

"Well, I didn't take it; 'tain't likely!" with fiery indignation. "Did you think I could be bought off like aa

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

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

He knew that his companion would regard his agitation as an evidence of conscious guilt, and this knowledge

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

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

She smiled. "I guessed you did," she said. "Nobody but a man would sew a white button on a white shirtor

"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!"

"You needn't. I ain'tor 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 youryour Bennie D.'s lies.

"I know some one lied; I heard 'em. They denied seein' Sarah Ann, and I saw 'em with herwith my own

eyes I saw 'em. . . . But there, there," she added; "this is enough of such talk. I'm goin' now."

"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 ityou '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

Seth hesitated. "Yes," he said, slowly, "I guess that's it. But," he added, anxiously, "II 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

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.

"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

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

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

"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

"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

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

"EmelineEmeline," 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

"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."

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

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

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

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

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

"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.

"Oh, that was easy; everythinggrass and busheswere 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

"Whawhat 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. II didn't see it at first, you know. Ha, ha! I thought you must be off your head. Thought

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

Both laughed with great heartiness. The door shut between them, and each stared doubtfully at his side of it

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 promisedhad 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 womanhater!

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

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

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

spotthe 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.

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

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

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 alonein

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

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

"I am not getting either breakfast or dinneror supper, madam," replied the helper, with emphasis. "Is there

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

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

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

"Um. I judged he was by"with a glance at the garment which she still held"the looks of things. What in

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I guess that's right; unless 'twas some that washed ashore from Noah's Ark, and it's too dry for that.

"Noo. I'm afraid those are one of my experiments, under Mr. Atkins's directions and orders. I'm rather

"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' partis 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

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.

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

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

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

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."

"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

"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

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 forsakthis place. If you've got any more

"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

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

"Hey? No. That waswas sort of s'iled, so I put on my other one. II cal'late I'll go over and work on the

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.

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

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

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, grassgrown 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

But the substitute assistant had seen enoughquite enough. Seth Atkins, Seth, the womanhater, 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.

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.

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

"If I ain't ashamed of bein' seen," she observed, "I don't know why you should be. What are you doin' over

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

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

"Yes, my other shirt. I left it in the kitchen this mornin', and thatthat helper of mine says you was in the

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

"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.

"Noo," he stammered. "II know how partic'lar you areyou used to be about such things, and I thought

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.

"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

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

"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

"No wonder he yelled. Caught stealin' pearshe expected to be thrashed for thatand 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."

"No. Old Abel Perry turned 'em out of that when the rent got behind. He's the meanest skinflint that ever

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

"Land!" he exclaimed. "Look at the time! This talk with you has seemed soso natural and oldtimey, that .

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

His answer was to seize her about the waist and swing her bodily to her feet. She was flushed and

"What are you laughin' at?" he demanded, peering over the knoll to make sure that neither John Brown nor

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

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

"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

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

"Oh," she said, with a toss of her head, "that's nothin'. Just for good measure. I never could abide rags on

"'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?"

"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 manyou don't believe it, but I am. On

land II 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 ranwhen you left me? I s'posed of

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

"II 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."

"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

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

"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 castiron poundweights 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.

"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.

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

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 crossexamination. 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 nowhe was no more of a

traitor than Seth himselfand, this being so, he felt delightfully independent. If trouble came he was ready

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 TwinLights was to all

appearancesan 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

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

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

"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

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 moreafter all the years and his savage determination to forget and to hateit 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 livingroom door carefully behind

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

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

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

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

"I want to know. That's funny. You don't oftenthat is, you didn't use to forget things hardly ever, 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. . . . Youyou've been

all rightyou and Mr. Brown, I meanfor the last few days, while the storm was goin' on?"

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

"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

"So did I. I could see your shadow movin' 'round up there once in a while. What made you come out on the

"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

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

"But you wa'n't lookin' at the shingles. You was lookin' at the lighthouses; you jest said so. Emeline, was you

"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 weif I was all right. Didn't you?"

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

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 softheaded fool I couldn't

"Whywhy, then I guess likely I'd have seen the doctor on my way through Eastboro. I shall be goin' that

"Just what I say. Miss Graham's goin' to Boston tomorrer, and I'm goin' with heras far as the city."

"What should I come back here for? My summer job's over. If you want to know, my principal reason for

"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

"Yes. The man that's been hirin' it has bought it. I'm glad, for I need the money. So goodby, Seth. 'Tain't

She started toward the door once more, and this time he was too greatly disturbed and shaken by what she

"Goodby, Seth," she said again. "I hope you'll be happy. And," with a half smile, "if I was you I'd stay

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

"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

"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

"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

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

"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 womanhater

like you; that's what they say. You ain't gettin' over your female hate, are you? Haw, haw!"

"There's some thingssuch as chronic sassinesssome 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.

"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 madwell, don't you flatter yourself. A moskeeter can pester me, but he don't make

me mad but onceand his funeral's held right afterwards. Now trot along and keep in the shade much as 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

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

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

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

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

"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. II've been feelin' meaner'n meaner every day lately. II 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?

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

"Why, Seth!" she exclaimed. "What are you talkin' about? Youthe chronic womanhater!"

"That be blessed! I wa'n't really a womanhater. I only thought I was. Andand 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

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."

"It never seemed to me that a husbandif he was a manwould 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?"

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

"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

"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 toosomethin' 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 thatthat 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,

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

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

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

"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

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 rockingchair and did not move nor raise

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

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

Taking her letter and those addressed to Miss Graham from the table she went out of the kitchen. Seth

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 sisterinlaw 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

newfound 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 selfrespecting man and husbandcollapsed 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 selfhatred 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 rightmiserable outcast that he wasto 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

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

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

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

"We are going tomorrow. 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."

There was another one of those embarrassing intervals of silence which of late seemed to occur so often in

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

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

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

"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 houseworkthat," 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' BrooksRussell, I

supposeof New York; though what Russ Brooks was doing as lightkeeper's assistant at Eastboro

"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,

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

"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

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

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

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

"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

"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

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

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

"How do you know it will? How do you know she might not have been willing to wait while you earned that

"Wait? She wait for me? Ann Davidson wait for a man without a cent while he tried to earn a good many

"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."

"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 yearsand

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

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

A big drop of rain splashing upon his shoe confirmed the weather prophecy. She began to walk briskly

"Another storm," she said. "I should think the one we have just passed through was sufficient for a while. I

"Yes. She has received some message or otherI don't know how it camewhich sent her off in a hurry. A

"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 goodhumored, 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?"

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

"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 himI am almost sure it was hehiding or crouching

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

"Well, I'm safe and reasonably dry," she panted. "I'm afraid you will be drenched before you get to the lights.

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

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

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

She had closed the door. He ran homeward through the rain, the storm which soaked him to the skin being

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

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

At half past ten he went to Seth's bedroom, found a meager assortment of pens, ink and note paper, returned

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

"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

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

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 recordbreaking 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 righthand tower he spent the remainder of the night, occasionally wandering out on the gallery to note

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?

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

Joshua slopped on, but this was a sort of threelegged progress. The driver leaned forward and then pulled on

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

"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, tumbledown blacksmith shop was located in the main street of Eastboro, if that

hitormiss 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

Ellis removed his nose from its close proximity to the gear shaft and straightened up. He was a nearsighted,

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.

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

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

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

"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

"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

"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

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 horsesspecially 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 bigbugs in the neighborhood innocent enough to let you

tinker with their autos though they'll never do it but onceI 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 itHenry G. Goodspeed for one. I'm goin'

This was a shot in the bull'seye. Mr. Ellis owed a number of bills, had owed them for a long time, and Mr.

Goodspeed's was by no means the smallest. The loafers exchanged winks, and the blacksmith's manner

"I didn't say I wouldn't do it for you, Seth," he pleaded. "I'm always willin' to do your work. You're the one

"Ugh! Well, I'm likely to complain some more, but the complaint's one thing, and the need's another. I'm like

Joel Knowleshe said when he couldn't get whisky he worried along best he could with bay rum. I need a

blacksmith, and if I can't get a real one I'll put up with an imitation. Will you shoe this horse for me?"

"Course I'll shoe him. But I can't do it this minute. I've got this consarned machine," waving a hand toward

the automobile, "out of door here and all to pieces. And it's goin' to rain. Just let me put enough of it together

so's I can shove it into the shop out of the wet, and then I'll tackle your job. You leave your horse and team

So on this basis the deal was finally made. Seth was reluctant to trust the precious Joshua out of his sight, but,

after some parley, he agreed to do so. The traces were unfastened, and the animal was led into the shop, the

carriage was backed under a shed, and the lightkeeper went away promising to be back in an hour. As soon as

The argument with the blacksmith had one satisfactory result so far as Seth was concerned. In a measure it

afforded a temporary vent for his feelings. He was moderately agreeable during his brief stay at the grocery

store, and when his orders were given and he found the hour not half over, he strolled out to walk about the

village. And then, alone once more, all his misery and heartache returned. He strode along, his head down,

scarcely speaking to acquaintances whom he met, until he reached the railway station, where he sat down on

the baggage truck to mentally review, over and over again, the scene with Emeline and the dreadful collapse

As he sat there, the door of the station opened and a man emerged, a man evidently not a native of Eastboro.

He was dressed in a rather loud, but somewhat shabby, suit of summer plaid, his straw hat was set a trifle

over one ear, and he was smoking the stump of a not too fragrant cigar. Altogether he looked like a sporting

character under a temporary financial cloud, but the cloud did not dim his selfsatisfaction nor shadow his

magnificent complaisance. He regarded the section of Eastboro before him with condescending scorn, and

then, catching sight of the doleful figure on the baggage truck, strolled over and addressed it.

"I say, my friend," he observed briskly, "have you a match concealed about your person? If so, I"

He stopped short, for Mr. Atkins, after one languid glance in his direction, had sprung from the truck and was

gazing at him as if he was some apparition, some figure in a nightmare, instead of his blase self. And he, as

he looked at the lightkeeper's astounded countenance, dropped the cigar stump from his fingers and stepped

"You!" cried Seth again; not a brilliant nor original observation, but, under the circumstances, excusable, for

the nonchalant person in the plaid suit was Emeline Bascom's brotherinlaw, the genius, the "inventor," the

one person whom he hatedand fearedmore than anyone else in the worldBennie D. himself.

There was a considerable interval during which neither of the pair spoke. Seth, openmouthed and

horrorstricken, was incapable of speech, and the inventor's astonishment seemed to be coupled with a

certain nervousness, almost as if he feared a physical assault. However, as the lightkeeper made no move, and

his fists remained open, the nervousness disappeared, and Bennie D. characteristically took command of the

"Yes, I be." Seth did not ask what Bennie D. was doing there. Already that question was settled in his mind.

The brotherinlaw had found out that Emeline was living next door to the man she married, that her

"Well?" queried the inventor sharply, "if you haven't followed me, what are you doing here? What do you

"You do? And may I ask what particular being is fortunate enough to employ you?"

"I'm keeper down to the lighthouses, if you want to know. But I cal'late you know it already."

The inventor had not known ituntil that moment, and he took time to consider before making another

remark. His sisterinlaw was employed as housekeeper at some bungalow or other situated in close

proximity to the TwinLights; that he had discovered since his arrival on the morning train. Prior to that he

had known only that she was in Eastboro for the summer. Before that he had not been particularly interested

in her location. Since the day, two years past, when, having decided that he had used her and her rapidly

depleting supply of cash as long as was safe or convenient, he had unceremoniously left her and gone to New

York to live upon money supplied by a credulous city gentleman, whom his smooth tongue had interested in

his "inventions," he had not taken the trouble even to write to Emeline. But within the present month the New

Yorker's credulity and his "loans" had ceased to be material assets. Then Bennie D., face to face with the

need of funds, remembered his sister and the promise given his dead brother that he should be provided with

He journeyed to Cape Ann and found, to his dismay, that she was no longer there. After some skillful

detective work, he learned of the Eastboro engagement and wrote the lettera piteous, appealing letter, full

of brotherly love and homesicknesswhich, held back by the storm, reached Mrs. Bascom only that

morning. In it he stated that he was on his way to her and was counting the minutes until they should be

together once more. And he had, as soon after his arrival in the village as possible, 'phoned to the Lights and

spoken with her. Her tone, as she answered, was, he thought, alarmingly cold. It had made him apprehensive,

and he wondered if his influence over her was on the wane. But nownow he understood. Her

husbandher husband, of all peoplehad been living next door to her all summer. No doubt she knew he

was there when she took the place. Perhaps they had met by mutual agreement. Why, this was appalling! It

might mean anything. And yet Seth did not look triumphant or even happy. Bennie D. resolved to show no

signs of perturbation or doubt, but first to find out, if he could, the truth, and then to act accordingly.

Bennie D. looked puzzled. Then his expression changed. He was relieved. When he 'phoned to the

Lightsusing the depot 'phone the station agent had seemed to consider his calling a woman over the

lighthouse wire great fun. The lightkeeper, so the agent said, was named Atkins, and was a savage

womanhater. He would not see a woman, much less speak to one; it was a standing joke in the

neighborhood, Seth's hatred of females. That seemed to prove that Emeline and her husband were not

reconciled and living together, at least. Possibly their being neighbors was merely a coincidence. If so, he

might not have come too late. When he next addressed his companion it was in a different tone and without

"BascomorerAtkins," he said sharply, "I hopedI sincerely hoped that you and I might not meet

during my short stay here; but, as we have met, I think it best that we should understand each other. Suppose

we walk over to that clump of trees on the other side of the track. We shall be alone there, and I can say what

is necessary. I don't wisheven when I remember your behavior toward my sisterto humiliate you in the

He led the way, and Seth, yielding as of old to this man's almost hypnotic command over him and still

bewildered by the unexpected meeting, followed like a whipped dog. Under the shelter of the trees they

"Now then," said Bennie D., "perhaps you'll tell me what you mean by decoying my sister down here in my

Seth stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Decoyin' her?" he repeated. "I never decoyed her. I've been here ever

since I leftleft you and her that night. I never asked her to come. I didn't know she was comin'. And she

Bennie D. held up a hand. He was delighted by this piece of news, but he did not show it.

"That will do," he said. "I understand all that. But since then since then? What do you mean by trying to

"I ain't tried to influence her," he declared. "She and me have scarcely seen each other. Nobody knows that

we was married, not even Miss Graham nor the young feller that'sthat's my helper at the lights. You must

She had not written; he had received no letters from her during the two years, but again the wily "genius" was

He hesitated, not knowing exactly what his next move should be. And Seth, having had time to collect, in a

"Say," he said suddenly, "if you knew all this aforehand, what are you askin' these questions for?"

"I want to know! Well, then, maybe I've got some business of my own. Who made my business your

"Never you mind your sister. You're talkin' with me now. And you ain't got me penned up in a house, neither.

By jiminy crimps!" His anger boiled over, and, to the inventor's eyes, he began to look alarmingly alive. "By

jiminy crimps!" repeated Seth, "I've been prayin' all these years to meet you somewheres alone, and now I've

"Bascom" The inventor was thoroughly frightened, and his voice rose almost to a shout.

The lightkeeper's wrath vanished at the sound of the name. If any native of Eastboro, if the depot master on

the other side of the track, should hear him addressed as "Bascom," the fat would be in the fire for good and

all. The secret he had so jealously guarded would be out, and all the miserable story would, sooner or later, be

Bennie D.'s courage returned. Yet he realized that if a trump card was to be played it must be then. This man

was dangerous, and, somehow or other, his guns must be spiked. A brilliant idea occurred to him. Exactly

"Very well thenAtkins," he said contemptuously. "I am not used to aliasesnot having dealt with persons

finding it necessary to employ themand I forget. But before this disagreeable interview is ended I wish you

to understand thoroughly why I am here. I am here to protect my sister and to remove her from your

"Yes, sir," triumphantly, "a divorce from the man she was trapped into marrying and who deserted her. You

did desert her, you can't deny that. So long as she remains your wife, even in name, she is liable to

persecution from you. She understands this. She and I are to see a lawyer at once. That is why I am here."

Seth was completely overwhelmed. A divorce! A case for the papers to print, and all of Ostable county to

"III" he stammered, and then added weakly, "I don't believe it. She wouldn't . . . There ain't no

Then we shall seek the one nearest here. Emeline understands. I 'phoned her this morning."

"It was. NowerAtkins, I am disposed to be as considerate of your welfare as possible. I know that any

publicity in this matter might prejudice you in the eyes of yourof the government officials. I shall not seek

publicity, solely on your account. The divorce will be obtained privately, providedPROVIDED you remain

out of sight and do not interfere. I warn you, therefore, not to make trouble or to attempt to see my sister

again. If you dowell, if you do, the consequences will be unpleasant for you. Do you understand?"

Seth understood, or thought he did. He groaned and leaned heavily against a tree trunk.

"You understand, do you?" repeated Bennie D. "I see that you do. Very good then. I have nothing more to

He gave a farewell glance at the crushed figure leaning against the tree. Then he turned on his heel and

Seth remained where he was for perhaps ten minutes, not moving a muscle. Then he seemed to awaken,

looked anxiously in the direction of the depot to make sure that no one was watching, pulled his cap over his

eyes, jammed his hands into his pockets, and started to walk across the fields. He had no fixed destination in

mind, had no idea where he was going except that he must go somewhere, that he could not keep still.

He stumbled along, through briers and bushes, paying no attention to obstacles such as fences or stone walls

until he ran into them, when he climbed over and went blindly on. A mile from Eastboro, and he was alone in

a grove of scrub pines. Here he stopped short, struck his hands together, and groaned aloud:

For he was beginning not to believe it. At first he had not thought of doubting Bennie D.'s statement

concerning the divorce. Now, as his thoughts became clearer, his doubts grew. His wife had not mentioned

the subject in their morning interview. Possibly she would not have done so in any event, but, as the memory

of her behavior and speech became clearer in his mind, it seemed to him that she could not have kept such a

secret. She had been kinder, had seemed to him moreyes, almostwhy, when he asked her to be his again,

to give him another chance, she had hesitated. She had not said no at once, she hesitated. If she was about to

Then came the letter and the telephone message. It was after these that she had said no with decision. Perhaps

. . . was it possible that she had known of her brotherinlaw's coming only then? Now that he thought of it,

she had not gone away at once after the talk over the 'phone. She had waited a moment as if for him to speak.

He, staggered and paralyzed by the sight of his enemy's name in that letter, had not spoken and then she . . .

He did not believe she was seeking a divorce! It was all another of Bennie D.'s lies!

But suppose she was seeking it. Or supposefor he knew the persuasive power of that glib tongue only too

wellsuppose her brotherinlaw should persuade her to do it. Should he sit still in seclusion, as his late

adviser had counseledand let this irrevocable and final move be made? After a divorceSeth's idea of

divorces were vague and Puritanicalthere would be no hope. He and Emeline could never come together

after that. And he must give her up and all his hopes of happiness, all that he had dreamed of late, would be

but dreams, never realities. No! he could not give them up. He would not. Publicity, scandal, everything, he

could face, but he would not give his wife up without a fight. What should he do?

For a long time he paced up and down beneath the pines trying to plan, to come to some decision. All that he

could think of was to return to the Lights, to go openly to the bungalow, see Emeline and make one last

appeal. Bennie D. might be there, but if he was well, by jiminy crimps, let him look out, that's all!

He had reached this point in his meditations when the wind, which had been steadily increasing and tossing

the pinetops warningly, suddenly became a squall which brought with it a flurry of rain. He started and

looked up. The sky was dark, it was late in the afternoon, and the storm he had prophesied had arrived.

Half an hour later he ran, panting and wet, into the blacksmith's shop. The automobile was standing in the

middle of the floor, and Mr. Ellis was standing beside it, perspiring and troubled.

"SethI don't know what you'll say to mebutbut I declare I forgot all about your horse."

"Yes. You see that thing?" pointing pathetically at the auto. "Well, sir, that pesky thing's breakin' my

heartto say nothin' of my back. I got it apart all right, no trouble about that. And by good rights I've got it

together again, leastways it looks so. Yet, by time," in distracted agitation, "there's a half bucket of bolts and

nuts and odds and ends that ain't in it yetleft over, you might say. And I can't find any place to put one of

Trifles! the shoeing of Joshua a trifle! The lightkeeper had been suffering for an opportunity to blow off

"Sshsh! shsh!" he pleaded. "Land sakes, Seth Atkins, stop it! I don't blame you for bein' mad, but you nor

nobody else sha'n't talk to me that way. I'll fix your horse in five minutes. Yes, sir, in five minutes. Shut up

He rushed over to the stall in the rear of the shop, woke Joshua from the sweet slumber of old age, and led

him to the halter beside the forge. The lightkeeper, being out of breath, had nothing further to say at the

"What's the matter with all you lighthouse folks?" asked Benijah, anxious to change the subject. "What's

possessed the whole lot of you to come to the village at one time? Whoa, boy, stand still!"

"Mean I've seen two of you at least this afternoon. That Bascom woman, housekeeper at the Graham

bungalow she is, went past here twice. Fust time she was in one of Snow's livery buggies, Snow's boy drivin'

her. Then, about an hour ago, she went by again, but the boy'd gone, and there was another feller pilotin' the

Seth's red face turned pale. "What?" he cried. "EmMrs. Bascom ridin' with a stranger! What sort of a

"Oh, a feller somewheres between twenty and fifty. Smoothfaced critter with a checked suit and a straw hat.

"No, didn't seem to be goin' to the Lights at all. They went on the other road. Seemed to be headin' for

Denboro if they kept on as they started. . . . Seth Atkins, have you turned loony?"

Seth did not answer. With a leap he landed at Joshua's head, unhooked the halter, and ran out of the shop

leading the horse. The astonished blacksmith followed as far as the door. Seth was backing the animal into

his wagon, which stood beneath the shed. He fastened the traces with trembling fingers.

"What in the world has struck you?" shouted Ellis. "Ain't you goin' to have that shoe fixed? He can't travel

"Who took? That feller and the Bascom woman? Course I am, but . . . Well, I swan!"

For the lightkeeper waited to hear no more. He struck the unsuspecting Joshua with the end of the reins and,

with a jump, the old horse started forward. Another moment, and the lighthouse wagon was splashing and

Denboro is many long miles from Eastboro, and the road, even in the best of weather, is not a good one. It

winds and twists and climbs and descends through woods and over hills. There are stretches of marshy

hollows where the yellow clay needs but a little moistening to become a paste which sticks to wheels and

hoofs and makes traveling, even behind a young and spirited horse, a disheartening progress.

Joshua was neither young nor spirited. And the weather could not have been much worse. The three days'

storm had soaked everything, and the claybottomed puddles were near kin to quicksands. As the lighthouse

wagon descended the long slope at the southern end of the village and began the circle of the inner extremity

of Eastboro Back Harbor, Seth realized that his journey was to be a hard one. The rain, driven by the

northeast wind, came off the water in blinding gusts, and the waves in the harbor were tipped with white.

Also, although the tide was almost at its lowest, streaks of seaweed across the road showed where it had

reached that forenoon, and prophesied even a greater flood that night. He turned his head and gazed up the

harbor to where it narrowed and became Pounddug Slough. In the Slough, near its ocean extremity, his old

schooner, the Daisy M., lay stranded. He had not visited her for a week, and he wondered if the "spell of

weather" had injured her to any extent. This speculation, however, was but momentary. The Daisy M. must

look out for herself. His business was to reach Judge Gould's, in Denboro, before Mrs. Bascom and Bennie

D. could arrange with that prominent citizen and legal light for the threatened divorce.

That they had started for Judge Gould's he did not doubt for a moment. "I shall seek the nearest lawyer,"

Bennie D. had said. And the judge was the nearest. They must be going there, or why should they take that

road? Neither did he doubt now that their object was to secure the divorce. How divorces were secured, or

how long it took to get one, Seth did not know. His sole knowledge on that subject was derived from the

newspapers and comic weeklies, and he remembered reading of places in the West where lawyers with the

necessary blanks in their pockets met applicants at the arrival of one train and sent them away, rejoicing and

This fragment of a song, sung at a "movingpicture" show in the town hall, and resung many times thereafter

by Ezra Payne, John Brown's predecessor as assistant keeper at the lights, recurred to him as he urged the

weary Joshua onward. So far as Seth knew, the Reno custom might be universal. At any rate, he must get to

Judge Gould's before Emeline and her brotherinlaw left there. What he should do when he arrived and

Eastboro Back Harbor was left behind, and the long stretch of woods beyond was entered. Joshua, his hoofs

swollen by the sticky clay to yellow cannon balls, plodded on, but, in spite of commands and pleadingsthe

lightkeeper possessed no whip and would not have used one if he hadhe went slower and slower. He was

walking now, and limping sadly on the foot where the loose shoe hung by its bent and broken nails.

Five miles, six, seven, and the limp was worse than ever. Seth, whose conscience smote him, got out of the

carriage into the rain and mud and attempted repairs, using a stone as a hammer. This seemed to help matters

some, but it was almost dark when the granite block marking the township line was passed, and the windows

The judge himself answered the knock, or series of knocks. He seemed much surprised to find the keeper of

"Why, hello, Atkins!" he cried. "What in the world are you doing over here? a night like this!"

"Sheshe's a friend of mine. She andand a relation of hers was comin' over here to see you on business.

"No. No one has been here this afternoon. I've been in since one o'clock, and not a soul has called, on

"Certainly. If they came before one my wife would have told me, I think. I'll ask her."

"No, no," hastily. "You needn't. If they ain't been since one they ain't been. But I don't understand. . . . There's

"My land! My LAND! Thenthen I'm out of soundin's somehow. They never came for it, after all."

"Nothin', nothin', I guess," with a sickly smile. "I've made some sort of mistake, though I don't know how.

The lawyer began to share the blacksmith's opinion that his caller had gone crazy.

"Come in, Atkins," he urged. "Come in out of the wet. What IS the matter? What are you doing here at this

time of night so far from the Lights? Is it anything serious? Come in and tell me about it."

But Seth, instead of accepting the invitation, stared at him aghast. Then, turning about, he leaped down the

But Seth did not wait. Already he had turned his horse's head toward Eastboro, and was driving off. The

lawyer stood still, amazedly looking after him. Then he went into the house and spent the next quarter of an

hour trying to call the TwinLights by telephone. As the northeast wind had finished what the northwest one

had begun and the wire was down, his attempt was unsuccessful. He gave it up after a time and sat down to

But his worriment was as nothing compared to Seth's. The lawyer's reference to the Lights had driven even

matrimonial troubles from the Atkins mind. The lights! the TwinLights! It was long past the time for them

to be lit, and there was no one to light them but Brown, a green hand. Were they lit at all? If not, heaven

He had thought of this before, of course, had vaguely realized that he was betraying his trust, but then he had

not cared. The Lights, his position as keeper, everything, were side issues compared with the one thing to be

done, the getting to Denboro. He had reached Denboro and found his journey all a mistake; his wife and

Bennie D. had not, apparently, visited that village; perhaps had not even started for it. Therefore, in a measure

relieved, he thought of other things. He was many miles from his post of duty, and now his sole idea was to

At ten o'clock Mrs. Hepsibah Deacon, a widow living in a little house in the woods on the top of the hill on

the Denboro side of Eastboro Back Harbor, with no neighbors for a mile in either direction, was awakened by

"It's me, Mrs. Deacon; Seth Atkins, down to the Lights, you know. I've left my horse and carriage in your

barn. Joshhe's the horse is gone lame and played himself out. He can't walk another step. I've

unharnessed him and left him in the stall. He'll be all right. I've given him some water and hay. Just let him

stay there, if it ain't too much trouble, and I'll send for him tomorrer and pay for his keep. It's all right, ain't

Before the frightened widow could ask a question or utter a word he was gone, ploughing down the hill in the

direction of the Back Harbor. When he reached the foot of that hill where the road should have been, he

It was pitchdark, the rain was less heavy, and clouds of fog were drifting in before the wind. Seth waded on

for a short distance, but soon realized that wading would be an impossibility. Then, as in despair, he was

about ready to give up the attempt, a dark object came into view beside him. It was a dory belonging to one

of the lobstermen, which, at the end of its long anchor rope, had swung inshore until it floated almost over the

road. Seth seized it in time to prevent collision with his knees. The thole pins were in place, and the oars laid

lengthwise on its thwarts. As his hands touched the gunwale a new idea came to him.

He had intended walking the rest of the way to Eastboro, routing out the liveryman and hiring a horse and

buggy with which to reach the Lights. Now he believed chance had offered him an easier and more direct

method of travel. He could row up the Harbor and Slough, land close to where the Daisy M. lay, and walk the

rest of the way in a very short time. He climbed into the dory, pulled up the anchor, and seated himself at the

The bottom of the boat was two inches deep with rain water, and the thwart was dripping and cold. Seth,

being already about as wet as he could be, did not mind this, but pulled with long strokes out into the harbor.

The vague black shadows of the land disappeared, and in a minute he was, so far as his eyes could tell him,

afloat on a shoreless sea. He had no compass, but this did not trouble him. The wind, he knew, was blowing

directly from the direction he wished to go, and he kept the dory's bow in the teeth of it. He rowed on and on.

The waves, out here in the deep water, were of good size, and the spray flew as he splashed into them. He

knew that he was likely to get off the course, but the Back Harbor was, except for its upper entrance,

landlocked, and he could not go far astray, no matter where he might hit the shore.

The fog clouds, driven by the squalls, drifted by and passed. At rare intervals the sky was almost clear. After

he had rowed for half an hour and was beginning to think he must be traveling in circles, one of these clear

intervals came and, far off to the left and ahead, he saw something which caused him to utter an exclamation

of joy. Two fiery eyes shone through the dark. The fog shut them in again almost immediately, but that one

glance was sufficient to show that all was well at the post he had deserted. The fiery eyes were the lanterns in

the TwinLights towers. John Brown had been equal to the emergency, and the lamps were lighted.

Seth's anxiety was relieved, but that one glimpse made him even more eager for home. He rowed on for a

short time, and then began edging in toward the invisible lefthand shore. Judging by the length of time he

had been rowing, he must be close to the mouth of the Slough, where, winding through the salt marshes, it

He crept in nearer and nearer, but no shore came in sight. The fog was now so thick that he could see not

more than ten feet from the boat, but if he was in the mouth of the Slough he should have grounded on the

marsh bank long before. The reason that he did not, a reason which did not occur to him at the time, was that

the marshes were four feet under water. Owing to the tremendous tide Pounddug Slough was now merely a

The lightkeeper began to think that he must have miscalculated his distance. He could not have rowed as far

as he thought. Therefore, he again turned the dory's nose into the teeth of the wind and pulled steadily on. At

intervals he stopped and listened. All he heard was the moan of distant foghorns and the whistling of the

gusts in trees somewhere at his left. There were pine groves scattered all along the bluffs on the Eastboro

side, so this did not help him much except to prove that the shore was not far away. He pulled harder on the

Another blast howled through the distant trees and swept down upon him. Then, borne on the wind, he heard

from somewhere ahead, and alarmingly near at hand, other sounds, voices, calls for help.

"Look out!" roared Seth, peering excitedly over his shoulder into the dark. "Where are you? Look out or

For out of the fog loomed a bulky shape driving down upon him. He pulled frantically at the oars, but it was

too late. A mast rocked against the sky, a stubby bowsprit shot over the dory, and the little boat, struck

broadside on, heeled to the water's edge. Seth, springing frantically upward, seized the bowsprit and clung to

it. The dory, pushed aside and half full of water, disappeared. From the deck behind the bowsprit two voices,

Seth did not scream. Clinging to the reeling bowsprit, he swung up on it, edged his way to the vessel's bows

"For thunder sakes!" he roared angrily, "what kind of navigation's this? Where's your lights, you lubbers?

For the deck, as much as he could see of it in the dark, looked astonishingly familiar. As he stumbled aft it

became more familiar still. The ropes, a combination of new and old, the new boards in the deck planking,

the general arrangement of things, as familiar to him as the arrangement of furniture in the kitchen of the

Lights! It could not be . . . but it was! The little schooner was his own, his hobby, his afternoon

workshopthe Daisy M. herself. The Daisy M., which he had last seen stranded and, as he supposed, hard

From the stern by the cabin hatch a man came reeling toward him, holding to the rail for support with one

"Help!" cried the man wildly. "Who is it? Help us! we're drowning! We're . . . Can't you put us ashore. Please

And then another figure followed the first, and a woman's voice spoke pleadingly.

"Have you got a boat?" it cried. "We're adrift on this dreadful thing and . . . why, SETH!"

"Why, SETH!" she said again. Then the sounds of the wind and waves and the creaking and cracking of the

But Bennie D., even under the shock of such a surprise as this, did not remain silent long. His precious self

"You put us ashore!" he shouted. "You put us ashore right off, do you hear? Don't stand there like a fool! Do

"Emeline," he said, "there's a lantern hanging up in the cabin. Go light it and fetch it to me. Hurry!"

"It's upset," was the frightened answer. "Bennie found it when we first came aboard. When wewhen this

"Never mind. Probably there's ile enough left for a spell. Go fetch it. There's matches in a box on the wall just

He seized his companion by the arm and pulled him toward the bow. The frightened genius held back.

"What in time is the matter with you?" snarled the lightkeeper. "Are your feet asleep? Come!"

Bennie D. came, under compulsion. Seth half led, half dragged him to the bow, and, bending down, uncoiled

"Them's the jib halliards," he explained. "Haul on 'em quick and hard as you can. If we can h'ist the jib we

can get some steerage way on her, maybe. Haul! haul till you can't haul no more. Then hang on till I come

He rushed back to the wheel. The tiller ropes were new, and he could trust them, fortunately. From the cabin

"Good!" snapped Seth. "Now we can see what we're doin' and, if we show a glim, maybe we won't run down

no more dories. You go for'ard and No, you take this wheel and hold it just as 'tis. JUST as 'tis;

understand? I'll be back in a jiffy. What in thunder's the matter with that foolhead at the jib?"

He seized the lantern and rushed to the bow. Bennie D. had dropped the halliard and was leaning over the rail

Seth hoisted the jib himself, made it fast, and then turned his attention to the mutinous hand.

"Shut up!" he bellowed, catching him by the arm. "Who do you cal'late's goin' to hear you? Shut up! You

come with me. I want you to pump. The old craft would do well enough if she was tight, but she's more'n

But Bennie had no notion of pumping. With a jerk he tore loose from the lightkeeper's grasp and ran to the

"Stop that, I tell you," he commanded angrily. "It don't do no good. If you don't want to go to the bottom

The frantic genius paid no attention. His sisterinlaw left the wheel and put her hand on his shoulder.

Bennie D. pushed her backward with savage force. "Mind your own business," he yelled with an oath. "'Twas

your foolishness got me into this." Then, leaning over the rail, he called shrilly, "Help! I'm drowning!

Mrs. Bascom staggered back against the wheel, which Seth had seized the instant she deserted it. "Oh!" she

Her husband freed an arm and put it about her. "Are you much hurt, Emeline?" he asked sharply.

"Good! Then you take this wheel and hold her just so. That's it. AND DON'T YOU DROP IT AGAIN. I'll

The back of his head striking the deck put a period in the middle of his sentence. The next moment he was

"Pump!" roared the lightkeeper. "Pump! or I'll break your everlastin' neck. Lively now!"

"Up and downso." Seth jerked his victim's head up and down, by way of illustration. "Now, then," he

continued, "you pump till I say quit, or I'llI swan to man I'll make a spare tops'l out of your hide!"

He left the inventor working as he had not worked in the memory of man, and strode back to the wheel. Mrs.

He took the wheel and she collapsed, breathless, against the rail. After a time she ventured to ask a question.

"I don't," was the reply. "All I'm tryin' to do is keep her afore it. If this no'theast wind would hold, we'd be all

right, but it's dyin' fast. And the tide must be at flood, if not startin' to go out. With no wind, and no anchor,

and the kind of ebb tide there'll be pretty soonwell, if we don't drift out to sea we'll be lucky. . . . Pump!

pump! you son of a roustabout. If I hear you stoppin' for a second I'll come for'ard and murder you."

Bennie D., who had ventured to rest for a moment, bent his aching back to the task. Was this

manslaughtering tyrant his mild mannered, meek brotherinlaw, the creature whom he had browbeaten

Perhaps Seth did not understand, either; perhaps he did not try to. Yet the explanation was simple and natural.

The sea, the emergency, the danger, his own deck beneath his feetthese were like old times, here was a

situation he knew how to handle. He forgot that he was a lightkeeper absent from duty, forgot that one of his

passengers was the wife he had run away from, and the other his bugbear, the dreaded and formidable Bennie

D. He forgot all this and was again the able seaman, the Tartar skipper who, in former days, made his crews

"Emeline," he snapped, "didn't I tell you to set down and set still? Must I give orders twice? SET DOWN!"

The wind died to fitful gusts. The schooner barely moved. The fog was as thick as ever. Still Seth did not lose

courage. When the housekeeper ventured to murmur that she was certain they would drown, he reassured her.

"Keep your pennant masthigh, Emeline," he said cheerfully. "We ain't out at sea, that's sure and sartin. And,

until we get in the breakers, we're safe enough. The old gal leaks some; she ain't as dry as a GoodTemplar

prayer meetin', but she's afloat. And when I'm afloat I ain't afraid, and you needn't be."

"Yup. She's mine. I bought her just for fun a long spell ago, and I've been fussin' with her ever since. But I

did it FOR fun; I never s'posed she'd take a cruiselike this. And what are you and himdoin' on her?"

Mrs. Bascom hesitated. "It was all an accident, Seth," she explained. "This has been an awful nightand

day. Bennie and I was out ridin' together, and we took the wrong road. We got lost, and the rain was awful.

We got out of the buggy to stand under some trees where 'twas drier. The horse got scared at some limbs

fallin' and run off. Then it was most dark, and we got down to the shore and saw this boat. There wa'n't any

water round her then. Bennie, he climbed aboard and said the cabin was dry, so we went into it to wait for the

storm to let up. But it kept gettin' worse. When we came out of the cabin it was all fog like this and water

everywhere. Bennie was afraid to wade, for we couldn't see the shore, so we went back into the cabin again.

And then, all at once, there was a bump that knocked us both sprawlin'. The lantern went out, and when we

come on deck we were afloat. It was terrible. And thenand then you came, Seth, and saved our lives."

A pause. Then: "Emeline, there's no use your tellin' me what ain't so. I know more than you think I do,

"The Denboro road? Why, we only went on that a ways. Then we turned off on what we thought was the road

to the Lights. But it wa'n't; it must have been the other, the one that goes along by the edge of the Back

Harbor and the Slough, the one that's hardly ever used. Seth," indignantly, "what do you mean by sayin' that I

"Seth, I was always sorry for that. I knew you didn't lie. At least I ought to have known you didn't. I"

"Whywhy Well, Seth, I'll tell you. Bennie wanted to talk to me. He had come on purpose to see me, and

he wanted me to do somethin' thatthat . . . Anyhow, he'd come to see me. I didn't know he was comin'. I

hadn't heard from him for two years. That letter I got thisyesterday mornin' was from him, and it most

"No. The fact is he left me two years ago without even sayin' good by, andand I thought he had gone for

good. But he hadn't," with a sigh, "he hadn't. And he wanted to talk with me. That's why he took the other

"Humph! Emeline, answer me true: Wa'n't you goin' to Denboro to getto get a divorce from me?"

She stared, gasped, and resumed her seat. Seth gazed straight ahead into the blackness. He swallowed once or

"Thatthat feller there," nodding grimly toward the groaning figure at the pumps, "told me himself that him

and you had agreed to get a divorce from meto get it right off. He give me to understand that you expected

him, 'twas all settled and that was why he'd come to Eastboro. That's what he told me this afternoon on the

"Seth," she cried, "did hedid Bennie tell you that? Did he? Why, I never heard such aI never! Seth, it

ain't true, not a word of it. Did you think I'd get a divorce? Me? A selfrespectin' woman? And from you?"

"I didn't. You turned yourself adrift. I was in trouble, bound by a promise I give my dyin' husband, to give his

brother a home while I had one. I didn't want to do it; I didn't want him with us there, where we'd been so

happy. But I couldn't say anything. I couldn't turn him out. And you wouldn't, you"

She was interrupted. From beneath the Daisy M.'s keel came a long, scraping noise. The little schooner

Mrs. Bascom, startled, uttered a little scream. Bennie D., knocked to his knees, roared in fright. Seth alone

"Humph!" he observed, "we're aground somewheres. And in the Harbor. We're safe and sound now, I cal'late.

Emeline, go below where it's dry and stay there. Don't talkgo. As for you," leaving the wheel and striding

toward the weary inventor, "you can stop pumpin' unless," with a grim smile, "you like it too well to

quitand set down right where you be. Right where you be, I said! Don't you move till I say the word.

He went forward, lowered the jib, and coiled the halliards. Then, lantern in hand, he seated himself in the

bows. After a time he filled his pipe, lit it by the aid of the lantern, and smoked. There was silence aboard the

The wind died away altogether. The fog gradually disappeared. From somewhere not far away a church clock

struck the hour. Seth heard it and smiled. Turning his head he saw in the distance the Twin Lights burning

Gradually, slowly, the morning came. The last remnant of low hanging mist drifted away. Before the bows

of the stranded schooner appeared a flat shore with a road, still partially covered by the receding tide, along

its border. Fish houses and anchored dories became visible. Behind them were hills, and over them roofs and

"Why, Seth!" she cried, "why, Seth! it's Eastboro, ain't it? We're close to Eastboro."

Seth nodded. "It's Eastboro," he said. "I cal'lated we must be there or thereabouts. With that no'theast breeze

to help us we couldn't do much else but fetch up at the inner end of the Back Harbor."

"Seth," she whispered, "what should we have done without you? You saved our lives."

He swung about and faced her. "Emeline," he said, "we've both been awful fools. I've been the biggest one, I

guess. But I've learned my lessonI've swore offI told you I'd prove I was a man. Do you think I've been

"Well, do you? Or," with a gesture toward the "genius" who was beginning to take an interest in his

She was interrupted by her brotherinlaw, who came swaggering toward them. With the sight of land and

"Humph!" he observed. "Well, sister, we are safe, I really believe. In spite of," with a glare at the lightkeeper,

"this person's insane recklessness and brutality. Now I will take you ashore and out of his presence."

"Didn't I tell you," he demanded, "not to move till I said the word? Emeline, stay right here."

"Sister," he cried, in growing alarm, "sister, come! come! we're going ashore, I tell you. What are you waiting

"She is goin' ashore," he said. "But she's goin' with me, and she's goin' to stay with me. Ain't you, Emeline?"

The lady looked up into his face and then down again. "If you want me, Seth," she said.

Bennie D. sprang forward. "Emeline," he shrieked, "what do you mean? Are you going to leave me? Have

"She ain't forgot nothin'," broke in Seth. "But YOU'RE forgettin' what I told you. Will you go aft there and

"Butbut, Emelinesisterhave you forgotten your promise to your dying husband? To my brother? You

"She don't own any home," he declared triumphantly. "She sold her house, and she ain't got any

homeexcept the one I'm goin' to give her. And if you ever dare to show your head inside of THAT, I'll

I'll heave you over both lights. If you think I'm foolin', just try and see. Now then, Emeline."

And, with his wife in his arms, Seth AtkinsSeth Atkins Bascom CAPTAIN Seth Atkins

"John Brown," his long night's vigil over, extinguished the lights in the two towers, descended the iron stairs,

and walked across the yard into the kitchen. His first move, after entering the house, was to ring the telephone

bell and endeavor to call Eastboro. He was anxious concerning Atkins. Seth had not returned, and the

substitute assistant was certain that some accident must have befallen him. The storm had been severe, but it

would take more than weather to keep the lightkeeper from his post; if he was all right he would have

Brown rang the bell time and time again, but got no response. The storm had wrecked the wires, that was

certain, and that means of communication was cut off. He kindled the fire in the range and tried to forget his

anxiety by preparing breakfast. When it was prepared he waited a while and then sat down to a lonely meal.

But he had no appetite, and, after dallying with the food on his plate, gave it up and went outside to look

The first thing he looked at was the road from the village. No sign of life in that direction as far as he could

see. Then he looked at the bungalow. Early as it was, a thread of blue smoke was ascending from the

chimney. Did that mean that the housekeeper had returned? Or had Ruth Graham been alone all through the

miserable night? Under ordinary circumstances he would have gone over and asked if all was well. He would

have done that, even if Seth were at home he was past the point where the lightkeeper or their compact

could have prevented himbut he could not muster courage to go now. She must have found the note he had

tucked under the door, and he was afraid to hear her answer. If it should be no, thenwell, then he did not

He watched the bungalow for a time, hoping that she might come out that he might at least see herbut

the door did not open. Auguring all sorts of dismal things from this, he moped gloomily back to the kitchen.

He was tired and had not slept for thirty hours, but he felt no desire for bed. He could not go to bed anyway

He sat down in a chair and idly picked up one of a pile of newspapers lying in the corner. They were the New

York and Boston papers which the grocery boy had brought over from Eastboro, with the mail, the previous

day. Seth had not even looked at them, and Brown, who seldom or never read newspapers, found that he

could not do so now. He tossed them on the table and once more went out of doors. After another glance at

He was astonished to see how far the tide had risen in the night. The line of seaweed and drift marking its

highest point was well up the bank. Now the ebb was foaming past the end of the wharf. He looked for the

lobster car, which should have been floating at its moorings, but could not see it. Either it was under the

wharf or it had been swept away and was gone. And one of the dories was gone, too. No, there it was, across

the cove, high and dry on the beach. If so much damage was visible from where he stood, it was probable that

a closer examination might show even more. He reentered the kitchen, took the boathouse key from its

nailthe key to Seth's wonderful purchase, the spring lock which was to keep out thieves and had so far

been of no use except as a troublemakerand started for the wharf. As he passed the table he picked up the

bundle of newspapers and took them with him. The boathouse was the repository for rubbish, old papers and

magazines included, and these might as well be added to the heap. Atkins had not read this particular lot, but

The lobster car was not under the wharf. The ropes which had moored it were broken, and the car was gone.

Splinters and dents in the piles showed where it had banged and thumped in the grasp of the tide before

breaking loose. And, lying flat on the wharf and peering under it, it seemed to him that the piles themselves

He rose and was about to go further out for another examination, when his foot struck the pile of papers he

had brought with him. He picked them up, and, unlocking the boathouse doorit stuck and required

considerable effort to open itentered the building, tossed the papers on the floor, and turned to go out.

At first he did not realize what the click meant. Not until he tried to open it did he understand. The settling of

the wharf had thrown the door and its frame out of the perpendicular. That was why it stuck and opened with

such reluctance. When he opened it, he had, so to speak, pushed it uphill. Its own weight had swung it back,

and the spring lockin which he had left the keyhad worked exactly as the circular of directions declared

Even then he did not fully grasp the situation. He uttered an exclamation of impatience and tugged at the

door; but it was heavy, jammed tight in its frame, and the lock was new and strong. He might as well have

After a minute of fruitless effort he gave up the attempt on the door and moved about the little building,

seeking other avenues of escape. The only window was a narrow affair, high up at the back, hung on hinges

and fastened with a hook and staple. He climbed up on the fish nets and empty boxes, got the window open,

and thrust his head and one shoulder through the opening. That, however, was as far as he could go. A dwarf

might have squeezed through that window, but not an exvarsity athlete like Russell Brooks or a husky

longshoreman like "John Brown." It was at the back, facing the mouth of the creek and the sea, and afforded

a beautiful marine view, but that was all. He dropped back on the fish nets and audibly expressed his opinion

Then he tried the door again, again gave it up, and sat down on the fish nets to think. Thinking was

unsatisfactory and provoking. He gave that up, also, and, seeing a knothole in one of the boards in the

landward side of his jail, knelt and applied his eye to the aperture. His only hope of freedom, apparently, lay

in the arrival home of the lightkeeper. If Seth had arrived he could shout through that knothole and possibly

The knothole, however, commanded a view, not of the lighthouse buildings, but of the cove and the

bungalow. The bungalow! Ruth Graham! Suddenly, and with a shock, flashed to his mind the thought that his

imprisonment, if at all prolonged, was likely to be, not a joke, but the most serious catastrophe of his life.

For Ruth Graham was going to leave the bungalow and Eastboro that very day. He had begged to see her

once more, and this day was his last chance. He had written her, pleading to see her and receive his answer. If

he did not see her, if Seth did not return before long and he remained where he was, a prisoner and invisible,

the last chance was gone. Ruth would believe he had repented of his declaration as embodied in the fateful

note, and had fled from her. She had intimated that he was a coward in not seeing his fiancee and telling her

the truth. She did not like his writing that other girl and running away. Now she would believe the cowardice

Through the knothole he sent a yell for rescue. Another and another. They were unheardat least, no one

emerged from the bungalow. He sprang to his feet and made another circle of the interior of the boathouse.

Then he sank down upon the heap of nets and again tried to think. He must get out. He mustsomehow!

The morning sunshine streamed through the little window and fell directly upon the pile of newspapers he

had brought from the kitchen and thrown on the floor. His glance chanced to rest for an instant upon the

topmost paper of the pile. It was a New York journal which devotes two of its inside pages to happenings in

society. When he threw it down it had unfolded so that one of these pages lay uppermost. Absently, scarcely

"Engagement in High Life Announced. Another American Girl to Wed a Nobleman. Miss Ann Gardner

"Another contemplated matrimonial alliance between one of New York's fairest daughters and a scion of the

English nobility was made public yesterday. Miss Ann Gardner Davidson, of this city, the breaking of whose

engagement to Russell Agnew Brooks, son of George Agnew Brooks, the wealthy cotton broker, was the

sensation of the early spring, is to marry Herbert AinsworthAinsworth, Baron Hardacre, of Hardacre

Towers, Surrey on Kent, England. It was said that the young lady broke off her former engagement with

The prisoner in the boathouse read no further. Ruth Graham had said to him the day before that, in her

opinion, he had treated Ann Davidson unfairly. He should have gone to her and told her of his quarrel with

his father. Although he did not care for Ann, she might care for him. Might care enough to wait and . . . Wait?

Why, she cared so little that, within a few months, she was ready to marry another man. And, if he owed her

any debt of honor, no matter how farfetched and fantastic, it was canceled now. He was absolutely free. And

he had been right all the time. He could prove it. He would show Ruth Graham that paper and . . .

His jaw set tight, and he rose from the heap of fish nets with the folded paper clinched like a club in his hand.

He was going to get out of that boathouse if he had to butt a hole through its boards with his head.

Once more he climbed to the window and made an attempt to squeeze through. It was futile, of course, but

this time it seemed to him that the sill and the plank to which it was attached gave a little. He put the paper

between his teeth, seized the sill with both hands, braced his feet against a beam below, and jerked with all

his strength. Oncetwicethree times! It was giving! It was pulling loose! He landed on his back upon the

nets, sill and a foot of boarding in his hands. In exactly five seconds, the folded newspaper jammed in his

trousers pocket, he swung through the opening and dropped to the narrow space between the building and the

The space was a bare six inches wide. As he struck, his ankle turned under him, he staggered, tried wildly to

regain his balance, and fell. As he fell he caught a glimpse of a blueclad figure at the top of the bluff before

the bungalow. Then he went under with a splash, and the eager tide had him in its grasp.

When he came to the surface and shook the water from his eyes, he was already some distance from the

wharf. This, an indication of the force of the tide, should have caused him to realize his danger instantly. But

it did not. His mind was intent upon the accomplishment of one thing, namely, the proving to Ruth Graham,

by means of the item in the paper, that he was no longer under any possible obligation to the Davidson girl.

Therefore, his sole feeling, as he came sputtering to the top of the water, was disgust at his own clumsiness. It

was when he tried to turn and swim back to the wharf that he grasped the situation as it was. He could not

There was no time to consider what was best to do. The breakers were only five hundred yards off, and if he

wished to live he must keep out of their clutches. He began to swim diagonally across the current, putting all

his strength into each stroke. But for every foot of progress toward the calmer water he was borne a yard

The tide bubbled and gurgled about him. Miniature whirlpools tugged at his legs, pulling him under. He

fought nobly, setting his teeth and swearing inwardly that he would make it, he would not give up, he would

not drown. But the edge of the tide rip was a long way off, and he was growing tired already. Another

whirlpool sucked him down, and when he rose he shouted for help. It was an instinctive, unreasoning appeal,

And the shout was answered. From somewhere behind hima long, long distance, so it seemed to

He kept on, or tried to. He swamand swamand swam. He went under, rose, went under again, fought his

way up, and kept on swimming. Through the gurgle and hiss of the water, sounding dully above the humming

in his ears and the roar of the blood in his tired brain, came the clear voice again:

"Steady now! Just as you are! one more stroke! Now one more! Quick! Quick! Now! Can you get aboard?"

The wet, red side of a dory's bow pushed past his laboring shoulder. A hand clutched his shirt collar. He

reached up and grasped the boat's gunwale, hung on with all his weight, threw one leg over the edge, and

"Thanks," he panted, his eyes shut. "Thatwasabout the closest call Iever had. Hey? Why! RUTH!"

She was panting, also, but she was not looking at him. She was rowing with all her might, and gazing

fearfully over her shoulder. "Are you strong enough to help me row?" she asked breathlessly. "We must head

He raised his head and looked over the rail. The breakers were alarmingly close. He scrambled to the thwart,

So, each with an oar, they fought the tide, and wonbut by the narrowest of margins. The dory edged into

stiller and shoaler water, crept out of the eddying channel over the flat where the depth was but a scant four

feet, turned almost by inches, and, at last, slid up on the sandy beach below the bungalow. The girl sat bowed

over the handle of her oar, her breast heaving. She said nothing. Her companion likewise said nothing.

Staggering, he stepped over the side, walked a few feet up the beach, and then tumbled in an unconscious

He was not unconscious long, being a healthy and robust young fellow. His first thought, upon opening his

eyes, was that he must close them again as quickly as possible because he wanted the dream to continue. To

lie with one's head in the lap of an angel, while that angel strokes your forehead and cries over you and begs

you for her sake not to die, is too precious a delusion to lose. But the opening of one's eyes is a mistake under

such circumstances, and he had made it. The angel's next remark was entirely unromantic and practical.

"Yes. . . . Don't try to get up. You're not strong enough yet. You must wait here while I go and get you

"Don't go!" He almost shouted it. "Ifif you do I'llI'llI think I'm going to faint again."

"Oh, no, you're not. And I must go and get you some brandy or something. Stay just where you are."

"Ruth Graham, if you go away now, I'll go with you, if I have to crawl. Maybe I can't walk, but I swear I'll

crawl after you on my hands and knees unless you answer my question. DO you care enough for me to wait?"

She looked out at the little bay, at the narrow, wicked tide race, at the breakers beyond. Then she looked

Russell Agnew Brooks, the late "John Brown," opened his eyes. "I am not going to faint," he observed. "I

Some time after thishours and minutes do not count in paradisehe remembered the item in the paper.

"By George!" he exclaimed, "I had something to show you. I'm afraid I've lost it. Oh, no I here it is."

He extracted from his trousers pocket the water soaked lump that had been the New York newspaper. The

page containing the sensational announcement of the engagement in high life was quite undecipherable.

Being on the outside of the folded paper, it had rubbed to a pulpy blur. However, he told her about it, and she

agreed that his judgment of the character of the future Baroness Hardacre had been absolutely correct.

"Not so wise as I've become since," he asserted with decision. Then he added, with a rather rueful smile, "I'm

But she did not have to. For, at that moment, the miracle of wisdom beside her sat up and pointed to the wet

"Has my happiness affected my wits?" he demanded. "Or does salt water bring on delusions? Aren't those my

He was pointing to a paragraph in the "Personals" column of the New York paper. This, being on one of the

inner pages, had remained comparatively dry and could be read. The particular "Personal" to which he

"R. A. B." Wherever you are. This is to certify that I hereby acknowledge that you have been absolutely

correct in the A. D. matter; witness news elsewhere. I was a fool, and I apologize publicly. Incidentally I need

a head like yours in my business. Come back. Partnership awaiting you. Come back; and marry anybody or

"But what," asked Ruth, as they entered the bungalow together, "has happened to Mr. Atkins, do you think?

You say he went away yesterday noon and you haven't seen him or even heard from him since. I should think

he would be afraid to leave the lights for so long a time. Has he ever done it before?"

"No. And I'm certain he would not have done it this time of his own accord. If he could have gotten back last

"But last night was pretty bad. And," quite seriously, "of course he knew that you were here, and so

"Oh, certainly," with sarcasm, "he would know that, of course. So long as I am on deck, why come back at

all? I'm afraid Atkins doesn't share your faith in my transcendent ability, dear."

"Well," Miss Graham tossed her head, "I imagine he knew he could trust you to attend to his old lighthouses."

"Perhaps. If so, his faith has developed wonderfully. He never has trusted me even to light the lanterns. No,

I'm afraid something has happenedsome accident. If the telephone was in working order I could soon find

out. As it is, I can only wait and try not to worry. By the way, is your housekeeperMrs.

"She hasn't returned. I expected her last eveningshe said she would be back before darkbut she didn't

come. That didn't trouble me; the storm was so severe that I suppose she stayed in the village overnight."

"So you were alone all through the gale. I wondered if you were; I was tremendously anxious about you. And

"Not much. You see," she smiled oddly, "I received a letter before I retired, and it was such an

"A letter? A letter last night? WhoWhat? You don't mean my letter? The one I put under your door? You

"But how? The bungalow was as dark as a tomb. There wasn't a light anywhere. I made sure of that before I

"I know. I put the light out, but I was sitting by the window in the dark, looking out at the storm. Then I saw

"Me? . . . Oh," hastily, "I wanted to make sure it waserunder. And you found it and read itthen?"

"Nonsense! You knew what it must be. Surely you did. Now, truly, didn't you? Didn't you, dear?"

"Why should I? . . . Oh, your sleeve is wet. You're soaking wet from head to foot."

"Well, I presume that was to be expected. This water out here is remarkably damp, you know, and I was in it

"Don't!" with a shudder, "don't speak of it. When I saw you fall into that tide I . . . But there! you mustn't stay

"Haven't you? Neither have I." He forgot that he had attempted to have one. "But I don't care," he added

recklessly. Then, with a flash of inspiration, "Why can't we breakfast together? Invite me, please."

"To hear is to obey. 'I go, but I return,' as the fellow in the play observes. I'll be back in just fifteen minutes."

He was back in twelve, and, as to make the long detour about the marshes would, he felt then, be a wicked

waste of time and the marshes themselves were covered with puddles left by the tide, his "dry things" were

far from dry when he arrived. But she did not notice, and he was too happy to care, so it was all right. They

got breakfast together, and if the coffee had boiled too long and the eggs not long enough, that was all right,

They sat at opposite sides of the little table, and he needed frequent reminding that eating was supposed to be

the business on hand. They talked of his father and of Ann Davidsonwhom Ruth declared was to be

pitiedof the wonderful coincidence that that particular paper, the one containing the "Personal" and the

"Engagement in High Life" item, should have been on top of the pile in the boathouse, andof other things.

Occasionally the talk lapsed, and the substitute assistant merely looked, looked and smiled vacuously. When

this happened Miss Graham smiled, also, and blushed. Neither of them thought of looking out of the window.

If they had not been so preoccupied, if they had looked out of that window, they would have seen a horse and

buggy approaching over the dunes. Seth and Mrs. Bascom were on the buggy seat, and the lightkeeper was

driving with one hand. The equipage had been hired at the Eastboro livery stable. Joshua was undergoing

"Well, Emeline," he observed, "here we be, safe and sound. Home again! Yes, sir, by jiminy crimps, HOME!

"Who'll see me? What do I care who sees me? Ain't a man got a right to put his arm around his own wife, I'd

"Humph! Well, all right. I can stand it if you can. Only I cal'late your young Brown man is in for somethin' of

"His ain't what you'd call a desp'rate case," he declared. "Judgin' by what I've seen in the cove for the last

month, he's gettin' better of it fast. I ain't no worse than he is, by time! . . . Wonder where he is! This place

He hitched the horse to the back fence and assisted his wife to alight from the buggy. They entered the

kitchen. No one was there, and Seth's hurried search of the other rooms resulted in finding them untenanted

"Maybe he's out in one of the lights," he said. "wait here, Emeline, and I'll go see."

But she would not wait. "I'm goin' right over to the bungalow," she said. "I'm worried about Miss Ruth. She

was alone all last night, and I sha'n't rest easy till I know nothin's happened to her. You can come when you

find your young man. You and me have got somethin' to tell 'em, and we might as well get the tellin' done as

soon as possible. Nothin's ever gained by putting off a mean job. Unless, of course," she added, looking at

him out of the corners of her eyes, "you want to back out, Seth. It ain't too late even now, you know."

He stared at her. "Back out!" he repeated; "back out! Emeline Bascom, what are you talkin' about? You go to

that bungalow and go in a hurry. Don't stop to talk! go! Who's runnin' this craft? Who's the man in this

"I am. I've been a consider'ble spell learnin' how to be, but I've learned. You trot right along."

Brown was in neither of the light towers, and Seth began to be worried about him. He descended to the yard

and stood there, wondering what on earth could have happened. Then, looking across the cove, he became

aware that his wife was standing on the edge of the bluff, making signals with both hands.

He opened his mouth to shout a question, but she frantically signaled for silence. Then she beckoned. He ran

He followed her, crept close to the bungalow window and peeped in. His helper, "John Brown," and Miss

Ruth Graham were seated at the table. Also the substitute assistant was leaning across that table with the

young lady's hand in his; the pair were entirely oblivious of anything in the world except each other.

A few moments later a thunderous knock shook the bungalow door. The knock was not answered

immediately; therefore, Seth opened the door himself. Miss Graham and the lightkeeper's helper were

standing some distance apart; they gazed speechlessly at the couple who now entered the room.

"Well," observed Seth, with sarcasm, "anybody got anything to say? You," turning to the young man, "seems

to me you ought to say SOMETHIN'. Considerin' a little agreement you and me had, I should imagine I was

entitled to some triflin' explanation. What are you doin' over herewith HER? Brown"

The young gentleman came to himself with a start. He walked across to where Miss Graham was standing,

"My name is not Brown," he said firmly. "It is Brooks; and this is the young lady I am to marry."

He naturally expected his superior to be surprised. As a matter of fact, he was the surprised party. Seth

reached out, drew the bungalow housekeeper toward him, and put his arm about her waist. Then he smiled;

"My name ain't Atkins," was the astonishing reply; "it's Bascom. And this," indicating by a tightening of his

arm the blushing person at his side, "is the lady I married over five year ago."

After the stories had been told, after both sides had told theirs and explained and been exclaimed over and

congratulated, after the very last question had been asked and answered, Brownor Brooks asked one

"But this other fellow," he queried, "this brotherinlaw By George, it is perfectly marvelous, this whole

Seth chuckled. "Bennie D.?" he said. "Well, Bennie D. is leavin' Eastboro on the noon train. I paid his fare

and give him fifty dollars to boot. He's goin' somewhere, but he ain't sartin where. If you asked me, I should

say that, in the end, he'd most likely have to go where he's never been afore, so far's I ever heard that's to

work. Nowseein' as the important business has been talked over and settledmaybe you'll tell me about

But the lighthouse subject was destined to be postponed for a few minutes. The person in whose care the

Lights had been left during the past twenty hours or so looked at the speaker, then at the other persons

Russell Agnew Brooks, alias "John Brown," exsubstitute assistant at Eastboro TwinLights, sank into a

"It is hysterics," cried Ruth, hastening to his side. "No wonder, poor dear, considering what he has been

Her fiance waved a reassuring hand. "Itit's all right," he gasped. "I was just laughing at . . . Oh," pointing

"Ask him?" repeated the bewildered young lady. "Why, Mr. Atkins Bascom, I meanwhat. . . ."

And then Seth began to laugh. Leaning against the doorpost, he at first chuckled and then roared.

"Seth!" cried his wife. "Seth, you old idiot! Why, I never see two such loons in my life! Seth, answer me!

Seth Atkins Bascom wiped the tears from his eyes. "I cal'late," he panted, "I rather guessHo, ho!I rather