"I didn't know but you might be kind of nervous and scart when 'twas blowin'. All alone so."
"Humph! I've got used to bein' alone. As for Miss Ruth, I don't think she's scart of anythin'."
"Well, I was sort of nervous about you, if you wa'n't about yourself. 'Twas consider'ble of a gale of wind. I thought one spell I'd blow out of the top of the tower."
"So did I. I could see your shadow movin' 'round up there once in a while. What made you come out on the gallery in the worst of it night afore last?"
"Oh, the birds was smashin' themselves to pieces against the glass same as they always do in a storm, and I . . . But say! 'twas after twelve when I came out. How'd you come to see me? What was your doin' up that time of night?"
Mrs. Bascom's color deepened. She seemed put out by the question.
"So much racket a body couldn't sleep," she explained sharply. "I thought the shingles would lift right off the roof."
"But you wa'n't lookin' at the shingles. You was lookin' at the lighthouses; you jest said so. Emeline, was you lookin' for me?
Was you worried about me?"
He bent forward eagerly.
"Hush!" she said, "you'll wake up the other woman-hater."
"I don't care. I don't care if I wake up all creation. Emeline, I believe you was worried about me, same as I was about you. More'n that," he added, conviction and exultation in his tone, "I don't believe 'twas eggs that fetched you here this mornin' at all. I believe you came to find out if we--if I was all right. Didn't you?"
"I didn't come to SEE you, be sure of that," with emphatic scorn.
"I know. But you was goin' to see Brown and find out from him.
Answer me. Answer me now, didn't--"
She stepped toward the door. He extended an arm and held her back.
"You answer me," he commanded.
She tried to pass him, but his arm was like an iron bar. She hesitated a moment and then laughed nervously.
"You certainly have took to orderin' folks round since the old days," she said. "Why, yes, then; I did come to find out if you hadn't got cold, or somethin'. You're such a child and I'm such a soft-headed fool I couldn't help it, I cal'late?"
"Emeline, s'pose I had got cold. S'pose you found I was sick--what then?"
"Why--why, then I guess likely I'd have seen the doctor on my way through Eastboro. I shall be goin' that way to-morrer when I leave here."
"When you leave here? What do you mean by that?"
"Just what I say. Miss Graham's goin' to Boston to-morrer, and I'm goin' with her--as far as the city."
"But--but you're comin' back!"
"What should I come back here for? My summer job's over. If you want to know, my principal reason for comin' here this mornin' was to say good-by--to Mr. Brown, of course."
Seth's arm dropped. He leaned heavily against the doorpost.
"You're goin' away!" he exclaimed. "You're goin' away! Where?"
"I don't know. Back home, I s'pose. Though what I'll do when I get there I don't know. I've sold the house, so I don't exactly know where I'll put up. But I guess I'll find a place."
"You've sold your house? The house we used to live in?"
"Yes. The man that's been hirin' it has bought it. I'm glad, for I need the money. So good-by, Seth. 'Tain't likely we'll meet again in this life."
She started toward the door once more, and this time he was too greatly disturbed and shaken by what she had told him to detain her.
At the threshhold she turned and looked at him.
"Good-by, Seth," she said again. "I hope you'll be happy. And," with a half smile, "if I was you I'd stay keepin' lights; it, or somethin' else, has improved you a whole lot. Good-by."
Then he sprang forward. "Emeline," he cried, "Emeline, wait. You mustn't go. I can't let you go this way. I . . . What's that?"
"That" was the sound of horse's feet and the rattle of wheels. The lightkeeper ran to the window.
"It's Henry G.'s grocery cart," he said. "I cal'late he's fetchin' some truck I ordered last week. Do you want him to see you here?"
"I don't care. He don't know but what you and me are the best of friends. Yet, I don't know. Maybe it's just as well he don't see me; then there'll be no excuse for talk. I'll step inside and wait."
She returned to the kitchen, and Seth went out to meet the wagon.
Its driver was the boy who had brought the flypaper and "Job."
"Hello," hailed the youngster, pulling in his steed; "how be you, Mr. Atkins? I've got some of them things you ordered. The rest ain't come from Boston yet. Soon's they do, Henry G.'ll send 'em down. How you feelin' these days? Ain't bought no more dogs, have you?"
Seth curtly replied that he "wa'n't speculatin' in dogs to no great extent any more," and took the packages which the boy handed him.
With them was a bundle of newspapers and an accumulation of mail matter.
"I fetched the mail for the bungalow, too," said the boy. "There's two or three letters for that Graham girl and one for Mrs. Bascom.
She's housekeeper there, you know."
"Yes. Here, you might's well leave their mail along with mine.
I'll see it's delivered, all right."
"Will you? Much obliged. Goin' to take it over yourself? Better look out, hadn't you? That Graham girl's a peach; all the fellers at the store's talkin' about her. Seems a pity she's wastin' her sassiety on a woman-hater like you; that's what they say. You ain't gettin' over your female hate, are you? Haw, haw!"
Mr. Atkins regarded his questioner with stern disapproval.
"There's some things--such as chronic sassiness--some folks never get over," he observed caustically. "Though when green hides are too fresh they can be tanned; don't forget that, young feller. Any more chatty remarks you've got to heave over? No? Well, all right; then I'd be trottin' back home if I was you. Henry G.'ll have to shut up shop if you deprive him of your valuable services too long.
Good day to you."
The driver, somewhat abashed, gathered up the reins. "I didn't mean to make you mad," he observed. "Anything in our line you want to order?"