"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 night he would, storm or no storm."
"But last night was pretty bad. And," quite seriously, "of course he knew that you were here, and so everything would be all right."
"Oh, certainly," with sarca**, "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 happened--some 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 housekeeper--Mrs. What's-her-name--all serene after her wet afternoon? When did she return?"
"She hasn't returned. I expected her last evening--she said she would be back before dark--but 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 you weren't afraid? Did you sleep?"
"Not much. You see," she smiled oddly, "I received a letter before I retired, and it was such an important--and surprising-- communication that I couldn't go to sleep at once."
"A letter? A letter last night? Who--What? You don't mean my letter? The one I put under your door? You didn't get THAT last night!"
"Oh, yes, I did."
"But how? The bungalow was as dark as a tomb. There wasn't a light anywhere. I made sure of that before I came over."
"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 some one coming up the hill, and it was you."
"Then you saw me push it under the door?"
"Yes. What made you stay on the step so long after you had pushed it under?"
"Me? . . . Oh," hastily, "I wanted to make sure it was--er--under.
And you found it and read it--then?"
"Of course. I couldn't imagine what it could be, and I was curious, naturally."
"Ruth!"
"I was."
"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 for some time. I should have been in it yet if it hadn't been for you."
"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 here another moment. Go home and put on dry things. Go at once!"
"Dry things be hanged! I'm going to stay right here--and look at you."
"You're not. Besides, I am wet, too. And I haven't had my breakfast."
"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."
"No, I shall not. At least, not until you go back and change your clothes."
"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, also.
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 Davidson--whom Ruth declared was to be pitied--of 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, and--of 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 repairs and enjoying a much-needed rest at the blacksmith shop in the village.
As they drew near the lights, Seth sighed contentedly.
"Well, Emeline," he observed, "here we be, safe and sound. Home again! Yes, sir, by jiminy crimps, HOME! And you ain't goin' to Boston to-day, neither."
Mrs. Bascom, the practical, moved toward the edge of the seat.
"Take your arm away, Seth," she cautioned. "They'll see you."
"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 like to know?"
"Humph! Well, all right. I can stand it if you can. Only I cal'late your young Brown man is in for somethin' of a shock, that's all. HE don't know that I'm your wife."
Seth removed his arm. His expression changed.
"That's so," he admitted. "He will be set back three or four rows, won't he?"
"I shouldn't wonder. He'll think your woman-hate has had a relapse, I guess."