st wish they hadn't gone to Europe. I cal'late you'd have liked 'em,
too."

"Perhaps," said the helper, doubtfully.

"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."

"Yes, I know. Perhaps that's why I shouldn't like to meet them."

"Hey? . . . Oh, yes, yes; I see. I never thought of that. But 'tain't
likely they'd know you; they hailed from Boston, not New York."

"How did you know I came from New York? I didn't tell you that."

"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 the truth; hey?"

One morning about a week later, Brown, his dish washing and sweeping
done, was busy in the light-room 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. Someone--not the
grocer or a tradesman--was driving to the village. But where had he
been, and who was he? Not Seth, for Seth was asleep--he 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