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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What was that?" she demanded.

"Nothin'."

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

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

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

Seth started violently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What was the reason?"

"You want to know, do you?"

"Yes, I do."

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

"O--oh! oh, I see. And you ran away from your name as you ran away from
your wife. I see. And . . .