, taking it. "Much obliged for sewin' on the
button."

"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 you."

He was turning the shirt over in his hands.

"Well," he began, then stopped and looked fixedly at the garment.

"I see you've mended that hole in the sleeve," he said. "You didn't owe
me that, did you?"

She changed color slightly.

"Oh," she said, with a toss of her head, "that's nothin'. Just for good
measure. I never could abide rags on anybody that--that I had to look at
whether I wanted to or not."

"'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?"

"No. Unless," with sarcasm, "it was because I wa'n't around."

"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 man--you don't believe it, but I am.
On land I--I 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
ran--when you left me? I s'posed of course you had. Why didn't you?"

He looked at her in surprise.

"Go to sea?" he repeated. "Go to SEA? How could I? Didn't I promise you
I'd never go to sea again?"

"Was that the reason?"

"Sartin. What else?"

She did not answer. There was an odd expression on her face. He turned
to go.

"Well, good-by," he said.

"Good-by. Er--Seth."

"Yes; what is it?"

"I--I 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."

"That's all right."

"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 uncomprehendingly.

"What's them?" he demanded.

"They're molasses cookies. I've been bakin', and these are some extry
ones I had left over. You can have 'em if you want 'em."

"Why--why, Emeline! this is mighty kind of you."

"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