mages of many
burning candles.

On the beach itself a small boat was drawn up. A figure in white waited
near it. Issuing from the deserted fishing settlement, rising over the
brow of the uplands, moved two other figures in white and one in darker
clothing, the latter leading the way at a rapid pace.

With one accord Whitaker and his wife moved down to meet them. As they
drew together, the leader of the landing party checked his pace and
called:

"Hello there! Who are you? What's the meaning of your fires--?"

Mechanically Whitaker's lips uttered the beginning of the response:
"Shipwrecked--signalling for help--"

"Whitaker!" the voice of the other interrupted with a jubilant shout.
"Thank God we've found you!"

It was Ember.

XX

TEMPERAMENTAL

Seldom, perhaps, has an habitation been so unceremoniously vacated as
was the solitary farm-house on that isolated island. Whitaker delayed
only long enough to place a bill, borrowed from Ember, on the kitchen
table, in payment for what provisions they had consumed, and to
extinguish the lamps and shut the door.

Ten minutes later he occupied a chair beneath an awning on the after
deck of the yacht, and, with an empty glass waiting to be refilled
between his fingers and a blessed cigar fuming in the grip of his teeth,
stared back to where their rock of refuge rested, brooding over its
desolation, losing bulk and conformation and swiftly blending into a
small dark blur upon the face of the waters.

"Ember," he demanded querulously, "what the devil is that place?"

"You didn't know?" Ember asked, amused.

"Not the smell of a suspicion. This is the first pleasure, in a manner
of speaking, cruise I've taken up along this coast. I'm a bit weak on
its hydrography."

"Well, if that's the case, I don't mind admitting that it is No Man's
Land."

"I'm strong for its sponsors in baptism. They were equipped with a
strong sense of the everlasting fitness of things. And the other--?"

"Martha's Vineyard. That's Gay Head--the headland with the lighthouse.
Off to the north of it, the Elizabeth Islands. Beyond them, Buzzards
Bay. This neat little vessel is now standing about west-no'th-west to
pick up Point Judith light--if you'll stand for the nautical patois.
After that, barring a mutiny on the part of the passengers, she'll swing
on to Long Island Sound. If we're lucky, we'll be at anchor off East
Twenty-fourth Street by nine o'clock to-morrow morning. Any kick
c