shore-line, that he left the lighthouse
to Jim's undivided care, and reclining on a sand-dune still warm from
the sun, lazily watched the result of Jim's first essay. As the twilight
deepened, and the first flash of the lantern strove with the dying
glories of the sun, Pomfrey presently became aware that he was not the
only watcher. A little gray figure creeping on all fours suddenly glided
out of the shadow of another sand-dune and then halted, falling back on
its knees, gazing fixedly at the growing light. It was the woman he had
seen. She was not a dozen yards away, and in her eagerness and utter
absorption in the light had evidently overlooked him. He could see
her face distinctly, her lips parted half in wonder, half with the
breathless absorption of a devotee. A faint sense of disappointment came
over him. It was not HIM she was watching, but the light! As it swelled
out over the darkening gray sand she turned as if to watch its effect
around her, and caught sight of Pomfrey. With a little startled cry--the
first she had uttered--she darted away. He did not follow. A moment
before, when he first saw her, an Indian salutation which he had
learned from Jim had risen to his lips, but in the odd feeling which her
fascination of the light had caused him he had not spoken. He watched
her bent figure scuttling away like some frightened animal, with a
critical consciousness that she was really scarce human, and went back
to the lighthouse. He would not run after her again! Yet that evening he
continued to think of her, and recalled her voice, which struck him now
as having been at once melodious and childlike, and wished he had at
least spoken, and perhaps elicited a reply.

He did not, however, haunt the sweat-house near the river again. Yet he
still continued his lessons with Jim, and in this way, perhaps, although
quite unpremeditatedly, enlisted a humble ally. A week passed in which
he had not alluded to her, when one morning, as he was returning from a
row, Jim met him mysteriously on the beach.

"S'pose him come slow, slow," said Jim gravely, airing his newly
acquired English; "make no noise--plenty catchee Indian maiden." The
last epithet was the polite lexicon equivalent of squaw.

Pomfrey, not entirely satisfied in his mind, nevertheless softly
followed the noiselessly gliding Jim to the lighthouse. Here Jim
cautiously opened the door, motioning Pomfrey to enter.

The base of the tower was composed of two liv