glass lamp. Here, between the times that
David inspected his Light, he sat to read or think. As Janet reached the
place the darkness was so dense she could see nothing, but with
outstretched hands she was feeling her way to the door leading to the
steps into the Light, when she touched David's gray head, as it lay upon
his arms folded upon the table! He was breathing deeply and audibly, and
the girl's touch did not arouse him. Whatever the matter was with
David, Janet's first thought was of his sacred and neglected duty. She
ran on, and into the lamp. She struck the match and set the blaze to the
wick; then, when it was well lighted, she darted outside and withdrew
the cloth. The belated beams shot into the night as if they had gained
strength and power from the forced delay.

"God keep the government from knowing!" breathed the girl; "it was only
a little while, and it ought not to count after all the faithful years."

Weak from fear and hurry, Janet retraced her steps to David. He was
still sleeping as peacefully as a child. Under his folded arms was an
open book. Janet recognized it as one that Mr. Devant had given to David
recently, a little book of poems of the sea, poems with a ring and
rhythm in them that bore the golden thoughts to Davy's song-touched
heart. The man had fallen asleep like a happy boy, forgetting, for the
first time in his life, his duty.

Janet lighted the little lamp upon the stand, and drew up a stool. The
minutes ticked themselves away upon Davy's big, white-faced clock which
hung against the wall. Eight, eight thirty, eight forty-five! Then David
sat up and stared with wide-opened eyes right at Janet. A moment of
bewilderment shook his awakening senses; then he gave his sigh and
laugh.

"By gum!" he said, "jest fur an instint I thought I'd forgot my Light!"

"It's all right, Davy," Janet nodded cheerfully.

"Course!" Davy returned the nod; "course, ye don't s'pose I'd light my
lamp fust, do ye?"

"Never, Davy!"

"It's bad enough t' be napping. Like as not the government would turn me
out, an' with reason, if it caught on t' that. I don't know but I ought
t' confess. But Lord! I was that worn, 'long with Susan Jane's bein'
more ailin' than usual, an' the thickness of the air with the shower,
that arter I saw everythin' was shipshape, I guess I flopped some. I'll
forgive myself this once; but if it happens again, Davy Thomas, yer'll
write t' the government sure as yer born an' tell '