d a hand, later, tell him t' come along; he was
the one what found Tom Davis, they say. Davy seems to have a sense 'bout
where t' look."

With his heavy oilskin coat hanging loose, and his head bowed, Mark went
back to do all that could be done for poor Maud Grace.

CHAPTER XIII

Bluff Head was closed. The master had left word with Eliza Jane Smith
that after his departure the house key should be delivered to Janet with
a note of explanation.

The note reminded her that next to Captain Billy, he was the one upon
whom she must call in case of need, and he left the library in her
keeping with a list of books for study and recreation.

Snow was on everything, even on the new little grave in the desolate
churchyard where poor Maud Grace and her pitiful secret slept. They had
found the child late in the morning of that awful day succeeding the
storm. In the small clinched left hand was a bit of water-soaked paper.
No one but Mark had taken heed of it, but he guessed that it was the
card which was to guide the girl to the man who had deserted her.
Perhaps in that last hour of struggle and fear, she had taken it from
its hiding place for comfort or, perhaps, to destroy it when hope was
past. But it gave no clue. It was merely a wet pulp in a thin little
rigid hand!

Mrs. Jo G. took her grief stolidly. It was not in her to cry out or
moan, but she felt her loss and sought to explain the strange ending to
the young life.

"'T was this way," she said to Eliza Jane Smith, "the boarders, an' all
the life of the summer, had onsettled Maud Grace considerable. She
wanted company all the time. She sort o' turned t' Janet, an', like as
not, that mornin' she went t' the Light t' see her. Not findin' her, an'
seein' the _Comrade_ at the dock an' John Jones's boat puttin' back t'
the Station, like Davy said he had done, Maud Grace just fixed it in her
mind that Janet was with John Jones, an' so she took the _Comrade_ an'
went after them. Then when the wind came up, she lost her head, an'
so--" Mrs. Jo G. at this juncture hid her face in her checked apron and
silently rocked back and forth. She could not think of the night and
storm, the lonely, frightened girl dashed hither and yon in the little
boat, without breaking down. Life near the dunes was stern and the
people had learned to accept calmly the storm and danger, but, just at
first, it was always hard.

Mark Tapkins divided his time between his home and the Light, bu