teadily increasing wind caught
the toy-like thing and bore it with amazing speed past the Point and
over toward the dunes!

Then an anxiety grew in her heart. Of late she had been subject mentally
to sensations that in a measure were similar to those that affected
Eliza Jane's bones. She was depressed or elated without seeming cause.
It annoyed and shamed her, but she could not control it. John Thomas's
return to the Station without a word to her, his visit to his mother and
Eliza Jane's prompt despatch of James B. to the dunes, grew to ominous
proportions, as the lonely girl dwelt upon them.

"I wonder if my Cap'n Daddy is all right?" she thought wistfully. She
was merely carrying out Billy's desire in remaining so much upon the
mainland; her own inclination was for the desolate little cottage near
the Station, and the loving companionship of Billy.

"I don't care what he says," she whispered to herself, "I'm going to go
on and stay with him part of the time! I need him even if he doesn't
need me." She wiped her tears upon the rough gray sock that covered her
hand. "I'm just like Mark. Because I cannot do what I'm fit to do, I'm
failing in everything. There is no use! I must go to Cap'n Billy, and
learn to be happy with him and--nothing else!"

The determination to go to the dunes brought a sense of comfort with it,
but a nervousness grew apace. It was as if, now that she had decided to
go, she was in a hurry to start. She was conscious of a trembling
eagerness in every act. She put her mending away; she prepared the
noonday meal with vigor and intensity, selecting what she knew Davy most
liked.

"This is a feast!" gloated Davy, looking around his humble board and
sniffing appreciatively the steaming favorites. "Looks like ye'd caught
on, Janet."

"So I have, Davy, I've gripped for sure and certain."

"Didn't tell ye, did I, that Mark is goin'?"

"Going where?" Janet laid down her knife and fork, and looked
interested.

"Him an' Pa is goin' t' build, 'twixt here an' the Hills, an' open a
inn. They plan t' move the old house down, an' jine it on."

"An inn?" Janet laughed.

"Them was his words. A inn! Sometimes it seems like Mark was walkin' o'
a dark night on cold, wet sand. He slaps down his foot, sort o'
careless, an' strikes phosphorus. He ain't got, what ye might call,
seein' qualities, but he strikes out light! That's the way it was with
him tellin' Pa 'bout sellin' crullers. The old man made a small