train."

"Never mind the train. I'll come after her in the auto. I will start
now. I will meet you at the landing--at the wharf, if there is one."

"Very well. Will you be good enough to send word to my mother that I am
safe and sound? She will be worried."

"Yes, yes, I'll send word. Tell Mabel to be careful and not take cold.
. . . Yes, Henrietta, I am attending to everything. Good-by, Paine."

That was all, not a word of thanks. I did not expect thanks and I made
allowances for the state of mind at the mansion; but that telephone
conversation, particularly Mrs. Colton's share in it, cast a gloom over
my spirits. I did not care to hear more of Mr. Atwood's yarns and jokes.
I went to my own room, but I did not sleep.

At half-past five I was astir again. The lightkeeper, it appeared, had
an auxiliary engine in a catboat which he owned and could let me have a
sufficient supply of gasolene to fill the Comfort's tank. When this was
done--and it took a long time, for Joshua insisted upon helping and
he was provokingly slow--I returned to the sitting room and asked Mrs.
Atwood to call Miss Colton.

"Land sakes!" was the cheery answer, "I didn't have to call her. She's
been up for fifteen minutes. Said she was goin' to take a cruise around
the lighthouse. I cal'late you'll find her out there somewheres. Go
and fetch her here. You two must have a bite--a cup of hot coffee and a
biled egg, anyhow--afore you leave. Yes, you must. I shan't listen to a
no from either of you."

I went out and crossed the sandy yard to the whitewashed lighthouse.
There was no sign of Miss Colton in the yard, but the door of the
lighthouse was open and I entered. No one there. The stairs, winding
upward, invited me to climb and I did so. The little room with the big
lantern, the latter now covered with a white cloth, was untenanted
also. I looked out of the window. There she was, on the iron gallery
surrounding the top of the tower, leaning on the rail and gazing out
over the water. She had not heard me. For a moment I stood there,
watching her.

She was not wearing Mrs. Atwood's gown now, but her own, wrinkled and
stained from its last night's drenching in salt water, but dry now. She
was bareheaded and her brown hair was tossing in the sea breeze. The
sun, but a little way above the horizon and shining through the morning
haze, edged her delicate profile with a line of red gold. I had never
seen her look more beautiful, or more aristocrat