ic and unapproachable.
The memory of our night in the launch seemed more like an unbelievable
dream than ever, and the awakening more cruel. For I was awake now. What
I had heard over the 'phone had awakened me thoroughly. There should be
no more dreaming.

I stepped out upon the gallery.

"Good morning," I said.

She turned quickly, and I heard her catch her breath with a little gasp.

"I beg pardon," said I; "I'm afraid I startled you."

She was startled, that was evident, and, it seemed to me, a trifle
embarrassed. But the embarrassment was but momentary.

"Good morning," she said. "How very silent you can be when you choose,
Mr. Paine. How long have you been standing there, pray?"

"Only a moment. I came to call you to breakfast."

"To breakfast?"

"Yes, Mrs. Atwood insists upon our breakfasting before I take you
ashore."

"Oh! Why didn't you call me? I would have come down."

"I did not see you until I reached the lantern room. My silence was not
premeditated. I made noise enough, or so it seemed to me; but you were
so wrapped in your thoughts--"

"Nonsense!" She interrupted me almost sharply. "I was not 'wrapped' in
anything, except the beauty of this view. It IS beautiful, isn't it?"

"Very," I answered, but fear I was not looking at the view. It may be
that she noticed this, for she said:

"You have come into your own again, I see. So have I."

She indicated her gown with a smile and a gesture. I laughed.

"Yes," I said. "I have returned unto Joshua that which was his."

"You should have kept it. You have no idea what a picturesque
lightkeeper you make, Mr. Paine."

Somehow or other this harmless joke hurt.

"Yes," I answered, drily, "that is about my measure, I presume."

Her eyes twinkled. "I thought the measure rather scant," she
observed, mischievously. "I wish I might have a snap-shot of you in
that--uniform."

"I am afraid the opportunity for that is past."

"But it--" with a little bubble of mirth, "it was so funny."

"No doubt. I am sorry I can't oblige you with a photograph."

She looked at me, biting her lip.

"Is your bump of humor a dent, Mr. Paine?" she inquired. "I am afraid it
must be."

"You may be right. I don't appreciate a joke as keenly as--well, as Mr.
Carver, for instance."

She turned her back upon me and led the way to the door.

"Shall we go to breakfast?" she asked, in a different tone.

Breakfast was a silent meal, so far as we two were concerned. T