ense
would have thought of it and done it, of course."

"I did not. But you--Oh, it was like you! Always some one else and
never yourself. You were worn out. You must have been, after--" with a
shudder--"last night. Oh, I have so much to thank you for! I--"

"Come on! Heave ahead!" It was Mr. Atwood, bellowing from the beach.
"All aboard for Wellmouth and pints alongshore."

Betsy appeared in the door behind us.

"All ready, be you?" she asked.

I could not have answered, but my companion was once more as calm and
cool as the morning itself.

"All ready," she answered. "Good-by, Mrs. Atwood. And thank you over and
over again. You have been so kind." With a sudden flash of enthusiasm.
"Every one is kind. It is a beautiful world. Good-by."

She ran lightly down the slope and I followed.

The trip to Wellmouth was of but a half hour's duration. Atwood talked
all the time. Miss Colton laughed at his stories and seemed to be
without a care. She scarcely looked at me during the passage, and if
she caught me looking at her and our glances met she turned away. On the
wharf was a big automobile, surrounded by a gaping crowd of small boys
and 'longshore loafers.

We drew up beside the landing. Our feminine passenger sprang ashore and
ran up the steps, to be seized in her father's arms. Mrs. Colton was
there also, babbling hysterically. I watched and listened for a moment.
Then I started the engine.

"Shove off," I ordered. The lightkeeper was astonished.

"Ain't ye goin' ashore?" he demanded.

"No," I answered, curtly. "I'm going home. Shove off."

The launch was fifty feet from the pier when I heard a shout. Colton
was standing on the wharf edge, waving his hand. Beside him stood his
daughter, her mother's arms about her.

"Here! Paine!" shouted Colton. "Come back! Come back and go home with us
in the car. There is plenty of room."

I did not answer.

"Come back! Come back, Paine!" he shouted again. Mrs. Colton raised her
head from her daughter's shoulder.

"James! James!" she cautioned, without taking the trouble to lower
her voice, "don't make a scene. Let him go in his dreadful boat, if he
prefers to."

"Paine!" cried her husband again.

"I must look out for the launch," I shouted. "I shall be home almost as
soon as you are. Good-by."

I left the lightkeeper at his island. He refused to accept a cent
from me, except in payment for the gasolene, and declared he had had a
"fust-rate night of it."

"