"Good bye, Davy." She came behind his chair, and snuggled her soft cap against his cheek. "I'm going up to have a good reading spell; then after dinner let us, you and I, if Mark should happen back, go over to the Station to see Cap'n Billy. Something's the matter with my Cap'n Daddy. He's keeping off land like an ocean steamer. Davy, he's got a cargo aboard, take my word for it, that he doesn't want us to know about. Like as not he's taken to pirate ways and we've got to get aboard, Davy, sure and certain."

"By gum!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed David, "what an eye ye've got fur signals, Janet!

I've been doubtin' Billy's actions fur some time an', if Mark comes back, I'll jine ye goin' over t' the dunes. What's Mark's call t' the city?" he asked suddenly.

"You'll have to ask Mark." The girl was halfway down the garden path as she answered. "Probably following the city trade."

"Not much!" muttered Davy, going into the sleeping room; "Mark's got his stomick full of city once fur all. He hates it worse'n pisen."

Down the sunlit path went the girl to the oak thicket which lay between the Light and the road that stretched from the village to Bluff Head.

Not a soul was in sight, and the crisp air and glorious view gave a new kind of joy to Janet that was distinct from pleasure. She felt that even if trouble crushed her, she would always be able to know this satisfaction of the senses. She paused at the entrance of the woods and looked back. The path was strewn with a carpet of leaves; here and there a tall poplar stood majestically above its stunted comrades of pines and scrub oaks, but looked gaunt and bare, while the humbler brothers bore a beauty of blood-red leaves, or the constant green. Janet smiled, recalling an old belief of her childhood. She had asked Pa Tapkins once why the oaks were so very little. Pa Tapkins had his explanation ready.

It had borne part in his boyhood and was a fully confirmed fact in later life.

"It all come of the poplars bein' sich liars, Janet. Never trust no poplar! When things was only sand an' beginnin's in these parts, all the trees sprung up together. But the poplars, bein' snoopier than common, shot up considerable an' took a look around. Lordy! what did they see but the ocean a-roarin' an' makin' as if it was comin' straight over the dunes! An' the poplars pa.s.sed the word down t' the little oaks, what was jest gettin' their bearin's. It scared 'em so it gave 'em a setback from the fust. But them tall liars wasn't content with statin' truths, day after day, when the sea lay smilin' like a babby; they handed down a bigger whopper than what they did when they fust saw the water. 'Nearer!

nearer! it's comin',' that's what they said, mingled 'long with powerful yarns as to how the monster looked! Naterally the scared oaks didn't take no interest in shootin' up, when they thought they was so soon t'

be eaten, so they got the habit of crouchin' low an' dependin' on the poplars fur information. They got a notion, too, of turnin' away from the sea. Sort o' sot their faces agin it, so t' speak. The pines, every onct so often, shamed 'em till they blushed deep red,--that comes 'long 'bout spring an' fall,--but no 'mount o' shamin' ever started them int'

springin' up an' seein' fur themselves an' givin' the poplars the lie!

Don't ye place no dependence on a poplar, Janet, they be shivery, whisperin' critters! They turn pale when there ain't nothin' the matter; they keep their shade t' themselves, jest plain miserly; an' they pry too much. 'T ain't proper; 't is 'most human-like."

Janet recalled the old fancy now, leaning against the tall poplar which, indeed, was whispering in nervous fashion to the blushing scrub oaks cl.u.s.tering close. Some one was coming up the road from the station. In the far distance the girl heard the panting shriek of the engine of the morning train from the city. Could that shambling, weary figure approaching be Mark? Why, he looked older than Pa Tapkins! Janet waited until he was abreast of her. His hands were plunged in his pockets, his shabby valise slung over his shoulder, and his head was bowed upon his chest.

"Mark!" she cried cheerily, "you look just worn out."

The man raised his dull face and an awakening of interest and hope lit it.

"Mornin', Janet," he replied and came to the tree. "Davy managed pretty good? I was kept longer than any reason. I hope Davy ain't petered out."

"No. I helped some. Did you get Maud Grace's young man, Mark?" The amus.e.m.e.nt in the laughing voice made Mark shiver. All the pleasure dropped from his face like a mask.

"I found where he was, all right, but I got there a day too late, he was off fur--fur--"

"For where?"

"There was no findin' out. He's jest clear gone an' vanished."

"Well, I'm glad of it! I think Maud Grace ought to be ashamed of herself to want him when he did not want her. I'm out and out thankful she cannot have her way."

The effect of this speech upon Mark was stupendous. His jaw dropped and a slow fire seemed to gleam in his pale eyes. Part of his nature rose in gladness because the girl could speak in that fashion. She had no knowledge within her to cause her to falter or stand abashed. But the tired man, in the poor fellow, cried out to this strong, brave creature to aid him understandingly where his own knowledge and slowness of nature made him a coward. And so they stood looking in each other's eyes.

"I don't see why, Mark, you should try to help Maud. She's silly and has acted like an idiot with every man boarder her mother has had. She's turned her back upon you. This, maybe, will teach her a lesson."

"Like as not it will!" Mark's words came with almost a groan. "Like as not it will!" What strength was in him conquered. This girl, so detached from him, must keep her childish faith. Whatever was to be borne and suffered, he, in his bungling fashion, must bear it and suffer alone. He knew the Quintonites, poor fellow! He knew there was work for him to do, but he would do it alone!

"Whar you goin', Janet?" Mark took up his burden of duty with a sigh. He was awake to life and its meaning at last, and the reality steadied him.

"On an errand."

"Whar?"

"That's telling!" The girl laughed mockingly. "And, Mark, as soon as you can, go up to the Light. I'll soon be back, Davy and I are going on a pirate hunt this afternoon."

"A what kind of a hunt?"

"Pirate. It's going to be great fun. Davy needs a change."

Mark watched the brilliant figure vanish around the curve of the road.

That any being on earth could be so gladsome puzzled him vaguely.

"Bluff Head!" he muttered; "well, 't ain't as bad as the Hills, but it's all bad an' muddlin', an' I don't feel equal t' tacklin' it. The dear Lord knows I don't. I hate t' have a job what I know from the start I'm goin' t' botch, but the Lord's got t' take the consequences if He calls 'pon me. 'T warn't any of my doin's, the Lord knows that!"

Bluff Head was closed, whether for the season or not Janet did not care.

From the region of the barns James B.'s voice came, singing a hymn, but Eliza Jane had either gone for the day or for altogether. Janet ran around to the cellar window, keeping the house between her and the barns. The window still swayed inward to her touch! The long skirts and new womanhood r.e.t.a.r.ded movement somewhat, but the agile body had not forgotten its cunning. In a minute or two Janet stood in the vacant library. She drew in long breaths. Eliza Jane had aired the room well, but there was a hint of tobacco smoke still. Upon a stand was a vase of golden rod, yellow and vivid amid the rich coloring.

"Some people leave a house a great deal lonelier than others," whispered the girl; "it will never be quite the same."

Devant's presence, his vital personality seemed near and potent. She and he had been reading a book together in that early summer time before guests had appeared to disturb the quiet happiness; she would go back to the book and begin alone what they had eagerly pursued in company. Janet went to the bookcase; the book was gone and its neighbors were leaning over the vacant s.p.a.ce endeavoring to conceal its absence. Failing to find the volume, the girl went to the table and took up, one by one, the magazines and books which covered it.

"Ah!" she said suddenly, "I have you!" Under a pile, near Devant's leather chair, was what she sought, a copy of Bacon's Essays. Devant had taken a curious interest in leading this untutored girl into all manner of paths and bypaths. It was a never-failing delight to him to watch her crude but keen gripping of the best from each. Alone now, and with a shadow across the path where once companionship and pleasure had borne part, she took the Essays to the deep window, raised the sash, and nestled down to what comfort was hers.

As was ever the case, the subject caught her fancy and in seeking the pearl she forgot the effort. Presently she was aware of a key grating in the lock of the hall door. Eliza Jane was, perhaps, returning; or more likely James B. had an errand inside. Janet raised her eyes. From her nook she could see distinctly through the hall. The outer door opened, and in came Mr. Devant. He had apparently walked from the station, and was unexpected by the caretakers. He had been, without doubt, on the train with Mark but had taken a longer path from the station, or had dallied by the way. For a moment Janet feared he might be followed by the girl she most dreaded or Thornly,--perhaps both. But Devant was alone. He closed the door after him, hung his coat and hat upon the rack, and came directly to the library. His keen eyes saw Janet at once.

"History is never tired of repeating itself!" he cried with a laugh.

Outwardly he was rarely taken off his guard. "The surest way of getting you here," he went on, "is evidently for me to go away. Don't you like me any more?"

He lounged against the heavy table and folded his arms. He was looking at the lovely face beneath the vivid cap. The first impression of the girl's beauty was always puzzlingly startling. Devant had noticed that sensation before; after a moment it grew less confusing.

"I like you." Janet dropped her eyes, recalling the day upon the Hills.

Devant had met her repeatedly since that morning and had always been jovial and easy in his manner, but the recollection intruded itself at every meeting.

"Perhaps you like me at a distance, but object to my company?"

"I object to some of them!" A wan smile flitted across the uplifted face.

"Well, I am alone now;" Devant nodded cheerfully. "Alone and likely to be. I'm going to remain all winter, perhaps, Janet; you must teach me ice boat sailing and let me into all the other debaucheries of the place." He came near the window and looked out toward the barns. Then he called:

"Mr. Smith!" James B. showed his rough, red head at the barn door.

"Yes!" he called back.

"I ran down to-day, instead of to-morrow. If Mrs. James B. can come up this afternoon and get me a dinner, I'll be much obliged."

"I'm sorry,"--James B. expectorated musingly,--"but she's gone t' get beach plums."

"All right," Devant returned cheerfully, "I'll starve then. Saxton won't be down until to-morrow."

"That so?" James B. had returned to his work unconcernedly.

"Why, this is dreadful!" Janet could but smile at Devant's indifferent face. "I suppose you couldn't cook for yourself even if you were starving. I wonder if I might do something for you now?"

"Take no trouble,"--Devant waved her back,--"I took precautions before I left town, and Mrs. James B. will be over as soon as she hears I'm home.