The coffee braced the shaken nerves, and again Devant went to his mirror as to a friend. The color of the eyes had changed. Janet's eyes were never so pale and dull. The complexion was grayish white--the haunting likeness was gone--but the curious curve of the left ear stood in bold evidence and called for recognition in the final reckoning.

"A thousand might have the same!" thought the troubled man; but he had never noticed it but twice in all his long life!

After breakfast that day he went for a walk in the scrub oaks. He dared not go to the lighthouse, but he saw no reason why he should not walk upon the path leading to it. The damp sodden leaves sent up a pungent odor as his feet crushed them. A smell of wood smoke was mingled with the salt air from off sea; it was a perfect late autumn day, with a warning of winter in its touch.

Devant walked slowly with bowed head; he was pondering as to what he should do in the future. His life had never seemed more useless than it now appeared with the glaring doubt in his mind. Suddenly he was aware of some one approaching, and he raised his eyes hopefully. It was Janet, and the breeze, lifting her hair from her face, left the little ear exposed. It was that upon which the man's gaze rested!

"Good morning," said the girl, "I was coming to Bluff Head." Janet was the one more at ease. Her struggle had been along clearer lines.

"Going up to read?" asked Devant uneasily; "the library is yours, my child." The last words had a possible significance that was well-nigh heartbreaking to the man.

"No: I--I want to say something--to you! I did not seem to be able to come before." A rare dignity touched the girl. Her womanhood appeared to have taken on a queenly attribute; but the language of this new womanhood was still to learn. She had spent the night at the Light, and the latter part of it she had shared Davy's watch. Together they had "freshened up" from the little balcony, and the calmness of the stars and David's philosophy had set their seal upon her. She was brave and tolerant. She had chosen her path, and with the courage of the dunes she was ready to tread it wherever it might lead.

"Shall we walk on?" asked Devant. It was easier than to stand still. So they slowly turned and went toward Bluff Head.

"I know,"--the even voice fell to a whisper,--"I have just found out that--that Cap'n Billy is not my real father!"

Devant staggered under the blow. The terse directness, a part of the girl's nature and training, was embarra.s.sing to the man of the world.

"You are sure of that?" he asked, when he could control his voice.

"Yes."

"Do--do you know who your real father is?"

Janet looked fearlessly up into the haggard, eager face.

"Yes: I know."

"Who told you?"

"Cap'n Billy told me that he is not my father; he does not know who my father is. My mother was very faithful to you, and to him! He told me how she came to him--afterward! She did not want Cap'n Billy to save her his way,--she thought it was not fair to him, but Cap'n Billy had but one kind of love! He married her, and he took care of her! You don't know how cruel these people can be to--to girls like my mother, but Cap'n Billy knew, and he saved her!" The dark eyes were blazing.

"Be less hard, my child," groaned Devant, turning his face away; "G.o.d knows, I have suffered!" Janet paid small heed to the words, or to the man beside her.

"At the last," she went on bravely, "they were happy in a beautiful way for a little while. Then she died! But I was left, and Cap'n Billy loved me, and cared for me. He was father, mother, playmate, everything to me!" The eyes softened, and the girl turned and faced her companion.

"And," she breathed hoa.r.s.ely, "you and I must keep him from ever knowing the rest!"

"The rest?" Devant asked slowly.

"Yes. About you. I am not doing this only because I love him better than anything else on earth. I am doing it for my mother! It is all that she and I can do for him. Will you promise?"

Devant leaned against a tree. Motion was no longer possible. Janet stood in the path and waited. The brute instinct arose in the man's heart.

This was his child! In doing for her lay the only expiation possible for him in the world. What were the claims of that man over on the dunes compared to his, should he powerfully press them? What if Captain Billy had given his life to the doing of a duty belonging to another? The Tempter now took on a virtuous, unselfish guise. Think what the girl's life might be! Could any true love, even such stupid love as Billy might bear her, stand in the way? No; Billy would be the first to relinquish his hold upon her!

With the calm, steady, waiting eyes upon him, Devant dared not urge his first claim of parentage. He would appeal to her reason.

"This is hardly a question for you to put to me," he said. "I must see Captain Billy and talk to him man to man."

"What for?" There was a dangerous light in the girl's eyes. "Because you have suffered for the wrong you did, you think you can ease your conscience by confessing to Cap'n Billy, and making him suffer again?"

Devant stared at her.

"You think it is for myself?" he asked.

"Who then?"

"Why, for you! Can you not see what it would mean to you?" Janet drew back.

"You--you want to do things for me? You who left my mother to die?" A fine scorn shook the low voice.

"My G.o.d! do not be so hard. Only because you are young and blind can you speak so heartlessly. Do you not see, it is because I cannot do for her, that I want now to do for you? I want it with all my soul for her sake, as well as yours! I wish to undo, as well as I can, the bitter wrong."

Devant moaned.

"Cap'n Billy did that for you, long ago. Your silence must be his reward!" Janet's face shone.

"Can you conceive," asked Devant hoa.r.s.ely, "what you are giving up?"

"Yes." Now the shining eyes were misty. "Over on the dunes, after Billy told me and I had chosen my course, I did think of the other way, just as I used to imagine things when I was a lonely little girl, impossible things, you know! I thought of books, and knowledge, and of the great beautiful world, and all the soft, pretty things that I know I should love. I did not think or imagine in my fancy that you would want to give them to me; but now that I know that, it doesn't make any difference.

Every time I think of my Cap'n Billy, nothing else matters!" Two large tears rolled down the uplifted face.

Devant felt himself baffled, and anger arose within him.

"Suppose," he said hoa.r.s.ely, "suppose I could offer you--Thornly's love?"

The stab was cruel, and the wound smarted. Under the soft, brown skin the color died away, and the eyes widened and deepened.

"That is no gift of yours!" she whispered proudly; "and I know now what happens to girls like my mother and me when we--forget!"

Devant recoiled. Then a shame humbled and stung him.

"Do not judge him by me!" he said.

"I do not." The words were hardly above a whisper. "But you know, and he knows, there is a bar between us, and we must sail wide, if we would not be wrecked. He would not hurt me, nor let me hurt myself. That is why he went away!"

"But," and Devant was himself again, broken, beaten, but himself, "if Captain Billy should ever leave you--should die, you understand? Will you not promise to send for me? When you are older, you will judge less harshly. Will you promise to let me come next to Captain Billy?" He stretched out his hands, pleadingly. Janet hesitated for a moment, then she placed her slim, brown hands in his.

"I do not know. How can I tell? I thank you, but I cannot see any further than Cap'n Billy! Good bye."

"Good bye, my child!" Their hands dropped, and they went their ways.

Janet was not permitted to reach the Light without further trouble. The day was doomed to be freighted with heavy cares. In the depths of the scrub oaks she came upon Mark Tapkins, sitting upon a log and looking as nearly tragic as he, poor, slow fellow, could look. When he heard Janet, he raised his heavy eyes to her face.

"I've been waitin' fur you," he said. "I saw you talkin' t' Mr. Devant as I came cross lots. I've got t' tell you!"

"Tell me what, Mark?" The girl thought another outburst of love was coming and it seemed such a shabby, poor little thing, in the gloom of recent happenings. And yet this roused her pity. It was so much to Mark, and it was his most sacred offering. She should not despise it.

"'Bout Maud Grace!" Janet started. So it was not herself after all!

"What is the matter with her now?" she asked.