"She's gone!"

"Gone where?"

"The nation only knows!"

"Well, Mark, I never have understood your interest in Maud Grace. You couldn't act more devoted, if you were her lover, except in that case you would not have gone on that foolish hunt for her boarder."

Janet was impatient. She wanted to get away over to the dunes, to peace and Billy.

"When Maud gets ready, she'll come home. Doesn't her mother know?"

"Janet, you've got t' stay an' listen!"

"Mark, I'm tired. I cannot help any; I want to go home."

"You've got t' listen!" Mark repeated doggedly; and as the girl took a step forward, he caught her skirt in his trembling fingers. "First I took an interest 'cause--'cause I thought I loved you, an' I didn't want you smirched!" The words were flung out desperately, and they had the desired effect. Janet started and then stood rigidly intent.

"Smirched?" she repeated slowly, "what do you mean?" And yet as she asked the question, light was borne in upon her,--light that had had its origin in the awakened womanhood.

"I kind o' guess you know what I mean, Janet; an' I wish t' the Lord I had let you help frum the start. There ain't another soul as I kin go t' here until it's too late t' do fur Maud Grace--not a soul but you!

An' G.o.d knows, I don't understand how it is I kin hope from you; but I kin! I jest kin! You won't be hard, fur all you don't love Maud Grace much. I know true as heaven, you'll be gentle t' her now, when you wasn't before!" The poor fellow's face was distorted and quivering, but he had no need to hold Janet. She had come close and was resting her hand upon his bowed shoulder.

"Mark!" she whispered, "you mean--you mean?"

The man nodded dumbly.

"And, of course, they would all turn upon her! They do not seem to know any reason for showing mercy. Oh! I do understand." The dark eyes blazed; then softened under a mist as memory recalled the pitiful story of that other Quinton girl; and Mrs. Jo G.'s kindness that black night when she, Janet, was born. But now there was no Cap'n Billy to pilot this sad little wreck.

"I don't know what t' do!" moaned Mark, covering his face with his thin, rough hands. "I can't bear t' think of her driftin' off, Lord knows where; an' I don't b'lieve she's got a cent, an' even if she walked t'

the city, she can't never git him."

"No!" Janet was thinking quick and hard. "When did she go?"

"She went 'fore breakfast, an' she told her little sister t' tell her mother she'd gone t' you!"

"To me?"

"Yes. An' course that was just t' spar fur time."

"Of course! Well, Mark, we must find her, and then--she may stay with me!" Janet drew herself up very straight and there was defiance in her action and expression. "Are any of the boats gone?"

"Lord knows!" shivered Mark, "but she wouldn't try a boat. She can't sail fit fur anythin'. She's got the fear so many down here has--fur the water. Don't you remember?" But the suggestion brought a new agony to the poor fellow. "Whatever made you think of a boat?" he said.

Suddenly a further knowledge, born of the new womanhood, almost blinded Janet. This simple fellow, suffering at her feet, had never loved her!

She had but led him far afield in some strange fashion. He had always loved the missing, giddy girl; and this awful trouble had driven the dense fog away forever! In the clear view, Janet's heart arose in sympathy.

"You love her, Mark?" she whispered, "oh! I understand." The man looked at her stupidly, clasping and unclasping his bony fingers.

"Do I?" he said brokenly; "I thought 't was you! As G.o.d hears me, I thought 't was you! But now this has happened 'long of the--the poor little thing, it's kinder knocked me down. I allus felt sorry fur her!

You had so much an' she had, what you might say, nothin'. I allus was a master hand fur wantin' t' help, an' when I saw you driftin' off t' the Hills, I wanted t' help you, an' I thought I loved you! An' now I want t' help her. I'm poor shucks, Janet, an' not over keen; but I'm fairly full of trouble now!" He bowed his head, and the big tears splashed upon his rough hands.

In all the past Janet had never so respected him as she did at that moment. Almost reverently, she touched the bent shoulder.

"It may not be too late, dear Mark," she comforted; "we'll find her, and all may be well. The best man I ever knew did what you may have to do, Mark. Forgive and forget, and let a great love have its way!"

The poor fellow could not see into the future. The remorseful past and the pain-filled present engulfed him.

"She use' t' want me," he groaned out, "'fore the boarders come! She use' t' come up t' Pa's an' act up real pert an' comical; maybe if she hadn't, I'd 'a' noticed her more! Ah! if I'd only been content t' see it then, I might have saved her. I was only up t' Maud Grace's limit, but I was allus a-thinkin' I was more, an' then when she took t' the boarders I got mad an', an'--"

Janet knelt upon the leaves and bent her head upon Mark's knees. Never in her life before had she so touched him, but she knew now that he and she were out in the open where no future misunderstanding would darken their way. He needed her and she needed him; and poor, lost Maud needed them both.

"Don't take on, Janet!" Mark touched the bright head, with clumsy, reverent hand, "'t warn't any fault of yours. I did all I could t' bring myself up to a p'int that I hoped I could reach you frum--but 't warn't in me. I was 'bout Maud Grace's limit, as I say, but I didn't want t'

own to it, an' now," he gulped bravely, "'t ain't much of an offerin'!

I'm a poor shote, but if I could, I'd use my wuthless life fur her. It's 'bout all I kin do."

"And it is the greatest thing on earth, Mark!" Janet smoothed the rough hand. "Maud will never come to you; you must bring her back and I will help you both. Go, Mark, go look at the boats! She had no money; she could not hope to walk far; in desperation she may have tried to get away by water."

Mark shook his head, but started obediently. Once he was out of sight, Janet turned into a side path, and ran like a mad thing to the lighthouse wharf. The _Comrade_ was gone! And nowhere on the bay was the white sail visible! Janet raised her eyes and looked at the autumn sky.

The calmness was ruffled near the horizon by ragged little clouds.

"The wind is changing," she murmured, "the oyster boats are coming in.

There is going to be a wicked storm before nightfall." The bland sky seemed to give the lie to such reasoning, but the trained senses of the girl could not be deceived. She trembled as if the coming cold already touched her; her eyes widened, but her lips closed in a firmer line.

Away around the cove, she saw Mark putting out on the bay in one of James Smith's boats. He was reefed close and was making for the inlet, up Bay End way. He had discovered from afar the absence of the _Comrade_.

"If the men see the _Comrade_," Janet thought, "they will think I am aboard, and no one will worry--but oh! poor, frightened Maud!"

By two of the afternoon the autumn sky was storm-racked. The wind came up out of the sea with a fury and an icy chill. The oyster boats scurried homeward, and, afar, Mark's lonely sail was a mere streak of white in the dull gray.

"n.o.body must see me!" Janet mused, clutching her hands close. "If they have seen the _Comrade_, they will think I am safe with Cap'n Daddy by now. If Maud's on the bay Mark will find her and bring her home!" With that thought the girl ran to the house.

Davy met her at the lighthouse door.

"Ye look like ye'd been blown from kingdom come!" he said; "by gum! this is a breeze. Had yer dinner?"

"Dinner? Oh! yes. I had dinner--all I wanted. I didn't mean to be so late, Davy, I meant to get your dinner!"

"Yer kinder pale round the gills, Janet." Davy looked keenly at the drawn face. "Maybe ye eat somethin' that didn't set right on yer stummick. Better take a spoonful of Cure All, Susan Jane allus thought considerable of that. I could 'a' sworn I saw the _Comrade_ puttin' off this mornin'. I thought ye'd taken a flyin' trip to Billy. Seen anythin'

of Mark?"

"Oh! yes. I nearly forgot, Davy, but Mark may not be here to-night.

He's--he's got business over at Bay End."

"How did he go?" questioned Davy, "by train?"

"No! He went in one of James B.'s boats."

"He's a tarnal idiot t' do that in the face of this gale. He ain't no shucks of a sailor. John Jones come off frum the Station t'-day, an' he ain't over careful, bein' what ye might say half fish an' half dare-devil, but John, he started right back when he left an order fur me. Mark ought t' have knowed better. Janet, what is the matter with ye?