Here hold on, gal, till I get that Cure All!"

Janet held on, and smiled feebly as Davy poured the burning liquid down her throat.

"Thanks!" she whispered presently. "I was mistaken, I did not eat any dinner. Davy, I am hungry. I always need my food, Davy; you know how I am." She was laughing nervously.

"Come on, then!" commanded Davy, eyeing her critically; "I ain't never seen ye so done up by goin' without one meal before. I believe yer threatened with 'spepsy, it comes now an' then, with that imptiness in the pit of yer stummick."

That night Janet tried to sleep in her little room, but the fury of the storm, and her heavy, anxious secret forbade an instant's rest. At last, about midnight, she dressed and went up to Davy. He was standing near the entrance of the lamp, and his tired face was drawn and pitiful.

"By gum!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed when he saw the girl. "This wind comes straight frum Greenland's icy mountains, an' ain't losin' any of its temper as it comes. The waves could be seen over the dunes, long 'fore sundown; an'

jest hear that."

"What is it, Davy?" Janet pressed beside him. "It sounds like some one knocking on the gla.s.s."

"An' so 't is, so 't is! Least it's birds. Poor, dumb things, blown on land an' makin' fur the Light. Bein' seafarers, like as not, they know the Light is t' guide 'em, an' they come t' what they think is safety.

Poor, poor things! They beat the gla.s.s as if askin' fur mercy, an'

shelter, an' here I be a-listenin' t' them knockin' themselves t' death an' unable t' help. If the good G.o.d takes heed of the sparrows what falls, He ain't goin' t' overlook the gulls; but 't ain't much comfort to think on that, when He lets 'em die, die right agin the Light. Gum!

we ain't had anythin' like this since Tom Davis was caught in his skimmy over by the dunes twenty-five years back; least we haven't had anythin'

like it as bad so early in the Fall."

"Come down, Davy," pleaded Janet, "don't stand and hear the poor birds beat themselves to death. To-morrow they will lie thick in the garden.

Oh! it is a fearful gale! And Tom Davis was so near the dunes that night, wasn't he, Davy? When his boat went over, he could have waded ash.o.r.e, only he did not know where he was--and the fog hid the Light; but every one knows about Tom Davis, and if a boat did go over, a--a person would try to wade ash.o.r.e. Don't you think so, Davy, remembering, as he would, Tom Davis?"

"Ye got Mark on yer mind, eh?" Davy came down to the little sitting room and turned up the lamp wick. "Well, ye bet Mark put in somewhere 'fore this gale struck him. Tom Davis was different, he didn't take no precautions, ever. He was in his ilers an' boots when he went over, an'

he wasn't reefed none. He wanted t' get here quick with a fair wind--if such a foul gale could be called fair. He wanted t' take part in a show down t' the church. But his time had come; an' the curtain went down on him out there alone in his water-sogged boots an' heavy iler coat! Tom Davis was born fur misfortin as the sparks fly up'ard. Him, with them boots an' ilers on, in a gale sich as that war!"

"Davy, what was that?" Janet clung to the keeper, her eyes dark and fear-filled.

"It sounded 'most like a human call, now didn't it?" said Davy, raising his head; "it's a gull, that's what it is, Janet. A more knowin' gull than the rest!"

"Are you sure, Davy? It could not be--anybody calling, could it?"

"Gosh! no, no. What do ye suppose any one would be callin' fur?"

"Why, if he were in danger."

"'T ain't anybody on the bay, Janet. City folks is gone, an' the Quintonites ain't chancin' a pleasure trip in this gale. Get downstairs, Janet; it's just possible some one's knockin' an' callin' below."

Janet waited for no second bidding. Down the iron stairs she ran, and never paused until she reached the lower door. This she opened cautiously, and braced herself against it to keep out further entrance of the terrific wind.

"Any one there?" she shouted. The noise of the storm alone replied.

"Any one outside?" Again she called. A soft something fell at her feet with a dull thud. It was a gull, broken winged, its life beaten out against the gla.s.s of the Light! Once again she shouted, "Any one there?"

On the wind came that strange, weird call that had frightened her in the tower. It rose and fell piteously, and pa.s.sed on with the blast.

"I never heard that before to-night!" Janet murmured, as she forced the door shut; "it is new and awful!"

She went into the living room and lighted the fire. She would not try to sleep again. She made some coffee and carried it up to Davy; she dared not stay alone. For the first time in her life she was afraid and thoroughly unnerved.

That morning, before Davy had come from the lamp, there was a knocking on the outer door, and a pushing as well. Janet, coming down the stairs with the empty tray, saw the door open, and in the light of the gray, still morn, for the storm was past, she recognized Mark in a yellow oiler with a sou'wester nearly hiding his wet and ashen face.

"You found her?" The words broke from Janet like a sob.

"Not yet." Mark's voice was slow and weak. "We want Davy t' come an'

help, soon as he can. An' can you let me have a cup o' coffee, Janet?

I'm most done up. The--the _Comrade_ is bottom up round by the P'int an'

I--I guess she was bein' beaten toward home; but--but--"

Janet dropped the tray and ran to Mark; she drew him into the room and pushed him toward a chair.

"Sit down!" she said brokenly. "Sit down, you look as if you would drop.

See, I have the coffee all ready; it will take but a minute." She hurried the preparation, and after she saw Mark gulp the strong, hot drink, she asked quietly, but with awe in her voice, "Can you tell me now, Mark?"

"There ain't much t' tell. When a boat's bottom up in such a gale as was a-blowin' last night, an' only a poor, little frightened gal was at the tiller, why--why there ain't, what you might say, anythin' t' tell."

Mark stared dully before him. He was tired and soul-weary. "She's got away fast enough this time, Janet," he went on drearily; "'t ain't likely any one will be troubled settlin' things fur her now."

"Don't! don't! Mark." Janet was crouching by his chair, her tear-filled eyes looking wildly at his dull, vacant face. "We, you and I, were trying, you know!"

"Yes; but it was uphill work, an' would have been wuss, like as not.

'T ain't easy settin' straight a botch like that. I guess this is the best way. Don't take on, Janet! Seems like she allus got the rough part, but you couldn't help that none. I guess you'd been the quickest one t' help her if she'd cried out t' you; but even you couldn't have helped much."

Janet heard again in fancy the weird call of the night.

"No; I could--not--help!" She shuddered. "Where are you going, Mark?"

"Back t' the bay. They're draggin' round by the P'int. Her father's there, an' some others. I found the _Comrade_ 'fore daybreak an' got them up. If Davy can lend a hand, later, tell him t' come along; he was the one what found Tom Davis, they say. Davy seems to have a sense 'bout where t' look."

With his heavy oilskin coat hanging loose, and his head bowed, Mark went back to do all that could be done for poor Maud Grace.

CHAPTER XIII

Bluff Head was closed. The master had left word with Eliza Jane Smith that after his departure the house key should be delivered to Janet with a note of explanation.

The note reminded her that next to Captain Billy, he was the one upon whom she must call in case of need, and he left the library in her keeping with a list of books for study and recreation.

Snow was on everything, even on the new little grave in the desolate churchyard where poor Maud Grace and her pitiful secret slept. They had found the child late in the morning of that awful day succeeding the storm. In the small clinched left hand was a bit of water-soaked paper.

No one but Mark had taken heed of it, but he guessed that it was the card which was to guide the girl to the man who had deserted her.

Perhaps in that last hour of struggle and fear, she had taken it from its hiding place for comfort or, perhaps, to destroy it when hope was past. But it gave no clue. It was merely a wet pulp in a thin little rigid hand!

Mrs. Jo G. took her grief stolidly. It was not in her to cry out or moan, but she felt her loss and sought to explain the strange ending to the young life.

"'T was this way," she said to Eliza Jane Smith, "the boarders, an' all the life of the summer, had onsettled Maud Grace considerable. She wanted company all the time. She sort o' turned t' Janet, an', like as not, that mornin' she went t' the Light t' see her. Not findin' her, an'

seein' the _Comrade_ at the dock an' John Jones's boat puttin' back t'