"What should I come back here for? My summer job's over. If you want to know, my princ.i.p.al reason for comin' here this mornin' was to say good-by--to Mr. Brown, of course."

Seth's arm dropped. He leaned heavily against the doorpost.

"You're goin' away!" he exclaimed. "You're goin' away! Where?"

"I don't know. Back home, I s'pose. Though what I'll do when I get there I don't know. I've sold the house, so I don't exactly know where I'll put up. But I guess I'll find a place."

"You've sold your house? The house we used to live in?"

"Yes. The man that's been hirin' it has bought it. I'm glad, for I need the money. So good-by, Seth. 'Tain't likely we'll meet again in this life."

She started toward the door once more, and this time he was too greatly disturbed and shaken by what she had told him to detain her. At the threshhold she turned and looked at him.

"Good-by, Seth," she said again. "I hope you'll be happy. And," with a half smile, "if I was you I'd stay keepin' lights; it, or somethin'

else, has improved you a whole lot. Good-by."

Then he sprang forward. "Emeline," he cried, "Emeline, wait. You mustn't go. I can't let you go this way. I . . . What's that?"

"That" was the sound of horse's feet and the rattle of wheels. The lightkeeper ran to the window.

"It's Henry G.'s grocery cart," he said. "I cal'late he's fetchin' some truck I ordered last week. Do you want him to see you here?"

"I don't care. He don't know but what you and me are the best of friends. Yet, I don't know. Maybe it's just as well he don't see me; then there'll be no excuse for talk. I'll step inside and wait."

She returned to the kitchen, and Seth went out to meet the wagon. Its driver was the boy who had brought the flypaper and "Job."

"h.e.l.lo," hailed the youngster, pulling in his steed; "how be you, Mr.

Atkins? I've got some of them things you ordered. The rest ain't come from Boston yet. Soon's they do, Henry G.'ll send 'em down. How you feelin' these days? Ain't bought no more dogs, have you?"

Seth curtly replied that he "wa'n't speculatin' in dogs to no great extent any more," and took the packages which the boy handed him. With them was a bundle of newspapers and an acc.u.mulation of mail matter.

"I fetched the mail for the bungalow, too," said the boy. "There's two or three letters for that Graham girl and one for Mrs. Bascom. She's housekeeper there, you know."

"Yes. Here, you might's well leave their mail along with mine. I'll see it's delivered, all right."

"Will you? Much obliged. Goin' to take it over yourself? Better look out, hadn't you? That Graham girl's a peach; all the fellers at the store's talkin' about her. Seems a pity she's wastin' her sa.s.siety on a woman-hater like you; that's what they say. You ain't gettin' over your female hate, are you? Haw, haw!"

Mr. Atkins regarded his questioner with stern disapproval.

"There's some things--such as chronic sa.s.siness--some folks never get over," he observed caustically. "Though when green hides are too fresh they can be tanned; don't forget that, young feller. Any more chatty remarks you've got to heave over? No? Well, all right; then I'd be trottin' back home if I was you. Henry G.'ll have to shut up shop if you deprive him of your valuable services too long. Good day to you."

The driver, somewhat abashed, gathered up the reins. "I didn't mean to make you mad," he observed. "Anything in our line you want to order?"

"No. I'm cal'latin' to go to the village myself this afternoon, and if I want any more groceries I'll order 'em then. As for makin' me mad--well, don't you flatter yourself. A moskeeter can pester me, but he don't make me mad but once--and his funeral's held right afterwards. Now trot along and keep in the shade much as you can. You're so fresh the sun might spile you."

The boy, looking rather foolish, laughed and drove out of the yard.

Seth, his arms full, went back to the kitchen. He dumped the packages and newspapers on the table and began sorting the letters.

"Here you are, Emeline," he said. "Here's Miss Graham's mail and somethin' for you."

"For me?" The housekeeper was surprised. "A letter for me! What is it, I wonder? Somethin' about sellin' the house maybe."

She took the letter from him and turned to the light before opening it.

Seth sat down in the rocker and began inspecting his own a.s.sortment of circulars and papers. Suddenly he heard a sound from his companion.

Glancing up he saw that she was leaning against the doorpost, the open letter in her hand, and on her face an expression which caused him to spring from his chair.

"What is it, Emeline?" he demanded. "Any bad news?"

She scarcely noticed him until he spoke again. Then she shook her head.

"No," she said slowly. "Nothin' but--but what I might have expected."

"But what is it? It is bad news. Can't I help you? Please let me, if I can. I--I'd like to."

She looked at him strangely, and then turned away. "I guess n.o.body can help me," she answered. "Least of all, you."

"Why not? I'd like to; honest, I would. If it's about that house business maybe I--"

"It ain't"

"Then what is it? Please, Emeline. I know you don't think much of me.

Maybe you've got good reasons; I'm past the place where I'd deny that.

I--I've been feelin' meaner'n meaner every day lately. I--I don't know's I done right in runnin' off and leavin' you the way I did. Don't you s'pose you could give me another chance? Emeline, I--"

"Seth Bascom, what do you mean?"

"Just what I say. Emeline, you and me was mighty happy together once.

Let's try it again. I will, if you will."

She was staring at him in good earnest now.

"Why, Seth!" she exclaimed. "What are you talkin' about? You--the chronic woman-hater!"

"That be blessed! I wa'n't really a woman-hater. I only thought I was.

And--and I never hated you. Right through the worst of it I never did.

Let's try it again, Emeline. You're in trouble. You need somebody to help you. Give me the chance."

There was a wistful look in her eyes; she seemed, or so he thought, to be wavering. But she shook her head. "I was in trouble before, Seth,"

she said, "and you didn't help me then. You run off and left me."

"You just as much as told me to go. You know you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Well, you didn't tell me to stay."

"It never seemed to me that a husband--if he was a man--would need to be coaxed to stay by his wife."

"But don't you care about me at all? You used to; I know it. And I always cared for you. What is it? Honest, Emeline, you never took any stock in that Sarah Ann Christy doin's, you know you didn't; now, did you?"