"It's odd he didn't mention you," she observed. "He has told me a great deal about the bungalow, and the sea views, and the loneliness and the quaintness of it all. That was what made me wish to spend a month down here and experience it myself. And he has often spoken," with an irrepressible smile, "of your--of the lightkeeper, Mr.
Atkins. That is his name, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"I want to meet him. Horace said he was--well, rather odd, but, when you knew him, a fine fellow and full of dry humor. I'm sure I should like him."
Brown smiled, also--and broadly. He mentally pictured Seth's reception of the news that he was "liked" by the young lady across the cove. And then it occurred to him, with startling suddenness, that he had been conversing very familiarly with that young lady, notwithstanding the solemn interchange of vows between the lightkeeper and himself.
"I must be going," he said hastily; "good morning, Miss Graham."
He waded to the shore and strode rapidly back toward the boathouse.
His companion called after him.
"I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon," she said. "You've promised to teach me that side stroke, remember."
Brown dressed in a great hurry and climbed the path to the lights at the double quick. All was safe and serene in the house, and he breathed more freely. Atkins was sound asleep, really asleep, in the bedroom, and when he emerged he was evidently quite unaware of his helper's unpremeditated treason. Brown's conscience pricked him, however, and he went to bed that night vowing over and over that he would be more careful thereafter. He would take care not to meet the Graham girl again. Having reached this decision, there remained nothing but to put her out of his mind entirely; which he succeeded in doing at a quarter after eleven, when he fell asleep.
Even then she was not entirely absent, for he dreamed a ridiculous dream about her.
Next day he did not go for a swim, but remained in the house. Seth, at supper, demanded to know what ailed him.
"You're as mum as the oldest inhabitant of a deaf and dumb asylum," was the lightkeeper's comment. "And ugly as a bull in fly time.
What ails you?"
"Nothing."
"Humph! better take somethin' for it, seems to me. Little 'Stomach Balm,' hey? No? Well, GO to bed! Your room's enough sight better'n your company just now."
The helper's ill nature was in evidence again at breakfast time.
Seth endeavored to joke him out of it, but, not succeeding, and finding his best jokes received with groans instead of laughter, gave it up in disgust and retired. The young man cleared the table, piled the dishes in the sink, heated a kettleful of water and began the day's drudgery, drudgery which he once thought was fun.
Why had he had the ill luck to fall overboard from that steamer. Or why didn't he drown when he did fall overboard? Then he would have been comfortably dead, at all events. Why hadn't he stayed in New York or Boston or somewhere and kept on trying for a position, for work--any kind of work? He might have starved while trying, but people who were starving were self-respecting, and when they met other people--for instance, sisters of fellows they used to know-- had nothing to be ashamed of and needn't lie--unless they wanted to.
He was a common loafer, under a false name, down on a sandheap washing dishes. At this point he dropped one of the dishes--a plate--and broke it.
"D--n!" observed John Brown, under his breath, but with enthusiasm.
He stooped to pick up the fragments of the plate, and, rising once more to an erect position, found himself facing Miss Ruth Graham.
She was standing in the doorway.
"Don't mind me, please," she said. "No doubt I should feel the same way if it were my plate."
The young man's first move, after recovery, was to make sure that the door between the kitchen and the hall leading to the lightkeeper's bedroom was shut. It was, fortunately. The young lady watched him in silence, though her eyes were shining.
"Good morning, Mr. Brown," she observed, gravely.
The assistant murmured a good morning, from force of habit.
"There's another piece you haven't picked up," continued the visitor, pointing.
Brown picked up the piece.
"Is Mr. Atkins in?" inquired the girl.
"Yes, he's--he's in."
"May I see him, please?"
"I--I--"
"If he's busy, I can wait." She seated herself in a chair. "Don't let me interrupt you," she continued. "You were busy, too, weren't you?"
"I was washing dishes," declared Brown, savagely.
"Oh!"
"Yes. Washing and sweeping and doing scrubwoman's work are my regular employments."
"Indeed! Then I'm just in time to help. Is this the dish towel?" regarding it dubiously.
"It is, but I don't need any help, thank you."
"Of course you do. Everyone is glad to be helped at doing dishes.
I may as well make myself useful while I'm waiting for Mr. Atkins."
She picked up a platter and proceeded to wipe it, quite as a matter of course. Brown, swearing inwardly, turned fiercely to the suds.
"Did you wish to see Atkins on particular business?" he asked, a moment later.
"Oh, no; I wanted to make his acquaintance, that's all. Horace told me so many interesting things about him. By the way, was it last summer, or the summer before, that you met my brother here?"
No answer. Miss Graham repeated her question. "Was it last summer or the summer before?" she asked.
"Oh--er--I don't remember. Last summer, I think."
