ited list of recreations.

The swimming he especially enjoyed. The cove made a fine bathing place,
and the boathouse was his dressing room, though the fragrance of the
ancient fish nets stored within it was not that of attar of roses. A
cheap bathing suit was one of the luxuries Atkins had bought for him, by
request, in Eastboro. Seth bought the suit under protest, for he scoffed
openly at his helper's daily bath.

"I should think," the lightkeeper declared over and over again, "that
you'd had salt water soak enough to last you for one spell; a feller
that come as nigh drownin' as you done!"

Seth did not care for swimming; the washtub every Saturday night
furnished him with baths sufficient.

He was particular to warn his helper against the tide in the inlet: "The
cove's all right," he said, "but you want to look out and not try to
swim in the crick where it's narrow, or in that deep hole by the end of
the wharf, where the lobster car's moored. When the tide's comin' in or
it's dead high water, the current's strong there. On the ebb it'll snake
you out into the breakers sure as I'm settin' here tellin' you. The
cove's all right and good and safe; but keep away from the narrer part
of the crick."

Swimming was good fun, and walking, on pleasant days, was an aid in
shaking off depression; but, in spite of his denials and his attempts at
appearing contented, the substitute assistant realized that he was far
from that happy condition. He did not want to meet people, least of all
people of his own station in life--his former station. Atkins was a
fine chap, in his way; but . . . Brown was lonely . . . and when one
is lonely, one thinks of what might have been, and, perhaps, regrets.
Regrets, unavailing regrets, are the poorest companions possible.

The lightkeeper, too, seemed lonely, which, considering his years
of experience in his present situation, was odd. He explained his
loneliness one evening by observing that he cal'lated he missed the
painting chaps.

"What painting chaps?" asked Brown.

"Oh, them two young fellers that always used to come to the
cottage--what you call the bungalow--across the cove there, the ones I
told you about. They was real friendly, sociable young chaps, and I kind
of liked to have 'em runnin' in and out. Seems queer to have it July,
and they not here to hail me and come over to borrow stuff. And they was
forever settin' around under white sunshades, sloppin' paint onto paper.
I mo