bluff on the other side of the cove, the
bungalow--ah! the bungalow!

For the door of the bungalow was open, and one or two of the shutters
were down. The carriage had brought some person or persons to the
bungalow and left them there. Instantly, of course, Brown thought of the
artists from Boston. Probably they had changed their minds and decided
to summer at Eastboro after all. His frown deepened.

Then, from across the cove, from the bungalow, came a shrill scream,
a feminine scream. The assistant started, scarcely believing his ears.
Before he could gather his wits, a stout woman, with a checked apron in
her hand, rushed out of the bungalow door, looked about, saw him, and
waved the apron like a flag.

"Hi!" she screamed. "Hi, you! Mr. Lighthouseman! come quick! do please
come here quick and help us!"

There was but one thing to do, and Brown did it instinctively. He raced
through the beach grass, down the hill, in obedience to the call. As he
ran, he wondered who on earth the stout woman could be. Seth had said
that the artists did their own housekeeping.

"Hurry up!" shrieked the stout woman, dancing an elephantine fandango in
front of the bungalow. "Come ON!"

To run around the shore line of the cove would have taken a good deal of
time. However, had the tide been at flood there would have been no other
way--excepting by boat--to reach the cottage. But the tide was out, and
the narrowest portion of the creek, the stream connecting the cove with
the ocean, was but knee deep. Through the water splashed the substitute
assistant and clambered up the bank beyond.

"Quick!" screamed the woman. "They'll eat us alive!"

"Who? What?" panted Brown.

"Wasps! They're in there! The room's full of 'em. If there's one thing
on earth I'm scart of, it's . . . Don't stop to talk! Go IN!"

She indicated the door of a room adjoining the living room of the little
cottage. From behind the door came sounds of upsetting furniture and
sharp slaps. Evidently the artists were having a lively time. But they
must be curious chaps to be afraid of wasps. Brown opened the door and
entered, partly of his own volition, partly because he was pushed by the
stout woman. Then he gasped in astonishment.

The wasps were there, dozens of them, and they had built a nest in the
upper corner of the room. But they were not the astonishing part of the
picture. A young woman was there, also; a young woman with dark hair and
eyes, the sleeves of