everal times I have seen him--I am almost sure
it was he--hiding or crouching behind the sand hills at the rear of our
bungalow."

"You have? Why, I--"

He hesitated. Before he could go on or she continue, the rain came in a
deluge. They reached the porch just in time.

"Well, I'm safe and reasonably dry," she panted. "I'm afraid you will be
drenched before you get to the lights. Don't you want an umbrella?"

"No. No, indeed, thank you."

"Well, you must hurry then. Good-by."

"But, Miss Graham," anxiously, "I shall see you again before you go.
To-morrow, at bathing time, perhaps?"

"Judging by the outlook just at present, bathing will be out of the
question to-morrow."

"But I want to see you. I must."

She shook her head doubtfully. "I don't know," she said. "I shall be
very busy getting ready to leave; but perhaps we may meet again."

"We must. I--Miss Graham, I--"

She had closed the door. He ran homeward through the rain, the storm
which soaked him to the skin being but a trifle compared to the tornado
in his breast.

He spent the balance of the day somehow, he could not have told how. The
rain and wind continued; six o'clock came, and Seth should have returned
an hour before, but there was no sign of him. He wondered if Mrs. Bascom
had returned. He had not seen the carriage, but she might have come
while he was inside the house. The lightkeeper's nonappearance began to
worry him a trifle.

At seven, as it was dark, he took upon himself the responsibility
of climbing the winding stairs in each tower and lighting the great
lanterns. It was the first time he had done it, but he knew how, and the
duty was successfully accomplished. Then, as Atkins was still absent and
there was nothing to do but wait, he sat in the chair in the kitchen and
thought. Occasionally, and it showed the trend of his thoughts, he
rose and peered from the window across the dark to the bungalow. In
the living room of the latter structure a light burned. At ten it was
extinguished.

At half past ten he went to Seth's bedroom, found a meager assortment of
pens, ink and note paper, returned to the kitchen, sat down by the table
and began to write.

For an hour he thought, wrote, tore up what he had written, and began
again. At last the result of his labor read something like this:

"DEAR MISS GRAHAM:

"I could not say it this afternoon, although if you had stayed I think I
should. But I must say it now or it may be too lat