zation only touched him at stated intervals, and then by the more
expeditious sea from the government boat that brought him supplies. But
for his contiguity to the perpetual turmoil of wind and sea, he might
have passed a restful Arcadian life in his surroundings; for even his
solitude was sometimes haunted by this faint reminder of the great port
hard by that pulsated with an equal unrest. Nevertheless, the sands
before his door and the rocks behind him seemed to have been untrodden
by any other white man's foot since their upheaval from the ocean. It
was true that the little bay beside him was marked on the map as "Sir
Francis Drake's Bay," tradition having located it as the spot where
that ingenious pirate and empire-maker had once landed his vessels and
scraped the barnacles from his adventurous keels. But of this Edgar
Pomfrey--or "Captain Pomfrey," as he was called by virtue of his
half-nautical office--had thought little.

For the first six months he had thoroughly enjoyed his seclusion. In
the company of his books, of which he had brought such a fair store
that their shelves lined his snug corners to the exclusion of more
comfortable furniture, he found his principal recreation. Even his
unwonted manual labor, the trimming of his lamp and cleaning of his
reflectors, and his personal housekeeping, in which his Indian help at
times assisted, he found a novel and interesting occupation. For outdoor
exercise, a ramble on the sands, a climb to the rocky upland, or a pull
in the lighthouse boat, amply sufficed him. "Crank" as he was supposed
to be, he was sane enough to guard against any of those early lapses
into barbarism which marked the lives of some solitary gold-miners.
His own taste, as well as the duty of his office, kept his person and
habitation sweet and clean, and his habits regular. Even the little
cultivated patch of ground on the lee side of the tower was symmetrical
and well ordered. Thus the outward light of Captain Pomfrey shone forth
over the wilderness of shore and wave, even like his beacon, whatever
his inward illumination may have been.

It was a bright summer morning, remarkable even in the monotonous
excellence of the season, with a slight touch of warmth which the
invincible Northwest Trades had not yet chilled. There was still a faint
haze off the coast, as if last night's fog had been caught in the quick
sunshine, and the shining sands were hot, but without the usual dazzling
glare. A fain