were huddling. The sky was faintly filmed over with scarfs of
silken vapor. Cloud fleets rode at anchor along the horizons. An
evening star was watching over the bar.

"Isn't that a view worth looking at?" said Captain Jim, with a loving,
proprietary pride. "Nice and far from the market-place, ain't it? No
buying and selling and getting gain. You don't have to pay
anything--all that sea and sky free--'without money and without price.'
There's going to be a moonrise purty soon, too--I'm never tired of
finding out what a moonrise can be over them rocks and sea and harbor.
There's a surprise in it every time."

They had their moonrise, and watched its marvel and magic in a silence
that asked nothing of the world or each other. Then they went up into
the tower, and Captain Jim showed and explained the mechanism of the
great light. Finally they found themselves in the dining room, where a
fire of driftwood was weaving flames of wavering, elusive, sea-born
hues in the open fireplace.

"I put this fireplace in myself," remarked Captain Jim. "The
Government don't give lighthouse keepers such luxuries. Look at the
colors that wood makes. If you'd like some driftwood for your fire,
Mistress Blythe, I'll bring you up a load some day. Sit down. I'm
going to make you a cup of tea."

Captain Jim placed a chair for Anne, having first removed therefrom a
huge, orange-colored cat and a newspaper.

"Get down, Matey. The sofa is your place. I must put this paper away
safe till I can find time to finish the story in it. It's called A Mad
Love. 'Tisn't my favorite brand of fiction, but I'm reading it jest to
see how long she can spin it out. It's at the sixty-second chapter
now, and the wedding ain't any nearer than when it begun, far's I can
see. When little Joe comes I have to read him pirate yarns. Ain't it
strange how innocent little creatures like children like the
blood-thirstiest stories?"

"Like my lad Davy at home," said Anne. "He wants tales that reek with
gore."

Captain Jim's tea proved to be nectar. He was pleased as a child with
Anne's compliments, but he affected a fine indifference.

"The secret is I don't skimp the cream," he remarked airily. Captain
Jim had never heard of Oliver Wendell Holmes, but he evidently agreed
with that writer's dictum that "big heart never liked little cream pot."

"We met an odd-looking personage coming out of your lane," said Gilbert
as they sipped. "Who was he