re in the Gordon household.

"Like as not he was runnin' after her!" Mrs. Jo G. was adjusting her
memorial pin, a dreary piece of jewelry, composed of the hair from the
heads of several dead and gone relatives; "but Janet wasn't after his
kind. She was a modil!" The woman whispered this information, glancing
hurriedly at the small children whom Maud was now getting into their
clothes.

"What's that?" whispered the girl in return. The hints about Janet were
gathering force in order to break after the excitement of the funeral
was over. But Maud, with anxieties of her own, had heeded them but
slightly until now.

"It's a thing no Quintonite ain't goin' t' stand fur!" quivered Mrs. Jo
G. "'T ain't proper. I guess Cap'n Billy had better have kept her over
to the Station."

"But what is it?" insisted Maud, her voice almost drowned in the shriek
of one of the twins, whose long thin hair she had jerked by way of
emphasis. Under cover of the scream, the mother replied:

"'T ain't fit t' talk about 'fore a self-respectin' girl. But I don't
want you should have anything t' do with Janet after t'-day."

"Spell it!" pleaded Maud, shaking her younger sister into a sobful
semi-silence.

"F-i-g-g-e-r!" spelled Mrs. Jo G. in an ominous murmur. Maud Grace's
flat, expressionless face took on a really imbecile blankness.

"Figger!" she repeated over and over. "Figger! That's worse t'
understand than modil. I don't see why you can't talk plain talk, Ma!"

"'Cause I told you. Whisper or shoutin', 't ain't the thing fur plain
talk; but I wanted t' give you a weapon in case Janet takes t' crowin'
over you--an' she ain't above it. She's wuss off than you be!" With
this, Mrs. Jo G. marshalled her host, and set out for the Light.

* * * * *

It was late in the day, after poor Susan Jane had been laid away in the
little graveyard back of the white church, that David slowly mounted the
lighthouse stairs, pausing as usual upon every landing. There was no
song upon his lips now. For the first time in thirty years, Davy felt
that song was impossible. All smiling and many-colored the landscape
spread before him at every opening, but the man sighed without the
laugh.

"The higher up I git," he panted, "it seems I feel heavier hearted. I
ain't got nothin' now, nor ever more shall have. I've had my turn, an'
when I reach t' other side I can't expect poor William Henry t' share
her with me. Thirty ye