w. Dead
Men's Point has developed into a centre of industry, with a life, a
tradition, a social character of its own. And in one of those houses, as
you sit at the door in the lingering June twilight, looking out across
the deep channel to where the lantern of the tower is just beginning
to glow with orange radiance above the shadow of the island--in that
far-away place, in that mystical hour, you should hear the story of the
light and its keeper.

I

When the lighthouse was built, many years ago, the island had another
name. It was called the Isle of Birds. Thousands of sea-fowl nested
there. The handful of people who lived on the shore robbed the nests
and slaughtered the birds, with considerable profit. It was perceived in
advance that the building of the lighthouse would interfere with
this, and with other things. Hence it was not altogether a popular
improvement. Marcel Thibault, the oldest inhabitant, was the leader of
the opposition.

"That lighthouse!" said he, "what good will it be for us? We know the
way in and out when it makes clear weather, by day or by night. But when
the sky gets swampy, when it makes fog, then we stay with ourselves at
home, or we run into La Trinite, or Pentecote. We know the way. What?
The stranger boats? B'EN! the stranger boats need not to come here,
if they know not the way. The more fish, the more seals, the more
everything will there be left for us. Just because of the stranger
boats, to build something that makes all the birds wild and spoils the
hunting--that is a fool's work. The good God made no stupid light on the
Isle of Birds. He saw no necessity of it."

"Besides," continued Thibault, puffing slowly at his pipe,
"besides--those stranger boats, sometimes they are lost, they come
ashore. It is sad! But who gets the things that are saved, all sorts
of things, good to put into our houses, good to eat, good to sell,
sometimes a boat that can be patched up almost like new--who gets these
things, eh? Doubtless those for whom the good God intended them. But who
shall get them when this sacre lighthouse is built, eh? Tell me that,
you Baptiste Fortin."

Fortin represented the party of progress in the little parliament of the
beach. He had come down from Quebec some years ago bringing with him a
wife and two little daughters, and a good many new notions about life.
He had good luck at the cod-fishing, and built a house with windows at
the side as well as in front. When