rough boardwalk set quite a way back from the
water's edge so that there was a white stretch of beach between it and
the first thin line of lapping waves.

"Why, look at the boardwalk!" cried Laura, in wonder.

"You didn't say anything about a boardwalk down here, Connie," added Vi.
"You're really right up to date, aren't you?"

"What did you suppose?" put in Billie. "That Lighthouse Island was in the
backwoods and had no improvements?" And she laughed gayly.

"Well, I know that very few of the islands on this coast have
boardwalks," defended Laura. "Most of them have the roughest kind of
stony paths."

"You are right, there," said Connie. "I remember only too well when I was
on Chatter Island we had to climb over the rocks all the way, and one day
I twisted my ankle most dreadfully--so badly, in fact, that I was laid up
for three days while all the other girls were having the best time ever."

"I know what I'd do on a real dark night," remarked Billie dryly. "If I
couldn't see where I was stepping, I'd take my chances and walk in the
sand."

"I do that myself sometimes," answered Connie.

Several bungalows dotted the rather barren landscape, for Lighthouse
Island was an ideal spot for a summer home--that is if one liked the
seashore.

But the girls were not so much interested in what was on the island as
they were in what was beyond it. The ocean--the great dark, mysterious
ocean drew their eyes irresistibly and set their minds to wandering. And
as the days passed they were to feel the spell of it more and more.

"Here we are," Mrs. Danvers said cheerily, and with an effort the girls
brought their thoughts back to the present.

Mrs. Danvers had turned from the main boardwalk down another that led to
a bungalow whose every window was cheerfully and invitingly lighted.

"Be careful where you step," Mrs. Danvers called back to them, and the
girls saw that she was picking her steps very carefully. "There are two
or three boards missing, and I can't get Mr. Danvers to do the repairing.
He spends whole days," she added, turning plaintively to Connie, "up in
that old lighthouse just talking to your Uncle Tom. I don't know whether
it's your Uncle Tom's conversation he finds so fascinating or his clam
chowder."

She opened the door as she spoke and the girls had a vision of a
comfortable, gayly lighted room all wicker chairs and chintz cushions and
chintz hangings, a room pretty and cozy, a room that seemed to b