Silver Shoal Light

Front matter

"Then look at Spain—like Garth"

SILVER SHOAL LIGHT

BY

Which Begins with the End of a Journey

SILVER SHOAL LIGHT

CHAPTER I

J stood gazing absently across the bay from the deck of the old steamer Pettasantuck. She hardly saw the loveliness of the distant shore; the russet hayricks, green orderly meadow-patches, round, tufted trees, all mellowed by the afternoon haze of late June. She did not hear the gulls screaming defiance to the upper winds nor smell the ever-strengthening salt in the air. She was wondering whether her trunk lay safe in the throbbing depths of the Pettasantuck after the complicated transfer at Tewksville Junction.

The tarnished sign above the waiting-room door had proclaimed the place Tewksville Junction. It was there that Joan had eaten lunch, a thick ham-sandwich and a cup of lukewarm coffee, consumed from her perch on a high stool. The Pettasantuck was at least an improvement on the tedious train of the morning, which had stopped every few minutes at stations with unintelligible names and had sometimes expired altogether for no apparent reason. These vagaries had made Joan lose the boat-train, and the discomfort of the trip was increased by a two hours' wait at Tewksville.

The steamer proved less erratic than the train, for she plodded steadily and conscientiously down the bay, the winds of the Atlantic growing fresh and more fresh about her broad bows and fluttering her pennants gallantly. Joan clutched her hat and wished that her coat were thicker.

Somewhere on the misty, unknown shore lay Joan's destination—Quimpaug and the Harbor View House. Rather unwillingly she reviewed for the hundredth time the cause of her ill-considered journey. Mr. Robert Sinclair had told her that she was unsympathetic, intolerant, and unimaginative. Those were not the exact words he had used, to be sure, but it amounted to that in the end, Joan reflected with a frown, as she recalled his grave and earnest phrases. She liked Mr. Sinclair immensely, besides thinking him a very clever portrait-painter; and she ought to have seen that he liked her immensely, also. Otherwise he would never have told her such disagreeable things about herself in such a sober fashion. As it was, Joan had brought the conversation to a close by saying:

"At least you'll not have to tolerate these qualities long. I'm leaving town to-morrow for the summer."

As a matter of fact she had had absolutely no intention of going anywhere until that moment; so, when Mr. Sinclair had departed, she was left to make good her words.

"I shall go to the first summer hotel I see advertised, no matter where or what it is!" had been her rash decision.

A short search through a newspaper had revealed these significant words:

"The Harbor View House is the Ideal Spot for your Summer Outing. Situated on the Verdant Shores of Beautiful Pettasantuck Bay, it commands an Unequalled Prospect of Quimpaug Harbor and Surrounding Landscape. Boating, Sea-bathing, Fishing, Tennis, and Other Invigorating Sports. Two Minutes' Walk from Boat-Landing and Post-Office. Every Convenience for Our Guests."

Joan, a little obstinate, as well as all those other things, had tossed the newspaper away and turned her attention to packing.

Now that the journey was almost at an end, Joan began to realize the foolish haste of her plan. But if she repented at all of her rashness, she did not consciously confess it, although she was now far angrier with herself than with Mr. Sinclair. As the Pettasantuck gradually left mid-channel and swung landward, Joan crossed the deck and found that the boat had entered Quimpaug Harbor. Under a sheltering hillside the little village lay huddled on the shore. The sprinkling of gray roofs straggled down to the very edge of the water, where a few weather-beaten piers reached out like gaunt old arms. Skiffs and sail-boats, moored close in, curtsied merrily to the steamer as they caught the waves of her wake.

Aboard the boat an engine-room bell sounded once. The Pettasantuck slid silently toward the boat-landing. Twice, and her paddle-wheels thrashed distractedly and sent a lather of foam churning in among the green piles of the wharf. Once again, and she lay panting and motionless, while men ran with hawsers and the gang-plank went out with a clatter.

The Harbor View House, as its advertisement had truthfully stated, was but two minutes' walk from the landing. It stood at the head of a short steep hill and commanded—besides the "Unequalled Prospect of Quimpang Harbor"—an unobstructed view of the dilapidated wharf. Included, also, were piles of reeking lobster-pots and barrels of fish and a fringe of dirty power-boats just come in, whose laboring engines choked and spat viciously through rusty exhaust-pipes. The hotel itself was a barnlike building with a wide echoing piazza where weathered rocking-chairs stood ranged in meek rows. A dingy flag snapped its tattered length above the cupola, and from somewhere within doors came the jingle of a patient piano giving forth popular airs under the nimble fingers of a summer girl.

It was late in the afternoon, and little groups of people were climbing up from the shingly beach and strolling in from the tennis court as Joan entered the hotel.

"I'd like a good room, please," she said, putting down her bag at the desk.

"Very sorry, ma'am," said the youthful clerk; "we're full to capacity this week. Turned away a couple of gentlemen just before you came in."

Joan stared; she had not reckoned with this possibility. She had supposed that in a place so out-of-the-way as this, an additional guest would be eagerly welcomed.

"Then where can I go?" she asked. "When does the boat go back?"

"The boat she stays here all night, ma'am. First trip to-morrow morning, 6:37 A.M."

The youth began to sharpen a pencil as though he had dismissed Joan's case completely.

"But I must sleep somewhere!" she expostulated. "Do you know of any boarding-house in the village, any place where they might take me in?"

The clerk sighed and let himself out of his enclosure. He led the way to the door and pointed down the wharf.

"See that old feller sitting on them boxes, ma'am?" he said. "Well, that's 'Bijah Dawson. He knows everything about everybody in town, and if there's a place where you could sleep, he'd know it. Call him Captain and he'll do anything for you. You're welcome, ma'am."

Joan caught up her bag and went down the pier again.

"Is this Captain Dawson?" she inquired of a brown and grizzled old skipper who sat watching the unloading of the Pettasantuck.

The old man slid from his perch with alacrity, and emerging from a cloud of strong tobacco smoke touched his battered yachting cap.

"Dawson's the name, ma'am," he affirmed heartily, "an' Cap'n 's the title! Cap'n 'Bijah Dawson, lately master o' the Bella S., as trim a schooner as ever slipped her moorin's. An' 't ain't that I'm too old to be master of her now, ma'am—I be as rugged as ever—but them sneakin' fellers upped an'—"

"Excuse me," Joan broke in; "the clerk at the hotel told me that you might know of some place where I could stay to-night. I've just come, but the hotel is full and I find that the boat does n't go out until to-morrow. I've nowhere to sleep."

"'Shaw!" said Cap'n 'Bijah. "You don't say! Thet's shorely too bad. Lemme see, now," he continued, scratching his chin. "Mis' Beckly, she's got two school teachers from the city; an' Mis' Collins, she's full up with comp'ny; an' the Larkinses, they ain't got no room this year. I dunno, ma'am, as I know any place."

Joan stared rather gloomily at the lobster-pots, and Cap'n 'Bijah pondered silently.

"'Less," he said presently, "Mis' Bassett might hev room fer ye. Jest two lone women—her an' her daughter—they'd ought to. We could shack along up thar an' see, anyhow. Ye never can tell till ye try, hey? That's what I allus say. Now lemme get a heft of thet air valise, ma'am, an' we'll be goin' along."

The Cap'n took Joan's bag as he spoke and led the way up the hilly street into the village. There were no sidewalks; the neat gateways, arched with honeysuckle, opened straight upon the dusty road. There seemed to be a great deal of honeysuckle in Quimpaug, and there were many clumps of phlox poking bright flowers between the fence-palings. Trim, straight little paths, bordered with whitewashed stones or curly conch-shells, led to the steps of vine-covered porches. At one of these paths Cap'n 'Bijah turned in, clicking the gate carefully behind him. He rapped on the house-door with his knuckles, and it was presently opened by a flurried, middle-aged woman hastily wiping her hands on her apron.

"My land, if it ain't Cap'n 'Bijah!" she cried, peering out. "What brings you up this way?"

"I got a young lady here from the city," ex the Cap'n. "The hotel's full up, an' she ain't got nowhars to sleep. I thought mebbe you an' your mother'd let her hev your spare-room."

"Oh, my!" cried Miss Bassett. "I'm just real vexed that we can't! You know we would if we could, 'Bijah. But my cousin Ben—you know, 'Bijah, he ain't been here for five years—him an' his folks come unexpected to-day. They got a machine now, an' they come all the ways from Milltown. We got to let one of his boys sleep on the sofy in the parlor, as 't is. An' would you believe it, 'Bijah, I sent for a mess of spinidge from Schmidt, an' more 'n the half of it wa'n't no good. Seems to me he ain't near 's uppin' as he used to be. He's one of them dretful Germans, anyways, an' I never did—"

"Wal, thank you kindly," said Captain Dawson. "Guess we'll be goin' along. Tell my regards to Ben."

"I'm real sorry," said Miss Bassett, and the door closed, shutting in with it the savoury smell of roasting chicken and frying potatoes.

"Wal, Miss Kirkman," said the Cap'n, "I allus say, 'While thar's life thar's hope still.' We ain't tried Mis' Fisher yet. I'm gettin' real interested in findin' you somewhars to sleep. You know how the Scriptures says that the birds o' the air has nests, an' the beasts has holes, but it seems to me you ain't even as well off as they be."

"You're very, very kind," said Joan. She was wishing that the advertisement of the Harbor View House had never been printed, wishing still more that she had not obeyed her hasty impulse.

Mrs. Fisher opened her door only a few inches when the Captain knocked.

"I'm sorry I can't let you in, 'Bijah," she said. "Georgie was took sick last night—terrible bad—and Doctor says maybe 't is the scarlet fever. My, it was something awful the way he— There! I hear him a-hollerin' for me now!" she cried, and shut the door. They heard her footsteps flying up the stairs.

"Wal, Miss Kirkan," Cap'n 'Bijah said, as they stood beside the white paling fence, "I own I'm stumped. I dunno who else I can ask. 'Less—I guess mebbe Mis' Driscoll might pull one o' the mattresses offen the chil'ren's bed an' let you hev that in the parlor."

Somehow this idea did not appeal to Joan, although it was obvious that she must go somewhere.

"Oh, what shall I do?" she cried. "Is there no other place?" She looked about her desperately. "How could I have been so silly as to rush off without planning ahead!" she thought.

"I got another idee, Miss Kirkson!" exclaimed the Captain suddenly. "What I allus says is, 'Better late than never at all.' Thar's one place they might take ye—I ain't makin' no promises, mind—but they jest might. An' that's out to the Light."

"The Light?" Joan echoed blankly.

"Yas, Silver Shoal Light. It's out that beyond the Reef; ye can't see it from here 'count o' that high ol' p'int in thar. I can get ye out thar in less 'n no time with my little boat. Jest say the word, ma'am, an' we're off."

"Well," said Joan dubiously, "I can't sleep in the middle of the road. If you think that there's any hope, let's try, Captain Dawson."

"From the Perils of the Sea"

CHAPTER II

THE Lydia, Cap'n 'Bijah's naptha-launch, drove her blunt bows vigorously through little slapping waves.

"They're right cur'ous folks out to the Light," explained the Captain, his arm on the tiller. "They ain't noways like the folks around these pa'ts, ner yet they bean't like the hotel folks, nuther. Pemberley's the name, Jim Pemberley. He's be'n keepin' the light more 'n four year now, an' yet thar ain't a man in Quimpawg knows anythin' 'bout whar he come from ner nawthin'. But he's a right pleasant-spoken feller to everybody. He knows his job inside out, but it don't seem's though 't was the place he belongs. A real sweet wife he's got, too, out on that air desolated rock-heap. An' the Skipper! Wal, he can't be beat!"

The Lydia skirted the gray shore, and Quimpaug was soon lost behind a rise in the coast. Westward the bay wound inland, toward Tewksville, and Town, and the disturbing Mr. Sinclair, Joan reflected unwillingly. In the opposite direction the space of water widened until the southern shore looked blue and undefined across its expanse, and right before there was nothing but the great and misty reaches of the sea.

The Cap'n jerked a brown thumb toward the point.

"Thar's the Reef," he told Joan; "them's all rocks, jest awash at high tide. Then thar's a piece o' shoal water—sand and such—makin' out aways. It's a bad place fer ships comin' out. The Light ain't so much needed coast-wise as 't is fer the Bay. An' thar 't is now," he added, pointing again.

Joan, who had been gazing resignedly at the slipping shore—a somber mass of rough rock and dark, wind-blown bay-bushes—looked outward as the Cap'n spoke. Just at the end of the point, where the coastline turned to sweep northward, there was a tumble of white water on hidden ledges, and beyond, across a calmer reach, Silver Shoal Light.

The stout whitewashed walls were set upon bare rock, and from the seaward corner of the house a light-tower rose above a steep gray roof. Away from the door, ledges shelved gently to the shoal, but deep water fingered the foot of the tower, lapping at the weed-fringed foundation. Though afterglow still touched the white walls, the light was already lit, pale in the half-dusk and shining faintly, like an early star. While the launch swung nearer, Joan marked details—the great fog-bell beneath a pent-roof, a weathered bench under green-shuttered windows, a tangle of bright flowers blooming sturdily in painted boxes.

Cap'n 'Bijah shook his head.

"They're cur'ous, like I said," he mused. "Now look at that!" He indicated a trim little sail-boat moored near the landing. "That's his'n, an' he can sail her, too! Bought her dirt cheap from an ole feller I know an' spent half his fust winter tinkerin' at her in his little boathouse thar. An' look at her! 'Sides makin' her sea-wo'thy, he made her handsome. Wa'n't never no keeper on Silver Shoal but what was satisfied with the boats the Service guv 'em. That dory yonder's a lighthouse boat, an' no call fer another, seem's so; but he's one that has his way, an' most gen'ally 't is a good way, fer 's I can see."

The Lydia's blunt nose bumped the landing, and Cap'n 'Bijah shouted "Ahoy, thar!" The house-door opened at once, and a woman stood outlined against the orange light within.

"Is that you, Cap'n 'Bijah!" she called. "Do you want to see my husband? He's up in the lantern, but I'll fetch him."

Then she saw Joan and came down to the pier, looking inquiringly at Captain Dawson.

"I ain't got no business with the Keeper," he drawled, "but I took the liberty, Mis' Pemberley, of bringin' you out a pore young lady that ain't got nowhars to sleep. The hotel couldn't hev her, an' none o' the Quimpawg folks could, an' I guess she thought mebbe she'd hev to sleep on a lobster-pot." He gave a rumbly chuckle. "But you know how I allus says, 'Never too late to mend,' an' I thought mebbe you'd take her in. I ain't much up on the Rules an' Reg'lations, but I reckoned you could figger on her like she was a shipwrecked reffygee, or suthin'. Mis' Pemberley, Miss Kirklan'. Miss Kirklan', Mis' Pemberley."

The lightkeeper's wife tossed a wisp of dark hair out of her eyes and shook hands with Joan, while Cap'n 'Bijah gathered up the bag expectantly.

"You poor person!" she said. "What a sad plight! Of course you may stay. Why, the Rules tell us that it's our bounden duty to 'assist persons in distress,' besides which we can invite you as our guest to spend a night at Silver Shoal."

Joan, who had felt herself at the edge of another shattered hope, breathed a rather pathetic sigh of relief. Her heart had sunk at the sudden menace of "Rules and Regulations."

"Have you had any supper?" her hostess inquired as they went up the landing.

"Nothing since noon; a sort of sandwich and some pale coffee at Tewksville Junction."

"Tewksville! Heavens!" cried Mrs. Pemberley with fervor. "Come in and have some food at once!" She took the bag from Cap'n 'Bijah, who vanished into the dusk, content.

Joan looked about her curiously as they entered the lighthouse. She did not know exactly what to expect of its interior,—something between a farm-kitchen and a boat-house, she fancied. The door opened directly into the main room, which was low-ceiled and white-panelled, its square-paned windows deep set in the thickness of the stone walls. A settle stood before the small fireplace and bookshelves filled the space between the northern windows. Lamplight winked on the well-polished brass of a barometer hanging against the wall and on the bright fittings of a telescope on a shelf beneath. A smooth old iron-bound sea-chest stood below, and blue braid rugs covered the floor.

But Joan was most of all aware of delicious-looking food spread upon the round, lamplit table. Mrs. Pemberley led her firmly past, however.

"I'll take you up to your room now," she said. "When you come down I'll have another place laid, and I hope that you'll soon forget Tewksville Junction."

She pushed aside a blue curtain as she spoke. Behind it steep, narrow stairs, with a knotted rope against the wall for balustrade, led straight from the living-room to a little square landing. Mrs. Pemberley opened a white door at the right and lit a candle. Its little yellow tongue wavered and then shot up clear and strong, lighting the plastered walls of the tiny room, the white bed, and the curtains which snapped out briskly in the fresh wind from the water. A clean salt smell pervaded everything.

Joan sighed contentedly as she took off her coat.

"All this is too good to be true," she said. "How kind you are!"

"Staying at that hotel would be bad enough," said Mrs. Pemberley, "but I suppose not being able to stay there might be even worse! I think there's soap in that big clam-shell," she added as she withdrew.

Out in the darkness a homing tug tooted a deep-voiced signal to her barges. Joan blew out the candle and stood at the window looking over the dim water. The lights of the tow slipped quietly through the dusk and veered toward the bay. As the tug rounded the point her port and starboard lights glowed out suddenly, like jewels. Joan could hear the faint beat of a screw above the sound of lapping water under the window. She gazed out a moment longer at the darkening sky; then, turning, she felt for the knotted cord and went downstairs.

As she entered the living-room a tall, tawny-haired, brown-faced person rose from the settle.

"That's my husband," said Mrs. Pemberley with a comprehensive wave of her hand, as she set a blue bake-dish upon the table. "And come and eat these crabs before their ardor cools. Don't you think you'd better light a fire, Jim? It's growing frigid."

"Perhaps I'd better," said Jim, who had gripped Joan's hand with a clasp that made her wince. "We've still some of the Thomas J. left. I'll burn a bit more to-night, as this is a special occasion."

"The Thomas J. was a schooner," explained Mrs. Pemberley, as they sat down. "She came ashore one winter night in a storm. The owners saved all they could, and we've been burning the rest, on and off, ever since. She was the Thomas J. Haskell in full. Why do tugs and schooners have such dismal names?"

"The Bella S. was another," said Pemberley; "Cap'n 'Bijah's famous craft. Have you heard the tale, Miss Kirkland?"

"A hint of it," said Joan.

"Well, you'll hear the whole yarn, if you continue your acquaintance with the Cap'n, so I won't spoil it for you," said Pemberley. "But those fishermen have the most wonderful names of all for their tubs—everything from the Parthenon to the June-Bug. There's one called the Adjo Grace, and I really saw a boat to-day with Caller Lilly painted boldly across her stern."

"Caller Herring would be more appropriate," said Mrs. Pemberley. "Do have another biscuit, Miss Kirkland."

"By the way, Elspeth," said Jim, "we saw a launch named Psyche the other day, and first Garth called it the Fizzy, and then the Pish, and then the Seech, and finally gave it up altogether. It did look rather queer; it was divided by the stern-post, like this: Psy—Che." He sketched it in the air with his finger. "But my own boat is the Ailouros, and at least that's better than some of 'em."

"Why—" said Joan. "Ailouros; that's Greek. Doesn't it mean 'a cat'?"

"Well," said Pemberley, with a twinkle, "it's a cat-boat, you see. And we call the skiff Cymba, because it's just a 'little boat.'"

Joan, leaning back in the settle after supper, announced that she was perfectly happy.

"And you've been so good to me, coming to my rescue like this," she said.

Pemberley, who stood looking into the night, closed the outer door and returned to the fire.

"The Rules and Regulations say, in part," he observed, "that it shall be the duty of light to 'assist in saving life and property from the perils of the sea.' I don't know how we can fit you into that class exactly, unless we consider 'Bijah's old tub as a peril, which would scarcely figure plausibly in my 'Record.' No; you're an invited guest. If Elspeth didn't invite you properly at the beginning, I hereby do so now."

Joan bowed an acknowledgment.

"The only thing, then, that disturbs my peace of mind is to-morrow," she sighed. "I was so stupid not to write to the Harbor View House beforehand. In fact, I was extremely stupid to come at all. And that's one of the reasons why I don't want to go back to town. I don't know exactly what to do."

"Put out the lamp, Jim," said his wife. "It's much jollier that way; then we can see the nice blue and green flames. There ought to be a lot to-night, with that copper strip." Then she turned to Joan. "Why don't you stay here?" she asked.

"At the lighthouse?" Joan said rather blankly.

"Yes, why not?" said Jim, putting another fragment of the Thomas J. on the fire. He stood up and dusted his hands.

"Let's see, what is it that the Harbor View House offers? 'Boating, Sea-bathing, Fishing, Tennis, and other Invigorating Sports,' if I remember rightly. We can provide all those things except the tennis, which presents difficulties; as for the 'other invigorating sports'"—he struck an attitude—"those are our specialty! A short pleasant sail from boat-landing and post-office! And the famous 'Prospect of Quimpaug Harbor (including the unequalled view of lobster-pots, et cetera) sinks to insignificance beside the outlook from the top of my tower."

"Jim's ridiculous," said his wife; "but really, why don't you?"

Joan looked across the hearth at these surprising people. The fire lit Elspeth's sea-blue woollen dress; it shone into her sea-blue eyes. Pemberley stood leaning across the back of his wife's chair. A rebellious lock of tawny hair hung over his forehead and he was smiling whimsically. The driftwood fire sputtered and chuckled contentedly, and through the half-open window came the sound of the long swell against the rocks.

"If I thought you really meant it!" Joan said. "Oh, I know that I could rest and rest here. I do believe that the Harbor View House would have driven me frantic. Might I stay, truly? For just a little while, a week?"

"Why not?" said Elspeth. "Jim, can't it be arranged?"

"I'll write to the Inspector to-night," Pemberley replied. "He's a good old friend, personal and official; he'll see to it."

"We can sail in to-morrow with the Ailouros," said Elspeth, "and get your trunk."

"I don't deserve this," murmured Joan. "I was such a foolish hasty person."

"As Cap'n 'Bijah would remark," observed Pemberley, puffing at his pipe, "'I allus says: Ye never kin tell of a Friday how the wind's a-goin' to blow next week.'"

As Joan lay in bed listening to the suck and wash of the water about the walls below her window, she reviewed the happenings of the day. It seemed months since she had left town on that tiresome train. How desperate she had felt when all the doors of Quimpaug were shut to her! She was very glad now that they had been shut, for if she had not come of necessity to the Light, she would in all probability have returned to town the next morning. It would have been rather humiliating if she had happened to encounter Mr. Sinclair. But now there was a week in which to rest and make new plans; perhaps she might even stay longer, if it could be arranged. She liked the Pemberleys and they puzzled her. Lightkeepers who put puns in Greek and Latin upon their boats are not common; nor do lightkeepers' wives usually dress in blue gowns with silver clasps at the throat and serve delicious food in real "Willow Pattern" plates. Cap'n 'Bijah was right in saying that they were "noways like the folks around these pa'ts," and Joan gave up trying to account for them.

She found another cause for contentment. Apparently there were no children at the Light, and she had seen no fewer than seven at the hotel during her brief glimpse of it. "All shrieking at once!" reflected Joan. "I could never have stood it." She did not like children. Indeed, that was another of Mr. Robert Sinclair's accusations. He had tried to tell her about a small newsboy with whom he had talked at the street corner and of the child's real charm.

"He couldn't be charming," Joan had said. "I believe I've never seen a nice child. I don't like them."

"But this was such a very fine little chap," Sinclair had protested. "He had a bad leg, too. I think it was rather plucky of him."

"That makes it much worse,—whole children are quite annoying enough."

Sinclair had shaken his head very seriously.

"I think that sums it up," he had said. "Because all those other things I spoke of are included in not liking children. I like them just because they are children."

"And I dislike them because they're children," she had answered.

Lying in her quiet bedroom Joan rather regretted having said some of these things, but she was nevertheless well content that there were no young Pemberleys at Silver Shoal Light. Half asleep, she heard the opposite door open softly and Mrs. Pemberley's voice say:

"I wonder what he'll think, Jim?"

"Who'll think—what—?" murmured Joan as her eyes closed.

Joan Rues Her Bargain

CHAPTER III

THE cries of a flock of kittiwakes wheeling noisily over the lighthouse woke Joan the next morning. She wondered for a moment where she was, till she breathed the keen salt air which tingled through the window; then, remembering everything, she lay back luxuriously. The flat gray of the sky was fading to a tender rosiness, which was shot across with broad streaks of orange as the sun floated up. Cold and hard the sea-line met the glowing clouds, a band of steel color. Sailing toward the sun, a four-masted schooner slipped along the horizon; to the north, a wisp of smoke marked a vessel hidden over the earth's edge. The dawn-wind stirred the curtains at Joan's window and whispered about the room. Two big sea-going tugs—business-like craft in sober, workaday dress—passed close to the lighthouse on their way into the bay. As Joan watched them, their lights, ghostly in the dawn, went out suddenly; she saw men moving about the decks and heard the steady swish of the water about the bows. She dozed again happily; then, finding with a start that the sun had climbed far above the horizon, decided that it must be time to get up.

Joan threw on a shimmering blue-green kimono and shook out her dark hair. While she stood before the little mirror, the door was suddenly pushed open and in the glass she saw a child on the threshold, gazing at her in complete surprise. She could see only his head and shoulders—a crisp tumble of bronzed hair, an eager, intent face tanned to a mellow golden-brown. Then she turned and saw what the glass had not revealed, that he leaned rather hard upon crutches and that one brown leg was held rigid by a steel apparatus. Half Joan's pleasure vanished. She was thankful that she had asked to stay only one week.