“Steady, Hiram, steady!” he murmured, making long silent strides to the inner room, and catching up his coat. He gave two strokes of the brush to his stiff hair, and then strode out on tiptoe again to the window. “’Twa’n’t any dream,” he muttered. “She’s there! Steady! Look out for the boom!” He opened the door, and as Betsy turned her head, he spoke, quite as if it had been his daily custom to greet her at six-thirty A. M. in his garden. “Good-mornin’. Things look kind o’ washed up and shinin’ after the rain, don’t they?” His keen eyes studied his caller’s face as he advanced with a casual air. “It’s a beautiful mornin’,” returned Betsy, her hand clasping the top of her bag tightly, and bright spots coming in her pale cheeks. “You look as if you was goin’ off jauntin’ again,” said Hiram, feeling his way with care. “Gettin’ to be such a traveler you don’t make anythin’ of dartin’ off and dartin’ back again, like a—like a swaller.” The lump in Betsy’s throat would not let her speak. Her silence mystified the captain more than anything she could have said. Determined not to frighten her, he plunged into generalities. “I think it’s about time you paid a visit to my garden. Don’t you think it’s lookin’ good? If you’d a seen them lilies o’ the valley a month ago ’twould ’a’ done your heart good. They’re a-spreadin’ so, I donno but the cottage’ll have to git up ’n git. I remembered what you said once—that is,” added Hiram, correcting himself lest his visitor should rise and fly,—“my mother was always set on sweet peas, I try to have plenty of ’em.” “They’re perfectly beautiful,” said Betsy, her eyes resting on the riot of color that embedded the white house in violet and rose and white. “I think it’s my favorite flower.” “That’s what you said—” began Hiram eagerly, and then cleared his throat and stammered. “My mother—yes, she used to say they was like butterflies, just swayin’ on the stem, and ready to fly.” Betsy met his eyes as he stood apart, his stalwart figure uneasily moving, now toward her and then away, in his eager embarrassment. Something in her look drew him close to the seat. “There ain’t any train for an hour yet,” he said gently. “I s’pose you took a bite, but you’ll have breakfast with me, won’t you, Betsy, ’fore I take ye over to the depot? I s’pose you’re leavin’ again.” “Yes.” She said it gravely, and dropped her eyes from his kind face. “For how long this time?” “Forever.” The word was spoken quietly; but her lips quivered. “_What?_” The man started, and frowned. [Illustration: YOU’LL HAVE BREAKFAST WITH ME, WON’T YOU?] “Oh, Hiram,”—the lips were quivering still, and she paused, then reached up a hand which was quickly lost in both of his,—“can’t you see? I’ve come home.” There were only the rocks, and the beach, and the waves that hissed and broke, to look upon them.