"Lead on," answered his sister; "rather than be considered anything so ignominious, I would scale more alarming heights than those of the light-house, though I confess its winding staircase is not without its perils." The path to the light-house led through a patch of bayberry bushes. Winifred stooped, as she passed, and gathered a handful, which she crushed in both hands, taking in a deep breath of their spicy aroma. "Are they so good?" Flint asked, smiling at her childish enjoyment. "Try and see!" she answered, holding them out to him in the cup of her joined hands. Flint bent his face over them for an instant. Then Winifred suddenly dropped her hands and shook the fragrant leaves to the four winds. Flint smiled again, for her gesture said as plainly as words: "Here I am being friendly with this man, to whom I intended to be as frigid as an iceberg." Flint responded as if she had spoken. "Do you never forgive?" he asked. "No," answered Winifred, impetuously. "I never forgive; but I have a horrid facility for forgetting." "Cherish it!" exclaimed her companion. "It is the foundation of many of the Christian graces." As they drew nearer the light-house, they felt the salt sea-wind strong in their faces. The bluff was so gale-swept that the trees, few, small, and scrubby, had caught a slant to westward, and the scanty vegetation clung timidly to the ground, like some tiny state whose existence depends upon its humility. From the edge of the bluff rose the light-house,--a round stone building, dazzling in its coat of whitewash. Far up in the air its plate-glass windows gleamed in the morning sun. The keeper was standing in the open door, and cheerfully consented to show the visitors over the premises. Loneliness is a great promoter of hospitality. As they peeped into the tiny kitchen, with its shining brasses and its white deal floor, Winifred exclaimed at the exquisite neatness of the housekeeping. "It is a man's, you see," Flint commented with pride. "No doubt we shall drive you from the domestic field yet." "I should think the position of light-house-keeper would suit you excellently," Winifred replied, oblivious of the slant at her sex. "Your desire for solitude would surely find its full satisfaction here." "There might be much worse occupations certainly," Flint began; but he saw that Winifred's attention had been diverted by the keeper, who had already begun to mount the stairs, talking, as he moved, with a fluency which denoted a long restrained flow of sociability. Winifred was glad to be saved the trouble of replying, for the unceasing climbing put her out of breath, and she felt that she might have been dizzy, but for the railing under her left hand.