"Right--group," said John. "Ready for next word?" He flashed, "Short, long--long--long," Joey almost shrieked in her excitement. It was a letter like that she had seen in the rainy darkness from the leads. "J," she spelt, and then she felt she must tell John about that light without waiting for the slow, laborious spelling out of the next word. She was just going to speak, but she had to see what the next letter was, and in that instant she was seeing, Gracie spoke under the widely opened window. Gracie's voice was very clear, and every syllable came quite distinctly up to Joey at the window. "Yes; I'm awfully annoyed about it, Eleanor, but I can't get mother to see reason. I suppose she feels she ought to be nice to this child, who is a sort of cousin; but it couldn't have hurt her to go back an hour or two earlier and leave the car free for me, at the time I want it. As it is, mother says she isn't going to send the little nuisance back till half-past six." "What a shame! I should strike at small schoolgirl cousins who have to be kept all day, and sent back in the car." That was another voice, evidently the voice of the girl to whom Gracie was talking. Joey forgot all about Morse, and faced John with hot cheeks. "I won't do any more signalling, I think; thanks no end for teaching me," she said. "I'll go and find Miss Richards, or someone." John held out a thin, scarred hand. "I say, don't you worry about Gracie," he growled. "Shocking bad form to talk like that, but she doesn't mean it." "I don't want to be sent back in the car," poor Joey burst out. "It's only six miles--who wants a car?" She stopped. It wasn't possible to tell John, who was Gracie's cousin, that what hurt so much in the speech was the sense that they all thought her a nuisance who must be entertained as a duty. Perhaps John had really been finding her a nuisance too, when he taught her signalling. Joey's one thought was to get away from all. "Thanks awfully for being so nice to me," she said, "but I'll go now, if you don't mind." "Here, wait a bit," John urged; but Joey was already through the door and out in the passage. She would say good-bye and thank you to Cousin Greta, and ask if she might walk home, as it was such a lovely afternoon. But then poor Joey remembered that Cousin Greta was lying down and must not be disturbed. What could she do? Joey suddenly entertained the quite reprehensible idea of saying nothing to anybody, but walking home all by herself. CHAPTER XI THE SEA-ROKE