I remained too long for my peace of mind and immediate welfare. The quiet and solitude brought back the old morbid melancholy, and in this mood I wandered about the beach and through the streets lined with deserted cottages, fighting with myself and reviling the fates that had made sport of my life and ideals. In this mood I was ripe for any adventure, and spying, late at night, a figure slinking by me in the darkness, that reminded me of George Morton, I softly followed, keeping him in sight, but not letting him see me. He entered a dark, two-story house in a row of other dark cottages, and I mechanically walked on, halting before the house, with a hazy idea that perhaps it _was_ George Morton, and that his family lived there. No light appeared from within, however, and I slowly retraced my steps, pausing at the next street lamp to fire up my pipe. While puffing at the half-lit tobacco a dark figure darted from across the street and joined me in the lamplight. It was a girl, all but her face hidden by a hooded cloak, and this face was so white, drawn, and terror-haunted, that I could barely recognize in it some little resemblance to that of the child I had loved. Then she spoke, and before my brain had grasped the fact that Grace Morton must have grown up, I knew her voice. And the next moment, without leave or ceremony, I had her in my arms, and kissed the frightened face until she struggled free. "Oh, Jack," she said brokenly, "and it is really you, after all! I saw you to-day from the parlor of the hotel, but I could not be sure--you have changed so much. Where have you been all these years? I have needed you so much, _so much_, and I could trust no one but you. You must help me to-night, Jack." "Of course," I answered. "What is it?" "My brother--you know him. Did you know?--no, you couldn't. Jack, he has gone into the house there--the house we have lived in all summer; and I think, I almost know, he is setting fire to it. You followed him. I saw you. Did you notice a bundle?" "Setting fire!" I exclaimed in amazement. "Why, I thought--" "Yes," she interrupted. "We all thought him a fire hater, because he did not fear it. But he loves it. He set fire to every house and building that he later helped put out; Mr. Mills' house--remember--and the school, and the seminary. He joined the church since then, and confessed to father and me. But father is dead now, and I am alone with him. Come, you must stop him. Stop him by force, before it is too late. Come! I am afraid of him alone. He is insane--at these times." She seized my hand and hurried me back, puzzled and astounded at this new revelation of human nature. "He carried a bundle under his arm," she whispered as we reached the door. "It is very likely a can of kerosene, purchased in Philadelphia, where he went this morning. I was to go to New York, but I suspected him and came back."