As the train slowly jogged away across the moorland he felt a sharp regret while he watched the disappearing of the little grey village and the tall white lighthouse beyond. He had enjoyed his solitary month there; he had enjoyed Hope, and the sweet, womanly frankness with which she had taken him quite on his own personal merits. Incense was good; it was far better to be liked as Gifford Barrett than as the composer of the _Alan Breck Overture_, however, and he had a vague consciousness that he had never been more of a man than when he was walking and talking with quiet Hope Holden. The train rounded the curve at Kidd's Treasure, and Mr. Barrett looked backward to catch one last glimpse of the sea. As he did so, he forgot Hope, and went back to the memory of his last hour on the beach. Strolling along the sand, that noon, with his eyes fixed on the ground, he had caught sight of an approaching shadow and he looked up to see Phebe standing before him. "Mr. Barrett," she said abruptly; "I'm sorry I called you a coward." He rallied from his surprise and raised his cap. "Oh, that's all right," he said lightly. "No; it wasn't right. I don't want to abuse people to their faces and behind their backs, when they don't deserve it. That isn't my way." "But you couldn't be expected to know." "I ought to have known." "How?" Phebe's cheeks grew scarlet. In her contrition, she had walked straight into the trap which she had meant to avoid. She was silent. "How could you know?" he urged. "I don't think I look in the least like an invalid." There was another silence, a long one, while he stood looking down at her curiously. Then she raised her eyes with an effort. "I was the girl that ran into you," she said bluntly. The young man's face suddenly became somewhat less expressive than the skull which he had kept as a souvenir of the experience they were discussing. That at least expressed a cheery unconcern; his face expressed nothing. "Oh, I-I-I'm sorry," he remarked blankly. "So am I. I didn't mean to." "Have you known it, all the time? Was that what made you so down on me?" "I wasn't down on you. I didn't think much about you, either way," Phebe said, with unflattering directness. "But did you know it?" "Not till last night, when you told the story. Your beard changes you a good deal." She paused. Then she went on, "I didn't mean to let you know it; but I think it is better that I have, for now I can set you right on one point. I didn't go off to leave you. I did what I could, and then went for help. When I came back, you were gone." "How came you there, anyway?" "I live there." "Oh! And the skull?" "I don't want it." "No; but where did you get it?" "I bought it." "Miss McAlister! Might I ask what for?" "To study. I'm going to be a doctor." "Oh, I wouldn't," he urged dispassionately. "You'll find it very messy."