Cecilia was going to plead the cause of domestic affection further, but she saw that four step-mothers could easily be given up. She turned helplessly to her husband who stood in the door. “Poor thing! Ludlow, what in the world shall we do?” “Put her to bed.” “Of course, Ludlow. But will anybody hurt you to-morrow?” “There are two good guns on the rack over the chimney. I don't think anybody will hurt me or her either, to-morrow.” “Rosanne, my dear,” said Cecilia, trying to lift the relaxed soft body and to open the stairway door behind her. “Come up with me right off. I think you better be where people cannot look in at us.” Rosanne yielded and stumbled to her feet, clinging to her friend. When they disappeared the young man heard her through the stairway enclosure sobbing with convulsive gasps: “I hate Elizabeth Aiken! I wish they would kill Elizabeth Aiken! I hate her--I hate her!” The lighthouse-keeper sat down again on his doorstep and faced the prospect of taking care of a homeless Mormon. It appeared to him that his wife had not warmly enough welcomed her or met the situation with that recklessness one needed on Beaver Island. The tabernacle began to burn lower, brands streaming away in the current which a fire makes. It was strange to be more conscious of inland doings than of that vast unsalted sea so near him, which moistened his hair with vaporous drifts through the darkness. The garnet redness of the temple shed a huger amphitheatre of shine around itself. A taste of acrid smoke was on his lips. He was considering that drunken fishermen might presently begin to rove, and he would be wiser to go in and shut the house and put out his candle, when by stealthy approaches around the lighthouse two persons stood before him. “Is Ludlow here?” inquired a voice which he knew. “I'm here, Jim! Are all the Mormons coming back?” “Is Rosanne in your house?” “Rosanne is here; up-stairs with Cecilia. Come inside, Jim. Have you Elizabeth with you?” “Yes, I have Elizabeth with me.” The three entered together. Ludlow shut the door and dropped an iron bar across it. The young men standing opposite were of nearly the same age; but one was fearless and free and the other harassed and haggard. Out-door labor and the skill of the fisheries had given to both depth of chest and clean, muscular limbs. But James Baker had the desperate and hunted look of a fugitive from justice. He was fair, of the strong-featured, blue-eyed type that has pale chestnut-colored hair clinging close to a well-domed head. “Yes, Rosanne is here,” Ludlow repeated. “Now will you tell me how you got here?” “I rowed back in a boat.” “Who let you have a boat?”