“That's another thing that's been bothering me. He's got no earthly business to think of such a thing. I don't know what to make of him, anyhow. I used to think I understood him, but Lord! he has new sides to him every day--you might as well try to organize a volcano. It's kind of discouraging. He's the nearest approach to something to care about I've got, and if he would only let me, I'd like to sort o' push him along. But I don't know--I don't know.” “I'm afraid I misled you a little just now, Henry.” “How's that?” “What I said about not having heard--I _have_ heard something.” “About Dick?” “Yes. I can't tell you what. I know it isn't so, but it has bothered me.” “What sort of thing--about his character?” “In a way--yes.” Henry looked sharply at the Captain with an expression of doubt and uncertainty. Then he half turned away. “You aren't going, Henry?” “Yes, guess I'd better, and see what Mc-Glory's up to. I'd let him go back to the city, but I want to see Cap'n Stenzenberger before he does. Good night.” Henry walked out on the pier to his schooner. The evening came slowly on and settled over the lake. The breeze, instead of dropping with the sun, had freshened, and now was stirring up little waves that lapped the two schooners and the piling under the pier. Annie, sitting out on her balcony in an inconspicuous dress, her arms on the railing, was listening and watching--and waiting. She had heard Henry say good night to her father, and had seen him walk out on the pier until he was lost among the lumber piles. She saw the afterglow die in the north, the red-gold lake fade to amber, to gray-blue, almost to black, while the twinkle of the lighthouse on the point grew into a powerful beacon and sent an arrow of light deep into the water. She watched the horizon line grow dimmer and dimmer until it disappeared, and sky and lake blended in darkness. All was quiet on the pier. The lights of the schooners swayed lazily; occasionally a voice floated in over the water, a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. She looked up the beach, down the beach; all was peaceful. But there was no quiet in Annie's heart. She was rigid; her hands were clasped; her eyes shifted nervously from point to point. Once she got up and went into her room and tried to read; but in a few moments she was back. And there she sat until the late twilight had darkened into night. Then she rose, passed through the room, leaving the light burning, stepped out into the hall, and softly, very softly, closed the door. She stood motionless, still holding the knob. Her father and mother were in the sitting room quietly talking. She went slowly down the stairs, stepping cautiously over the one squeaky step, and slipped through the hall. The sitting-room door was closed. “Annie?” “Yes, mother.” “Is that you?” “Yes, I'm out here.” “What is it?” “Nothing. I'm going out for a breath of air.” “Where are you going?” “Oh, not far.” “Come in soon, won't you?”