At half-past five I was astir again. The lightkeeper, it appeared, had an auxiliary engine in a catboat which he owned and could let me have a sufficient supply of gasolene to fill the Comfort's tank. When this was done--and it took a long time, for Joshua insisted upon helping and he was provokingly slow--I returned to the sitting room and asked Mrs. Atwood to call Miss Colton. “Land sakes!” was the cheery answer, “I didn't have to call her. She's been up for fifteen minutes. Said she was goin' to take a cruise around the lighthouse. I cal'late you'll find her out there somewheres. Go and fetch her here. You two must have a bite--a cup of hot coffee and a biled egg, anyhow--afore you leave. Yes, you must. I shan't listen to a no from either of you.” I went out and crossed the sandy yard to the whitewashed lighthouse. There was no sign of Miss Colton in the yard, but the door of the lighthouse was open and I entered. No one there. The stairs, winding upward, invited me to climb and I did so. The little room with the big lantern, the latter now covered with a white cloth, was untenanted also. I looked out of the window. There she was, on the iron gallery surrounding the top of the tower, leaning on the rail and gazing out over the water. She had not heard me. For a moment I stood there, watching her. She was not wearing Mrs. Atwood's gown now, but her own, wrinkled and stained from its last night's drenching in salt water, but dry now. She was bareheaded and her brown hair was tossing in the sea breeze. The sun, but a little way above the horizon and shining through the morning haze, edged her delicate profile with a line of red gold. I had never seen her look more beautiful, or more aristocratic and unapproachable. The memory of our night in the launch seemed more like an unbelievable dream than ever, and the awakening more cruel. For I was awake now. What I had heard over the 'phone had awakened me thoroughly. There should be no more dreaming. I stepped out upon the gallery. “Good morning,” I said. She turned quickly, and I heard her catch her breath with a little gasp. “I beg pardon,” said I; “I'm afraid I startled you.” She was startled, that was evident, and, it seemed to me, a trifle embarrassed. But the embarrassment was but momentary. “Good morning,” she said. “How very silent you can be when you choose, Mr. Paine. How long have you been standing there, pray?” “Only a moment. I came to call you to breakfast.” “To breakfast?” “Yes, Mrs. Atwood insists upon our breakfasting before I take you ashore.” “Oh! Why didn't you call me? I would have come down.” “I did not see you until I reached the lantern room. My silence was not premeditated. I made noise enough, or so it seemed to me; but you were so wrapped in your thoughts--” “Nonsense!” She interrupted me almost sharply. “I was not 'wrapped' in anything, except the beauty of this view. It IS beautiful, isn't it?”