“You need not go, Mr. Atwood,” she said. “It will not be necessary--now.” “Godfreys! I'd just as soon as not. Ruther, if anything.” He hurried down to the beach. I was about to follow when a hand touched my arm. I turned, to find a pair of brown eyes, misty but wonderful, looking into mine. “Thank you,” said Miss Colton. “Don't mention it.” “But I shall. It was thoughtful and kind. I had forgotten, or--at least--I took it for granted there was no 'phone here. But you did not forget. It was thoughtful, but--it was like you.” I was breathing hard. I could not look at her. “Don't,” I said, roughly. “It was nothing. Anyone with common sense would have thought of it and done it, of course.” “I did not. But you--Oh, it was like you! Always some one else and never yourself. You were worn out. You must have been, after--” with a shudder--“last night. Oh, I have so much to thank you for! I--” “Come on! Heave ahead!” It was Mr. Atwood, bellowing from the beach. “All aboard for Wellmouth and pints alongshore.” Betsy appeared in the door behind us. “All ready, be you?” she asked. I could not have answered, but my companion was once more as calm and cool as the morning itself. “All ready,” she answered. “Good-by, Mrs. Atwood. And thank you over and over again. You have been so kind.” With a sudden flash of enthusiasm. “Every one is kind. It is a beautiful world. Good-by.” She ran lightly down the slope and I followed. The trip to Wellmouth was of but a half hour's duration. Atwood talked all the time. Miss Colton laughed at his stories and seemed to be without a care. She scarcely looked at me during the passage, and if she caught me looking at her and our glances met she turned away. On the wharf was a big automobile, surrounded by a gaping crowd of small boys and 'longshore loafers. We drew up beside the landing. Our feminine passenger sprang ashore and ran up the steps, to be seized in her father's arms. Mrs. Colton was there also, babbling hysterically. I watched and listened for a moment. Then I started the engine. “Shove off,” I ordered. The lightkeeper was astonished. “Ain't ye goin' ashore?” he demanded. “No,” I answered, curtly. “I'm going home. Shove off.” The launch was fifty feet from the pier when I heard a shout. Colton was standing on the wharf edge, waving his hand. Beside him stood his daughter, her mother's arms about her. “Here! Paine!” shouted Colton. “Come back! Come back and go home with us in the car. There is plenty of room.” I did not answer. “Come back! Come back, Paine!” he shouted again. Mrs. Colton raised her head from her daughter's shoulder. “James! James!” she cautioned, without taking the trouble to lower her voice, “don't make a scene. Let him go in his dreadful boat, if he prefers to.” “Paine!” cried her husband again. “I must look out for the launch,” I shouted. “I shall be home almost as soon as you are. Good-by.”