“Yes, I do. He is my brother. But how . . . Do you know him?” The surprise in her tone was evident. Brown bit his lip. He remembered that Cape Cod lightkeepers' helpers were not, as a usual thing, supposed to be widely acquainted in college athletic circles. “I have met him,” he stammered. “But where--” she began; and then, “why, of course! you met him here. I forgot that he has been your neighbor for three summers.” The assistant had forgotten it, too, but he was thankful for the reminder. “Yes. Yes, certainly,” he said. She regarded him with a puzzled look. “It's odd he didn't mention you,” she observed. “He has told me a great deal about the bungalow, and the sea views, and the loneliness and the quaintness of it all. That was what made me wish to spend a month down here and experience it myself. And he has often spoken,” with an irrepressible smile, “of your--of the lightkeeper, Mr. Atkins. That is his name, isn't it?” “Yes.” “I want to meet him. Horace said he was--well, rather odd, but, when you knew him, a fine fellow and full of dry humor. I'm sure I should like him.” Brown smiled, also--and broadly. He mentally pictured Seth's reception of the news that he was “liked” by the young lady across the cove. And then it occurred to him, with startling suddenness, that he had been conversing very familiarly with that young lady, notwithstanding the solemn interchange of vows between the lightkeeper and himself. “I must be going,” he said hastily; “good morning, Miss Graham.” He waded to the shore and strode rapidly back toward the boathouse. His companion called after him. “I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon,” she said. “You've promised to teach me that side stroke, remember.” Brown dressed in a great hurry and climbed the path to the lights at the double quick. All was safe and serene in the house, and he breathed more freely. Atkins was sound asleep, really asleep, in the bedroom, and when he emerged he was evidently quite unaware of his helper's unpremeditated treason. Brown's conscience pricked him, however, and he went to bed that night vowing over and over that he would be more careful thereafter. He would take care not to meet the Graham girl again. Having reached this decision, there remained nothing but to put her out of his mind entirely; which he succeeded in doing at a quarter after eleven, when he fell asleep. Even then she was not entirely absent, for he dreamed a ridiculous dream about her. Next day he did not go for a swim, but remained in the house. Seth, at supper, demanded to know what ailed him. “You're as mum as the oldest inhabitant of a deaf and dumb asylum,” was the lightkeeper's comment. “And ugly as a bull in fly time. What ails you?” “Nothing.” “Humph! better take somethin' for it, seems to me. Little 'Stomach Balm,' hey? No? Well, GO to bed! Your room's enough sight better'n your company just now.”