It was not supper time, but Brown obeyed orders. Seth went to cooking. He spoke perhaps three words during the culinary operations, and a half dozen more during the meal, of which he ate scarcely a mouthful. After it was over, he put on his cap and went out, not to his usual lounging spot, the bench, but to walk a full half mile along the edge of the bluff and there sit in the seclusion of a clump of bayberry bushes and gaze stonily at nothing in particular. Here he remained until the deepening dusk reminded him that it was time the lights were burning. Returning, he lit the lanterns and sat down in the room at the top of the left-hand tower to think, and think, and think. The shadows deepened; the last flush of twilight faded from the western sky; the stars came out; night and the black silence of night shrouded Eastboro Twin-Lights. The clock in the tower room ticked on to nine and then to ten. Still Seth sat, a huddled, dazed figure in the camp chair, by the great lantern. At last he rose and went out on the iron balcony. He looked down at the buildings below him; they were black shapes without a glimmer. Brown had evidently gone to bed. In the little stable Joshua thumped the side of his stall once or twice--dreaming, perhaps, that he was again pursued by the fly-papered Job--and subsided. Atkins turned his gaze across the inlet. In the rear window of the bungalow a dim light still burned. As he watched, it was extinguished. He groaned aloud, and, with his arms on the railing, thought and thought. Suddenly he heard sounds, faint, but perceptible, above the low grumble of the surf. They were repeated, the sounds of breaking sticks, as if some one was moving through the briers and bushes beyond the stable. Some one was moving there, coming along the path from the upper end of the cove. Around the corner of the stable a bulky figure appeared. It came on until it stood beneath the balcony. “Seth,” called a low voice; “Seth, are you there?” For a moment the agitated lightkeeper could not trust his voice to answer. “Seth,” repeated the voice; “Seth.” The figure was moving off in the direction of the other tower. Then Seth answered. “Here--here I be,” he stammered, in a hoarse whisper. “Who is it?” He knew who it was, perfectly well; the question was quite superfluous. “It's me,” said the voice. “Let me in, I've got to talk to you.” Slowly, scarcely certain that this was not a part of some dreadful nightmare, Seth descended the iron ladder to the foot of the tower, dragged his faltering feet to the door, and slowly swung it open. The bulky figure entered instantly. “Shut the door,” said Mrs. Bascom. “Hey? What?” stammered Seth. “I say, shut that door. Hurry up! Land sakes, HURRY! Do you suppose I want anybody to know I'm here?” The lightkeeper closed the door. The clang reverberated through the tower like distant thunder. The visitor started nervously. “Mercy!” she exclaimed; “what a racket! What made you slam it?”