“It never seemed to me that a husband--if he was a man--would need to be coaxed to stay by his wife.” “But don't you care about me at all? You used to; I know it. And I always cared for you. What is it? Honest, Emeline, you never took any stock in that Sarah Ann Christy doin's, you know you didn't; now, did you?” She was close to tears, but she smiled in spite of them. “Well, no, Seth,” she answered. “I will confess that Sarah Ann never worried me much.” “Then DON'T you care for me, Emeline?” “I care for you much as I ever did. I never stopped carin' for you, fool that I am. But as for livin' with you again and runnin' the risk of--” “You won't run any risk. You say I've improved, yourself. Your principal fault with me was, as I understand it, that I was too--too--somethin' or other. That I wa'n't man enough. By jiminy crimps, I'll show you that I'm a man! Give me the chance, and nothin' nor nobody can make me leave you again. Besides, there's nobody to come between us now. We was all right until that--that Bennie D. came along. He was the one that took the starch out of me. Now he's out of the way. HE won't bother us any more and . . . Why, what is it, Emeline?” For she was looking at him with an expression even more strange. And again she shook her head. “I guess,” she began, and was interrupted by the jingle of the telephone bell. The instrument was fastened to the kitchen wall, and the lightkeeper hastened to answer the ring. “Testin' the wire after the storm, most likely,” he explained, taking the receiver from the hook. “Hello! . . . Hello! . . . Yep, this is Eastboro Lights. . . . I'm the lightkeeper, yes. . . . Hey? . . . Miss Graham? . . . Right next door. . . . Yes. . . . WHO?” Then, turning to his companion, he said in an astonished voice: “It's somebody wants to talk with you, Emeline.” “With ME?” Mrs. Bascom could hardly believe it. “Are you sure?” “So they say. Asked me if I could get you to the 'phone without any trouble. She's right here now,” he added, speaking into the transmitter. “I'll call her.” The housekeeper wonderingly took the receiver from his hand. “Hello!” she began. “Yes, this is Mrs. Bascom. . . . Who? . . . What? . . . OH!” The last exclamation was almost a gasp, but Seth did not hear it. As she stepped forward to the 'phone she had dropped her letter. Atkins went over and picked it up. It lay face downward on the floor, and the last page, with the final sentence and signature, was uppermost. He could not help seeing it. “So we shall soon be together as of old. Your loving brother, Benjamin.” When Mrs. Bascom turned away from the 'phone after a rather protracted conversation she looked more troubled than ever. But Seth was not looking at her. He sat in the rocking-chair and did not move nor raise his head. She waited for him to speak, but he did not. “Well,” she said with a sigh, “I guess I must go. Good-by, Seth.”