Lorna appeared in the lighthouse kitchen with red eyelids and the bruised look about her eyes that usually advertises the lack of sleep in the case of all dark-eyed people. But she smiled and thanked Miss Heppy and Tobias briskly for their kindness. "I am sure I do not know what I should have done if you had not taken me in. Did the storm do much damage in your best chamber, Miss Heppy?" "I ain’t had time to see, child," replied the spinster. "Tobias will have to get a new winder frame, I cal’late. You got it boarded up tight, Tobias?" "Tight’s the word," her brother assured her. "I hope nothing has happened to our house on Clay Head," Lorna said. "Not likely. Them storm shutters and doors Miss Ida insisted on putting on are a good thing, I allow," the lightkeeper observed. "We’d ought to have outside blinds to our lower windows," his sister complained. "But the Government don’t think so." "Now, don’t let’s get onto politics," said Tobias, his eyes twinkling. "Ye know, Lorny, Heppy and me votes dif’rent tickets, and jest at present she’s ag’in the Government." "Oh, you hush!" said Miss Heppy, as Lorna’s laugh chimed in unison with Tobias’s mellow chuckle. "Is it going to clear, Mr. Bassett?" the girl asked. "I guess likely. Ain’t been but one storm so fur that didn’t clear. And that’s this one. But I give it as my opinion that it was a bad night. Bad," he added, cocking an eye at Lorna, "for anybody who had to be out in it." "Now, Tobias!" ejaculated his sister. "Them on shipboard, I mean, o’ course," the lightkeeper hastened to say. Lorna ignored this byplay. She would not reveal in any case that she had felt anxiety for Ralph. She would only show interest in the condition of the Nicholet house on the bluff, and after breakfast she bundled up against the cutting gale that still blew, and ventured to journey cross-lots to the summer residences. The road, as Lorna had supposed, was badly washed by the rain where it was not drifted with mushy snow. She wore Miss Heppy’s overshoes and waded ankle deep in slush as she crossed the barrens toward the steep ascent of the Clay Head. At the foot of this bluff she struck into the patrol-path—that well-defined trail made by the surfmen who patrol every yard of the outer Cape Cod coast, from the Big End at the tip near Provincetown, down to Monomoy Point south of Chatham. It was slippery under foot, and the wind was still strong. The clouds were breaking, however, and Lorna could see clear across the wide-mouthed bay. She observed a gleam of light reflected from the cupola of the life-saving station at Upper Trillion. A steam tug towing a brick barge, that had run into Clinkerport ahead of the storm, was now breasting the after-swell, putting out to sea. The Nicholet house was the first in the row of summer houses which overhung the beach toward Clinkerport. Lorna was sheltered from the wind when she approached the side door to which she had the key.