“There goes Janet like a shot from a gun!”

“Whar?” Davy and Mark were hauling oil up to the lamp. They stood upon the little balcony, and had a good view of the girl as she ran like a wild thing over the stretch of ground between the lighthouse and the wharf.

“Ho! Janet!” shouted Davy, leaning over the railing. “What’s got ye? Ain’t ye goin’ t’ wait fur dinner-an’ me?”

Janet paused, and the face she turned up to the balcony moved the hearts of both men to alarm.

“I cannot wait!” she called back. “I’m going to Cap’n Daddy!” Then a thought caused her to add, “Don’t either of you come after me! I want nobody but my Cap’n Billy.”

“Now, what’s knocked her endwise?” groaned Davy, staring blankly at Mark.

“Like as not she’s been gettin’ a cargo that she don’t fancy, up to Bluff Head.” Mark’s face was drawn with pity. “I come down on the train with Mr. Devant. Maybe he’s set her straight ’bout that Land-lubber-of-the-Hills!”

Poor Davy, detached by his duties and environments from the common gossip of his kind, bent a puzzled look upon his companion.

“Land-lubber-of-the-Hills? What in the name o’ Sin be ye talkin’ of?”

“Don’t you know what they say ’bout her?” asked Mark, his dull eyes fixed on the sail of the Comrade, as it put off from the dock.

“No. I ain’t never had time, above my duties, to do more’n sleep an’ eat,” David replied. “But I’ve got time now t’ stand up fur that girl yonder, if any consarned gossip takes t’ handlin’ her name lightly. That girl’s put in my care by Billy, an’ Billy an’ me have stood by each other through many a gale. An’ now, Mark Tapkins, I’d like t’ hear what ye’ve got t’ say out plain an’ unvarnished. I don’t want no gibin’. I only got one way o’ hearin’ an’ talkin’.” Mark drew back from the calm, lowering face of the keeper.

“Nation!” he gasped, “you don’t think I’m agin her, do you, Davy?”

“I ain’t carin’ whether ye be or no. Like as not, if she’s shook ye, yer full of resentment. Them is young folks’ ways. But fur or agin her, if ye can harbor scandal about Billy’s Janet, ye’ve got t’ share it with me what knows how t’ strangle it fust an’ last. Spit it out now!”

Mark drew himself together with a mighty effort. Recent events were wearing upon his vitality.

“They say, Janet is mixed up ’long with a feller what painted her, over on the Hills!” he spoke as guiltily as though he alone were responsible for the report.

“Who says so?” Davy’s bushy eyebrows almost hid his kindly eyes.

“Well, Mrs. Jo G. fur one!”

“Ye can’t knock a woman down. Ain’t there some one else that I kin begin on?”

“Well, it’s kind o’ common talk. Floatin’ round like eelgrass up the creek. I s’pose it’s sunk int’ some kind of bottom of fact, as t’ who started the rumor, but it’s jest slippin’ around now, on top.”

“’T is, hey? Well, ‘t ain’t the fust time I’ve clutched eelgrass an’ tore it from its muddy bottom. That gal,” Davy pointed a trembling finger dune-ward, where the Comrade was bobbing over the roughening water,-“that gal ain’t goin’ t’ be soiled by any slime if I know it. She b’longs t’ Billy an’ me, an’ by thunder! we can sail her bark fur her when her little hand grows tired on the tiller!”

Mark was wiping his eyes. Davy had made him feel himself a blackguard, but he could not see just where he had erred. Davy, however, took small heed of Mark.

“I’m goin’ down t’ get dinner!” he said suddenly, “an’ I ain’t goin’ t’ foller, ‘cause she’s goin’ t’ Billy an’ there ain’t no call I should inflict myself on ’em. But I’m goin’ visitin’ in the village this afternoon,”-he nodded ominously,-“I’m goin’ t’ pay up some o’ my funeral calls. I hope I ain’t goin’ t’ cause any more funerals, but it all depends on how bad the disease is!”

Mark’s inclination was to hold Davy back from his march of devastation, but he felt his impotence.

“Onct you put Davy on the scent,” he whimpered, as he listened to the keeper’s departing footsteps, “you might as well give up. Davy’s a turrible one fur runnin’ down the game. Nation! I hope he won’t fall foul o’ Maud Grace an’ fling her at her mother!” The cold perspiration rose to Mark’s forehead. “Nation! I wish I hadn’t mentioned Mrs. Jo G. I wish t’ gracious I’d laid the hull blamed business t’ Pa, fur Pa kin stand it bein’ so soft-like.”

Janet reached the dunes in good time, but the distance had never seemed so long before. The throbbing, hurt heart outstripped the faithful little Comrade doing its best before the favoring wind. Every tack seemed a mile, and a fever rose in the blood of the silent girl at the tiller.

She had time to think. She had time to grow old during that passage. One figure stood out alone from the confused tangle-her mother! Around that form much centred! She must know all-all, about her mother.

She must not break upon Billy with her startling news. Billy was so easily driven into an impenetrable silence! She must draw him out by old familiar methods and not frighten him into caution. By the time the Comrade was fastened to the Station wharf, the girl had got herself well in hand. The men of the crew who were not sleeping were engaged indoors, a lonely stillness brooded over all. Janet went up to the government house and looked in at the open door facing the ocean.

“Where’s Cap’n Billy?” she asked. The two men, preparing food at the table, raised their eyes with no surprise, and Captain Jared Brown replied:

“Isterin’.” Then with a huge clasp knife he opened a can of tomatoes, raised it to his lips and drained the contents. Tomatoes were Jared’s only dissipation.

“Has he been gone all day?” Janet waited until the empty can was set down.

“The better part of it.” The man wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“Does he have a patrol to-night?”

“No! no!” Jared began to show an interest.

“I’m going to surprise him. Don’t let on, Jared, if you see him. Who is in the lookout?”

“John Thomas.”

Janet went to the stairway.

“John Thomas!” she called up, “don’t let on to Cap’n Billy that I’m here.”

“I don’t report no derelicts!” shouted John from aloft. John Thomas was an unsmiling humorist and the idol of the undemonstrative crew. He had seen the girl’s approach and was ready with his answer.

Then Janet went across the sand hill to Billy’s little house. Inside all was as neat and trim as a ship’s cabin. Billy ate with the men at the Station, but the tiny kitchen was ready for Janet whenever she came as, also, was the orderly bedchamber beyond the living room. Billy kept to his lean-to, when away from the government house. The rooms were too stifling for the girl. She could not bear the loneliness that only empty houses have; she went out and sat upon the sand dune on the ocean side. It was never lonely in the big open world! Presently small things caught and held her excited mind. Far out a sail was passing beyond the bar, and away-where? Then a gull swooped low in wide free circles, and passed-whither? Closer at hand, the stiff grass, stirred by the wind, made perfect circles upon the white sand. Deeper and deeper the grass cut until there were little ditches, and then the sand fell in, and the patient grass, guided by the unseen power, began again. Janet’s unrest found peace in these small happenings. This was home. Safety and Billy would soon come and gather her into the strong stillness of love!

“I told him I was afraid of the city folks; and he laughed!” she whispered, “but they’ve caught, or they have nearly caught, Billy’s poor fish!” She flung her head up with an air of defiance. Whatever came, she must meet it as Billy had taught her to meet the storms of childish passion.

Suddenly she became aware of a sound behind her. She turned, and there was Billy! The surpriser was taken by surprise.

“My Cap’n!” Janet rushed to him and flung her arms about him.

“Hold there!” he cried, “I’m all over isters, Janet; isters an’ eelgrass an’ water!”

“Never mind, Cap’n Daddy, you are you! I am never going to leave you. I’ve come home!” In her raptures she had shaken Billy’s hat off, and now stooped to pick it up. “I’m going to be an oysterer myself, or some other man-thing that will help. But, Cap’n Daddy, I’m going to tie up close to you!”

Billy was in nowise deceived by this loving outburst. He had kept guiltily away from the girl with the knowledge he knew he must impart to her some day. Mark Tapkins had informed him of the artist’s departure; and that, together with Susan Jane’s death and funeral, had given Billy, never before cowardly, a time of grace. But he knew that his girl had come to him in some trouble. Every expression of the dear face was known to him, and he was ready to throw out the line of help as soon as the signal was sure.

“Janet,” he said, “I’ll fetch a mess of somethin’ from the Station an’ we’ll take it together. You lay out the table same as ye use t’. Ye might happen t’ like t’ fry up some isters. I’ve had oncommon luck; an’ ye allus sot considerable store by the first isters.”

“The very thought of them makes me hungry! Hurry, Cap’n Daddy; I want you right close!”

Billy was not gone long, and when he returned the two made ready the evening meal. They tried to be gay, but between the attempts at merriment each was watching the other.

The sun went down behind the Hills and Davy’s Light sprang to its duty on the Point. Billy got up stiffly, lighted the little glass lamp and set it upon the table amid the dishes of food from which neither he nor Janet had ravenously eaten.

“We must rid up,” said Billy, eyeing the disorder; “once yer done with food, ‘tain’t a pleasant sight hangin’ around.” When this was finished Janet drew her chair close.

“Cap’n Daddy!” No longer could the girl hold herself in check. “Cap’n Daddy, I’ve got something to tell you!”

Billy’s heart smote him as he looked at the pretty head, bowed now upon the folded arms. He put out his rough hand and smoothed the ruddy hair.

“Steady,” he murmured, “‘tain’t no use t’ lose heart, Janet. I done wrong not t’ give ye a clearer chart t’ sail by, but ye’ll get int’ smooth waters agin, please God!” How little he realized her true trouble!

Janet tried to still her sobs, but they eased the strain and she sobbed on, while Billy made the most of the time to take up his neglected task.

“It was just the kind of shoal yer little bark was like t’ steer fur,” he went on, never raising his hand from her dear head, “an’ I oughter have told ye. I allus have thought that most of us would keep off rocks an’ shoals if we knowed they was there. Janet, I’ve got t’ tell ye somethin’ ’bout yer mother! It oughter come to ye from a woman, God knows, but there ain’t no likely woman t’ hand, an’ I must do my best. She, yer mother, was powerful ’fraid ye might wreck yerself on the same kind o’ reef what she struck. She wanted ye should be a boy ‘long o’ that fear, but she ‘lowed if ye were a girl, I was t’ tell ye in time if I saw danger, an’, Janet, I ain’t done my duty!” Billy’s voice was hoarse from intense feeling.

“Cap’n Daddy!” Janet’s voice shook with sobs. “Don’t you blame yourself. You’re the one perfect thing I have in my life. I know it now; I always knew it, and I never wanted to leave you.”

“Shuttin’ yer eyes from danger ain’t strength-givin’, Janet; keep a watch out, an’ be ready. That’s what life means.” His voice drew the girl from the shelter of her arms, she looked steadily at him through wet lashes. “Janet, yer mother sunk ‘long o’ lovin’ a man-a man-well, like him-on the Hills!”

“What!” The girl bent forward and the fire of her passion dried the tears from the troubled eyes. She would hold her news back. Billy had the right of way.

“Yes, yes.” Billy let go his grip of the present. He forgot the girl opposite, and her personal claim upon him. He was back in his own youth, and in arms to defend the one woman of his love, while of necessity he must use her against herself.

“‘T ain’t no harm in lovin’, if love on both sides means right. Mary-that was her name-Mary was cursed, yes, cursed, with a handsome face an’ a lovin’ little heart what she didn’t know how t’ steer true. That’s what she always stuck t’ later, that eddication would have teached her t’ know better. She was the heartsomest gal that ever was raised in these parts. Her an’ Susan Jane was ’bout as friendly as any, an’ I will say fur Susan Jane, that with all her cantankerousness, she stood by Mary. David an’ me never sot our fancy on any one but Susan Jane an’ Mary; an’ Davy an’ me warn’t doomed t’ happiness! Least, not in our own way, though ‘t was give t’ us both t’ help when everythin’ else failed. Mary, she went t’ the city an’ took a place in a store. She had ambitions t’ soar an’ be somethin’ different. Once or twice she came home all dressed up t’ kill, an’ lookin’ like jest nothin’ but a picter. An’ once I went t’ the city jest t’ see her. I took special care o’ my get-up, knowing how much Mary sot by such things. I thought I was all right till I reached the town; then it broke on me like a clap o’ thunder that I was about as out o’ place there as a whale in a fresh-water lake. Mary was real upset ‘bout my comin’ onexpected an’ lookin’ so different to city folks, an’ she out an’ out told me ’t warn’t no use, she was bein’ courted by a city man as was rich, an’ goin’ t’ make a real lady of her.”

Poor Billy’s weather-beaten face twitched under the lash of the old memory which had never lost its power over him. Janet did not take her eyes from him, nor did she break the spell by a word of hurry or question. Presently Billy went on.

“An’ then-she came back here! Davy, he brought her across the bay after dark one evenin’. No one on the mainland knew. When I went on the midnight patrol she met me-an’ told me!”

“Told you what?” No longer could Janet hold the question back. She knew Billy’s method of going around a dangerous spot, and her womanhood and daughterhood demanded all.

“’Bout him in the city!” The past misery shook Billy’s voice. “He-he didn’t marry her! He went away an’ left her! The poor little wrecked soul came back here, havin’ no other harbor in all God’s world, an’ she knew she could trust me an’ the love I allus had fur her. Her faith steered her true! She didn’t want t’ let me take the course I laid out; she said it wasn’t fair t’ me. Lord! not fair t’ me! She never would tell me his name. She wanted t’ forgit everythin’. It made her shiver t’ talk, even, of the city. She didn’t want no help ‘long o’ him who had deserted her, an’ I never pestered her none. Then I-married her. Davy, he backed me up, an’ he an’ Susan Jane went t’ Bay End an’ saw us married. Susan Jane kept her visitin’ over at the Light till I took her, calm an’ easy-like, t’ the parson, an’ most folks never guessed the real truth. An’ then we come over here fur a little while, such a little while! I never seen a more grateful critter than she was. She never seemed t’ take int’ ’count the joy ‘t was fur me to serve her an’ chirp her up. I fixed the little place fur her, an’ I took my traps t’ the lean-to so as t’ give her plenty o’ room, an’ by an’ by, like it sometimes happens after a stormy, lowerin’ day, the sun bu’st through, an’ toward the close the glory seemed right startlin’. I can see her face a shinin’ now every time I shet my eyes. An’ she grew that wise an’ far-seein’ that it made me oneasy. ‘T warn’t nateral, an’ she such a soft little thin’!” Billy passed his rough hand over his dry, hot lips. “Then you come, an’ she slipped her moorin’s.”

The two were staring dumbly, sufferingly, at each other. Billy saw the agony he had awakened and his heart sank within him. After a moment of silent doubt, Janet arose and stood in front of Billy, laying her cold hands upon his shoulders. There was no need for her news now!

“My Cap’n,” she whispered, with a fervor Billy had never heard in her voice before; “my Cap’n, I am a woman, a woman like my mother. Tell me, as true as heaven, am I your Janet and hers?” Billy’s deep eyes pleaded for mercy, but the woman before him would not relent. There was a heartrending pause, then:

“No, ye ain’t! God help us, ye ain’t! But He’s let me love ye like ye was-an’ that’s been my reward.”

Janet shut her eyes for a moment and clung to Billy. In that space of time it was given to her to see a way to redeem the past. When she opened her eyes, the misery was gone. She was smiling, and there was no mist between her and Billy. She went beside him and drew his shaggy head upon her strong breast as a mother might have done; then she bent and kissed him.

“Dear, dear Cap’n Daddy! I see it all. My mother was wondrous wise when she took you for her pilot. Oh! my Daddy-for you are my father. In all the world there never was such a father! We’ll cling close, Daddy, won’t we, dear? Nobody shall ever come between us, promise that, oh, promise it!”

“As God hears, never!” Poor Billy broke under the load of love and gratitude, and bowed his head upon the table. But the girl, her face glowing with a strange radiance, did not loosen her hold; she bent with him.

Had Billy been more worldly-wise, he might have suspected that this vehemence had root in something beside filial love, but Billy was never one to question a gift from God. Whenever his simple soul, chastened by suffering and earnest endeavor, took courage, he always thanked heaven and returned to his common tasks. When he looked up now, the old calm had settled upon his face.

“An’ so, Janet,” he said, “ye can tell me free an’ easy ’bout that painter-chap over t’ the Hills!” The girl started. “I know all ’bout him,” soothed Billy, “an’ I don’t hold it agin ye that ye let me think it was a woman painter. Them is young folks’ ways, an’ ye didn’t lie, Janet, ye jest didn’t tell straight out. But Mark an’ me, we had our eyes ‘pon ye, an’ was lookin’ out fur yer interest.” Billy paused for breath. “In yer future dealin’ with the painter-man, Janet, jest do ‘cordin’ to yer new light. I ain’t goin’ t’ worry or fret. Ye allus was one t’ act clear headed if ye had hold o’ facts.”

Janet dropped upon Billy’s knee and hid her face against his. From such a shelter she could speak more freely; but oh! how different the confession was from what it once might have been!

“It was the first time I ever deceived you, Cap’n Daddy. I hated myself for it. But, Daddy, he never cared for me-in that way, dear! He cares only for his beautiful pictures. He used me to help him with them, it was I who did not know the difference, just at first. Even after I knew, I wanted to have a share, but, Daddy, dear, women cannot help in that way, more’s the pity-or mercy! I see it all very, very clearly now; but, dear,”-here a kind of fierceness shook the low voice,-“he is not like-the one who broke my mother’s heart! You and I must remember that. When I wanted to help him, no matter what any one thought, he would not let me! He saved me from myself. I understand it now, and I shall bless him while I live. I-I flung myself at him, Daddy, but he went away because he was too noble to hurt me!”

“He did that?” Billy held the girl close and smiled radiantly.

“Yes, yes; he did that!”

Billy recalled his and Mark’s visit to the hut, and a feeling of shame stilled all further confession. He, as well as Janet, was beginning to understand.

“It seems like the clouds has lifted, Janet, an’ I’m thinkin’ there’ll never be no more ’twixt us.”

“Never! dear, dear Daddy!” the girl hugged him to her.

“I ain’t been so happy an’ care free fur years, Janet. It seems like we’ve cleared the decks, not fur action so much as smooth sailin’!”

“That’s it, Daddy, smooth sailing. Just you and I to the very end!”

“Come, Janet, we must get t’ bed. We’ll sleep on all this new happiness. Yer room’s ready; ‘t was her room fust. She said over an’ agin that it was a safe harbor. An’ so ’t is, Janet, so ‘t is, an’ allus shall be fur whatever was hers! Good night, child, an’ God bless ye! If yer only fair-minded ye can see that ye don’t get any more storms on yer voyage than is good fur ye.”

That night Janet lay wide-eyed and sleepless upon her mother’s bed. Her fancy wandered far and her young blood coursed hotly through her veins; but always she came trustfully back to the thought of Billy’s patient love and courage; and it gave her heart to face the future, whatever it might be.