He stretched himself full length on the sand, and drank. When he arose, wiping his mouth, the cows had moved off lazily towards the Causeway. Billy did not follow at once. He did not want to miss the dance of the fire-flies above the darkening marsh along the Causeway, the twilight blush on the pine tips of Point Aux forest, the light-house gleam, nor the prayer-time hush of the mystery-filled rush-land. So he tarried beside the lake until the pines and cedars had melted into indistinct masses and the call of the whip-poor-will sounded faintly from far away. Then he turned homeward.
As he left the pine grove for the main road he discerned a lone figure standing on the Causeway, with head lifted and turned towards the still faintly glowing west, and his footsteps quickened.
"Teacher," he cried in surprise, "you here?"
Frank Stanhope turned slowly and held out his hands.
"Billy Boy," he said, with a smile, "I had to come, at last. Every time you have offered to guide me to this old spot we knew and loved and enjoyed together I have refused because—because I thought I couldn't stand it: because I am unable to see what my heart and senses tell me is here. But tonight I groped my way down, knowing that you would find me and help me home."
He placed his hand on Billy's shoulder, and turned once again toward the bay. "I am blind," he said, softly, "but I can tell you how it looks across yonder. There's a white splash of water between deep shadows, and there's just a faint tinge of crimson above the tree-tops. The mist is rising off the marsh; the fire-flies are playing cross-tag above the cat-tails. The light-house—"
He paused abruptly, and the boy felt the hand on his shoulder tremble.
"You tell me, Billy," he said huskily—"tell me if the light shines as brightly as when we watched it together."
"Why, teacher, it's jest as bright as ever," cried the boy. "It fair seems to laugh as it swings 'round an' jumps down the bay like a long, white arm."
"Does it, Billy, does it?" cried the man, eagerly.