"Good morning," said the girl, "I was coming to Bluff Head." Janet was the one more at ease. Her struggle had been along clearer lines.
"Going up to read?" asked Devant uneasily; "the library is yours, my child." The last words had a possible significance that was well-nigh heartbreaking to the man.
"No: I—I want to say something—to you! I did not seem to be able to come before." A rare dignity touched the girl. Her womanhood appeared to have taken on a queenly attribute; but the language of this new womanhood was still to learn. She had spent the night at the Light, and the latter part of it she had shared Davy's watch. Together they had "freshened up" from the little balcony, and the calmness of the stars and David's philosophy had set their seal upon her. She was brave and tolerant. She had chosen her path, and with the courage of the dunes she was ready to tread it wherever it might lead.
"Shall we walk on?" asked Devant. It was easier than to stand still. So they slowly turned and went toward Bluff Head.
"I know,"—the even voice fell to a whisper,—"I have just found out that—that Cap'n Billy is not my real father!"
Devant staggered under the blow. The terse directness, a part of the girl's nature and training, was embarrassing to the man of the world.
"You are sure of that?" he asked, when he could control his voice.
"Yes."
"Do—do you know who your real father is?"
Janet looked fearlessly up into the haggard, eager face.