"Thanks!" she whispered presently. "I was mistaken, I did not eat any dinner. Davy, I am hungry. I always need my food, Davy; you know how I am." She was laughing nervously.
"Come on, then!" commanded Davy, eyeing her critically; "I ain't never seen ye so done up by goin' without one meal before. I believe yer threatened with 'spepsy, it comes now an' then, with that imptiness in the pit of yer stummick."
That night Janet tried to sleep in her little room, but the fury of the storm, and her heavy, anxious secret forbade an instant's rest. At last, about midnight, she dressed and went up to Davy. He was standing near the entrance of the lamp, and his tired face was drawn and pitiful.
"By gum!" he ejaculated when he saw the girl. "This wind comes straight frum Greenland's icy mountains, an' ain't losin' any of its temper as it comes. The waves could be seen over the dunes, long 'fore sundown; an' jest hear that."
"What is it, Davy?" Janet pressed beside him. "It sounds like some one knocking on the glass."
"An' so 'tis, so 'tis! Least it's birds. Poor, dumb things, blown on land an' makin' fur the Light. Bein' seafarers, like as not, they know the Light is t' guide 'em, an' they come t' what they think is safety. Poor, poor things! They beat the glass as if askin' fur mercy, an' shelter, an' here I be a-listenin' t' them knockin' themselves t' death an' unable t' help. If the good God takes heed of the sparrows what falls, He ain't goin' t' overlook the gulls; but 't ain't much comfort to think on that, when He lets 'em die, die right agin the Light. Gum! we ain't had anythin' like this since Tom Davis was caught in his skimmy over by the dunes twenty-five years back; least we haven't had anythin' like it as bad so early in the Fall."
"Come down, Davy," pleaded Janet, "don't stand and hear the poor birds beat themselves to death. To-morrow they will lie thick in the garden. Oh! it is a fearful gale! And Tom Davis was so near the dunes that night, wasn't he, Davy? When his boat went over, he could have waded ashore, only he did not know where he was—and the fog hid the Light; but every one knows about Tom Davis, and if a boat did go over, a—a person would try to wade ashore. Don't you think so, Davy, remembering, as he would, Tom Davis?"
"Ye got Mark on yer mind, eh?" Davy came down to the little sitting room and turned up the lamp wick. "Well, ye bet Mark put in somewhere 'fore this gale struck him. Tom Davis was different, he didn't take no precautions, ever. He was in his ilers an' boots when he went over, an' he wasn't reefed none. He wanted t' get here quick with a fair wind—if such a foul gale could be called fair. He wanted t' take part in a show down t' the church. But his time had come; an' the curtain went down on him out there alone in his water-sogged boots an' heavy iler coat! Tom Davis was born fur misfortin as the sparks fly up'ard. Him, with them boots an' ilers on, in a gale sich as that war!"
"Davy, what was that?" Janet clung to the keeper, her eyes dark and fear-filled.
"It sounded 'most like a human call, now didn't it?" said Davy, raising his head; "it's a gull, that's what it is, Janet. A more knowin' gull than the rest!"