"You jest better be goin' on!" she called to James B., who was loitering on the village side of the garden.
"I ain't more'n jest come off!" James B. answered. "I ain't any more'n had time t' swaller my dinner."
"Well, what more do you want?" snapped his wife. "You go on now, an' do what I tell you. An' there ain't no use t' turn the P'int t' the village, nuther. I kin see your sail till you reach the Station, an' if you don't go straight on, I kin reach the village store 'fore you kin. So 't ain't no use, James B."
James B. evidently agreed with her, for he turned and went disconsolately toward the wharf.
Thornly smiled and his old cheerfulness returned. He was seeing these people, slowly, through Janet's eyes. They were so brave, patient, and humorous. They were so human and faulty and lovable. Among them she, poor little wayfarer, had got her life lesson—how would she apply it now?
Before him rose Davy's Light, its glistening head ready for duty when the night should come. Some one was waving from the balcony up aloft! Some one had been watching the road from the Hills! Thornly's heart beat quicker. Was it Davy?
Just then the playful wind caught the loosened, ruddy hair of the watcher above, and Thornly hastened his steps.
The rooms of the lighthouse were empty, and silence brooded over all. Thornly mounted the winding stairs and, as if Davy's personality pervaded the way, his heart lightened perceptibly at each landing. In the little room below the lamp, Janet met him.
"We're freshening up," she said with the old half-shy laugh, "Davy, Cap'n Daddy, and I. Come!"
Thornly stretched out his hands toward her.