"Dump away, Davy."
"It made me feel kinder like I did long ago; an' then Susan Jane sendin' that good night up, sort o' fitted in. Janet, I've been dreamin' about William Henry Jones."
Janet nodded. William Henry seemed recently to have assumed shape and form to her. He had been but a name in the past.
"I saw him a comin' up the stairs jest as plain as day, like he use t' come when he came off, an' ran up t' me, if I happened t' be haulin' ile up t' the balcony, or cleanin' the lamp, or what not. His face was shinin' same as it use t'. By gum! I never see such a face as William Henry had! It always seemed to be lit from inside. 'I've come fur Susy,' he said. He was the only one as ever called her that, an' I ain't heerd it since he went down int' the sea that mornin' he was bluefishin'. 'I've come fur Susy, an' I want t' thank ye fur carin' fur her like what ye have." Them was his words, as true as gospil. An' they was turrible comfortin'. Fur, Janet, I ain't told it t' another soul, not even t' Billy, but I always loved Susan Jane—fur myself. When William Henry won her, I wasn't ever goin' t' let on, but when he got drownded an' Susan had t' hustle t' keep life in her body, I jest out an' begged t' take care of her—fur William Henry! I told that lie, Janet, because I darsn't tell her I wanted her fur myself. I didn't never care whether she loved me or not, after I knowed she loved William Henry, anyway; but when he went, I wanted t' take care of her an' keep her from the hardest knocks, an' I wanted it fur jest myself! After a while I talked her int' it. She warn't never strong, an' work an' grievin' made her an easy mark fur sufferin' an' so she let me take care of her! But always it has laid heavy on my mind that I hadn't acted jest fair t' William Henry. An' sometimes, when I've been settin' out on the balcony, freshenin' up, I've planned it all out how I'd see him a comin' over the dunes some day,—comin' out o' the sea what swallowed him, with an awful look of anger on his smilin' face, 'cause I'd got his Susy on false pretences, as ye might say. It's got kind o' wearin' on me o' late, but Lord! when I saw William Henry t'-night, he was more shinin' an' smilin' than ever. An' when he thanked me like what he did, I nigh busted with pleasure. An' then as you told me 'bout Susan Jane's good night, I jest sent up a prayer out there on the balcony, a prayer of gratefulness fur all my blessin's.
"Dreams is queer stuff, Janet. 'Tain't all as should be counted; but then, ye don't count all the folks an' happenin's that pass ye in yer wakin' hours. But when a dream, or a person, or an idee comes along, as means a comfort or a strengthener, I take it that it is a sort o' duty t' clutch it, an' make it real. When ye ain't got nothin' better, dreams is powerful upliftin' at times. Gum!" David drew his shoulders up and plunged his hands in his pockets, as if about to draw comfort from their depths.
"Gum! Janet. 'Tain't often I get duty and pleasure mixed, but ye stop here, an' after I take another look at the lamp, I'm goin' t' run down an' say good night t' Susan Jane. I know how she's lyin' awake, thinkin' an' thinkin' of the past. Dreams don't seem t' come much t' Susan Jane."
David paid his visit to the Light, then descended the stairs, while Janet took up the book of poems and turned the pages idly. David's dream and all that had happened seemed to still her. How long she sat by the dim lamplight she took no thought to find out. The words of poem after poem passed under her eyes unheedingly. Once she went into the Light, saw that all was well, and came back to the book. Presently David emerged from the stairway. Janet was facing him, and the expression of his eyes brought her to her feet, and to his side.
"Davy, what is it?" she demanded.
"He has come!"
"Who?"