Seth hesitated. “Yes,” he said, slowly, “I guess that's it. But,” he added, anxiously, “I—I wish you'd be 'specially careful not to let that young feller who's workin' for me know. Him and me had a—a sort of agreement and—and I—I—”
“He sha'n't know. Good-by.”
She fumbled with the latch of the heavy door. He stepped forward and opened it for her. The night was very dark; a heavy fog, almost a rain, had drifted in while they were together. She didn't seem to notice or mind the fog or blackness, but went out and disappeared beyond the faint radiance which the lantern cast through the open door. She blundered on and turned the corner of the house; then she heard steps behind her.
“Who is it?” she whispered, in some alarm.
“Me,” whispered the lightkeeper, gruffly. “I'll go with you a ways.”
“No, of course you won't. I'm goin' alone.”
“It's too dark for you to go alone. You'll lose the way.”
“I'm goin' alone, I tell you! Go back. I don't want you.”
“I know you don't; but I'm goin'. You'll fetch up in the cove or somewheres if you try to navigate this path on your own hook.”
“I sha'n't. I'm used to findin' my own way, and I'm goin' alone—as I've had to do for a good while. Go back.”