“You're welcome. It squares us for your pilotin' me over the marsh, that's all. 'Twa'n't any favor; I owed it to you.”
He was turning the shirt over in his hands.
“Well,” he began, then stopped and looked fixedly at the garment.
“I see you've mended that hole in the sleeve,” he said. “You didn't owe me that, did you?”
She changed color slightly.
“Oh,” she said, with a toss of her head, “that's nothin'. Just for good measure. I never could abide rags on anybody that—that I had to look at whether I wanted to or not.”
“'Twas real good of you to mend it, Emeline. Say,” he stirred the sand with his boot, “you mentioned that you cal'lated I'd changed some, was more of a man than I used to be. Do you know why?”
“No. Unless,” with sarcasm, “it was because I wa'n't around.”
“It ain't that. It's because, Emeline, it's because down here I'm nigher bein' where I belong than anywheres else but one place. That place is at sea. When I'm on salt water I'm a man—you don't believe it, but I am. On land I—I don't seem to fit in right. Keepin' a light like this is next door to bein' at sea.”
“Seth, I want to ask you a question. Why didn't you go to sea when you ran—when you left me? I s'posed of course you had. Why didn't you?”