Seth busied himself about the house, occasionally stepping to the window to look out at the weather. An observer would have noticed that before leaving the window on each of these occasions, his gaze invariably turned toward the bungalow. His thoughts were more constant than his gaze; they never left his little cottage across the cove. In fact, they had scarcely left it for the past month. He washed the breakfast dishes, set the room in order, and was turning once more toward the window, when he heard a footstep approaching the open door. He knew the step; it was one with which he had been familiar during other and happier days, and now, once more—after all the years and his savage determination to forget and to hate—it had the power to awaken strange emotions in his breast. Yet his first move was to run into the living room and close his helper's chamber door. When he came back to the kitchen, shutting the living-room door carefully behind him, Mrs. Bascom was standing on the sill. She started when she saw him.
“Land sakes!” she exclaimed. “You? I cal'lated, of course, you was abed and asleep.”
The lightkeeper waved his hands.
“S-sh-h!” he whispered.
“What shall I s-sh-h about? Your young man's gone somewhere, I s'pose, else you wouldn't be here.”
“No, he ain't. He's turned in, tired out.”
“Oh, then I guess I'd better go back home. 'Twas him I expected to see, else, of course, I shouldn't have come.”
“Oh, I know that,” with a sigh. “Where's your boss, Miss Graham?”
“She's gone for a walk along shore. I came over to—to bring back them eggs I borrowed.”
“Did you? Where are they?”