“Well, you must hurry then. Good-by.”
“But, Miss Graham,” anxiously, “I shall see you again before you go. To-morrow, at bathing time, perhaps?”
“Judging by the outlook just at present, bathing will be out of the question to-morrow.”
“But I want to see you. I must.”
She shook her head doubtfully. “I don't know,” she said. “I shall be very busy getting ready to leave; but perhaps we may meet again.”
“We must. I—Miss Graham, I—”
She had closed the door. He ran homeward through the rain, the storm which soaked him to the skin being but a trifle compared to the tornado in his breast.
He spent the balance of the day somehow, he could not have told how. The rain and wind continued; six o'clock came, and Seth should have returned an hour before, but there was no sign of him. He wondered if Mrs. Bascom had returned. He had not seen the carriage, but she might have come while he was inside the house. The lightkeeper's nonappearance began to worry him a trifle.
At seven, as it was dark, he took upon himself the responsibility of climbing the winding stairs in each tower and lighting the great lanterns. It was the first time he had done it, but he knew how, and the duty was successfully accomplished. Then, as Atkins was still absent and there was nothing to do but wait, he sat in the chair in the kitchen and thought. Occasionally, and it showed the trend of his thoughts, he rose and peered from the window across the dark to the bungalow. In the living room of the latter structure a light burned. At ten it was extinguished.
At half past ten he went to Seth's bedroom, found a meager assortment of pens, ink and note paper, returned to the kitchen, sat down by the table and began to write.