The unwearied lighthouse-keeper was on the balcony, answering a kindly signal from the Land's End, where the coast-guards were not yet in possession of the news from Penzance.
He placed the tray on the writing-desk and contemplated its contents ruefully.
"I guess that banquet won't spoil for keeping," he said to himself. "I'll just lay round and look at it until the boss quits making speeches by the yard."
A couple of minutes passed. Brand was hoisting the last line of flags, when the American heard faltering footsteps on the stairs.
"Don't follow so close, Mamie," said a child's voice. "My arm hurts just 'nuff for anything when I move."
A towzled head of golden hair emerged into the light. It was one of the two little girls, whom Pyne had not seen since they were swung aloft from the sloping deck of the Chinook.
Their astonishment was mutual. The child, aged about eight, recognized in him a playmate of the fine days on board ship. She turned with confident cry.
"I told you so, Mamie. It was up. You said down. Here's the big glass house—and Mr. Pyne."
She quickened her speed, though her left arm was in a sling. Pyne, dreading lest she should fall, hastened to help her.
"I'se all right, Mr. Pyne," she announced with an air of great dignity. "I make one step at a time. Then I ketch the rail. See?"