As she drew herself up on the cliff, she noticed a thin column of smoke rising from the last smouldering brands of a beacon fire that had been built in the midst of the bird colony, on the extreme outer edge of the headland. She did not, however, observe that, while the smoke column streamed up from the fire directly skyward, beyond it there was a much larger volume of smoke, which seemed to have eddied down the cliff face and was now rolling up into view from out over the sea. She gave no heed to this, for the sight of the beacon had instantly alarmed her with the possibility that Blake was still on the headland, and would imagine that she was seeking him.
She paused, her cheeks aflame. But the only sign of Blake that she could see was the fire itself. She reflected that he might very well have left before dawn. As likely as not, he had descended at the north end of the cleft, and had gone off to the river to start his catamaran. At the thought all the color ebbed from her cheeks and left her white and trembling. Again she stood hesitating. With a sigh she started on toward the signal staff.
She was close upon the border of the bird colony, when Blake sat up from behind a ledge, and she found herself staring into his blinking eyes.
“Hello!” he mumbled drowsily. He sprang up, wide awake, and flushing with the guilty consciousness of what he had done. “Look at the sun–way up! Didn’t mean to oversleep, Miss Leslie. You see I was up pretty late, tending the beacon. But of course that’s no excuse–”
“Don’t!” she exclaimed. There were tears in her eyes; yet she smiled as she spoke. “I know what you mean by ‘pretty late.’ You’ve been up all night.”
“No, I haven’t. Not all night–”
“To be sure! I quite understand, Mr. Thomas Blake!... Now, sit down, and eat this luncheon.”
“Can’t. Haven’t time. I’ve got to get to the river and set to work. I’ll get some jerked beef and eat it on the way. You see–”
“Tom!” she protested.
“It’s for you,” he rejoined, and his lips closed together resolutely.