 CHAPTER 1 A SWEEPING CURVE OF GLISSONING BEACH A full palpitating sea lying under the languid heat of a late June afternoon. The low, red life-saving station, with two small cottages huddling close to it in friendly fashion, as if conscious of the utter loneliness of sea and sand dune. And in front of one of these houses sat Captain Billy and his Janet. They too seemed alone in the silent expanse of waste and water, but it in no wise disturbed them. Billy was industriously mending a huge fishnet spread out upon the sands. Janet was planning a motive attack in order to preserve unto herself the very loneliness and isolation that surrounded them. In Janet's hands Captain Billy knew himself a craven coward. Only by keeping his eyes away from the face near him could he hope for success in argument. And Captain Billy, with all the strength of his simple, honest nature, meant to succeed in the present course, if Janet would permit him. It was yet to be discovered how beautiful was the girl, crouching upon the sands. So unlike was she to the young people of the station that she repelled rather than attracted the common eye, tall, slim, and sinewy was she, with the quick strength of a boy. The smooth brown skin had the fineness and delicacy of exquisite bronze. Some attempt had been made earlier in the day to confine the splendid hair with strong strands of seaweed, but the breeze of the later morning had treated the matter contemptuously, and the shining waves were beautifully disordered. Out of all keeping with this brown ruggedness were Janet's eyes. Like colorless pools they lay protected by their dark fringes until emotion moved them to tint and expression. Did the sky of Janet's day prove kind? What eyes could be as soft and blue as hers? Did storm threaten a grainness brooded, a grainness quite capable of changing to ominous black? Captain Billy, trained to watching for storms and danger, knew the signals, and now for safety lay low. The eyes were mild and sun-filled, the face bewitchingly friendly, but when Janet took to wheedling Billy hugged the shore. You don't really mean it, Captain, now, do you? I do that, muttered Billy, and he pulled the twine energetically. What, send your own Janet off to the mainland to stay, except when she runs back? This last in atone that might have moved a rock to pity. Yes, that, Janet, and you mustn't come on too often, neither. Oh, Captain, and just when we got the blessed beach to ourselves, Mrs. Joe G. and her kind gone, only the crew and us. Why, Captain, this is life. Now, Janet, taint no use for you to coax. You're going on seventeen, ain't ya? Seventeen, Captain, and eleven months. It's distracting the way you've shot up. Clear distracting, and I ain't been and done my duty by you, neither. Billy yanked a strand of cord vigorously. Yes, you have, Captain. Janet's tone was dangerously soft. I'm the very properst girl at the station. Look at me, Captain Daddy. But Billy steeled himself and rigidly attended to the net. Well, he admitted, you're proper enough long some lines. I've taught you to conquer your eternal bad temper. You've taught me to know its power, Captain Daddy, warned Janet with a glint of darkness and the laughing serenity of her gaze. The temper is here just the same and powerful bad upon provocation. A smile moved the corners of Billy's humorous lips. And the bed-post is here too, Janet. Lordy, I can see you now as I used to tie you up till the storm was over. What an eternal little rascal you were. The waves of tantrums rolled over you, one by one, your yells growing less and less. And by and by you called out between squalls, Captain Daddy, it's most past. There was a mist over Billy's eyes. You turn a little specimen, he added. But Captain dear, Janet was growing more and more dangerous. I've been so good. Just think how I've gone across the bay to the corners to school. My, how educated I am. Storm or ice, I leave it to you, Daddy. Did I ever complain? Never, Janet. I've stood on the dock and watched your sail coming for the gale, till it seemed like I would bust with fear. And the way you handled your ice boat in the pursuit of knowledge-getting was simple miraculous. No, I ain't affreting over your learning-getting. It's the usin' of the same as a stern me now. With such education as you've got in spite of storm and danger, you oughta be shinin' over on the mainland, among the borders. Borders, sniffed Janet, tossing her ruddy mane. Borders. Folks have gone crazy mad over the city folks who have swooped down upon us, like a, a hawk. Every house full of those raving lunatics going on about the views and the, the artistic desolation. That's what those dirty, spotty-looking things on the hills call it. Captain, you oughta just see them goin' about in checked kitchen aprons, with dobs all over them. Sun-bonnets, a danglin' on their heads. Little wagons full of truck for painting pictures. And such pictures. Lorsy. If I lived in a place that looked like those sketches they call them, I'd, I'd go to see, Captain Daddy, to see. But they be folks, Janet, and it's a new life and a chance, and it ain't decent for you, with all your good points, to be on the beach, along with the crew, all alone. Captain, I do believe you oughta marry me off. Get rid of me. Oh, Daddy. Janet plunged her head in her lap and was the picture of outraged maidenhood. Taint so, and you know it, cried Billy. But Mrs. Joe G., before they sailed off, opened my eyes. Mrs. Joe G. snapped Janet, raising her head and flashing a look of resentment. I thought so. What did she suggest, that I might come to her house and wait? Wait? Just think of it, Captain. Wait upon those borders? She had suggested that, and something even worse, so Billy held his peace. It's simply outrageous the way our people are going on, the girl continued. They are bent upon beggaring the city folks, beggaring them, really. They have no consciences about the methods they take to, to rob them. Janet, hold your tiller close. Oh, I know, Captain, but I do not want to take part in it all. I want to stay alone with you. Think of the patrols, Captain Daddy. I'll take them all with you, sunset. Midnight and morning. You and I, Daddy dear, under the stars, or through storm. Ah, I've ached for just this. Billy felt his determination growing weak. I've made arrangements, Janet. Captain David, he's going to board you, and you can look about. And if you see an opening to get a chance to better yourself, not in the Marian way, but turn in a penny, why, it'll all help, my girl, and you ought to be having the chance with the city folks, what all the others is having. Oh, you sly old Captain Daddy. And do you realize that Captain David's Susie Jane isn't any joke to live with? You don't hear Davy Tatlin, but other folks are not so particular. Daddy dear, I just cannot. And with this the girl sprang into the net, rolled over and over, and then lay unsnarled in the meshes at Billy's feet, her laughing eyes shining through the strands. Eternal rascal, cried Billy. You think you've caught me, wind, Janet. You think you've got me. Oh, Captain, I'm afraid of the city folks. Frayed, sneered Billy. My Janet afraid of anything. Yes, honest true. I do not want to be near them. I sent danger, not to them, but to me. Billy, bereft of his hands' occupation, looked out seaward. He was well nigh distracted. Always his duty to this girl was uppermost in his simple mind, but his love and anxiety mingled with it. He no more understood her than he understood the elements that made havoc along the coast and necessitated his brave calling. He waged war with the sea to save his kind, and he struggled against the opposing forces of Janet that he in no wise understood in order that she, as a girl among others, should have her rights. Wild little creature as she had always been, Billy had used all the opportunities at hand to tame her into a similarity to the other children of the station, and when he had failed, he gloried in the failure and grew more distracted. Braving opposition in the girl and the dangers of nature, Billy had forced the child across the bay to the school at the corners. What there was to learn in that primitive institution Janet had learned, and much more besides in ways of which Billy knew nothing. For years the quaint seaside village had lain unnoticed in its droning course. Ships, now and again, had been driven upon the bar outside the dunes, and at such times the bravery of the quiet crew at the government station was sung in the distant city papers. Now and again the superiority of the point-quinton light would be mentioned. But Captain David never knew of it. He tended and loved the light with a fatherly interest. It was his life's trust, and David was a poet, an inarticulate poet, who spoke only through his shining light. The government was his master. David thought upon the government in a personal way, and served it reverently. Then an artist had discovered quinton by the sea. He took a painting of it back to the restless town, a painting full of color of dune, sea, bay, and hundred-toned hills, with never a tree to stay the progress of the unending breezes. That was sufficient. The artist was great enough to touch the heart, and quinton was doomed to be famous. But it was only the beginning now. Every house in the village had opened its doors to the strangers, and every pocket yawned for possible dollars. Tents were pitched in artistic arrangement on the hills, but the hotel was not yet. Managers waited to see if the fever would last. While they waited, the village folk reaped a breathtaking harvest. Mrs. Joe G., the only woman who had lived at the life-saving station in her own home, packed up and went off with baggage and children to open the old farmhouse in the mainland and take boarders. Before going, she left food for Billy to digest. This be Janet's chance, she said, standing with her hands on her hips and her sunbonnet shading her fair, pinched face. Nothing ever tanned Mrs. Joe G. She can turn in and help wait on table, or she can take in Washing. It won't hurt her a bit. Washing will have to be done, and the city folks will pay. Janet can make them fetch and carry their own duds. She can stand on her dignity and wash money is as good as any other. Billy experienced a distinct chill at this last proposition. Why he could hardly have told? During Janet's babyhood and early childhood he had assumed all household duties himself. Later he and Janet had shared them together over tub and table, but that Janet should wash for the boarders was harrowing. You think she's too good, Captain? sneered Mrs. Joe G., but she ain't. She's wild, and she ought to get her barons. She ain't any different from my girls nor the others, though you act as if you thought so. You ain't as strong as you once was, Captain, and come the time when you pass in your last check who's going to do for Janet, and how's she going to know how to do for herself? You ain't acting fair by the girl. It's clear providence the way the city folks has fallen, as you might say, right in our open mouths. There'll be plenty of chances on the mainland for Janet to turn a penny and get an idea of self-support, but she ought to be there and not stuck here. Mrs. Joe G. had hardly turned the point, after this epic-making speech, before Billy was starting for the light and the one friend of his heart. David, he explained, viewing his friend through a fog of thick blue smoke, I want that you should take my girl. Once Janet is here, she'll be mighty spry about getting into something. I don't want her to take to washing or serving strangers, lest she wants to. But when experience and money is floating loose, my girl ought to be out with her net. Coors, nodded David, and Janet's a rare fisher for these new waters. He'll keep your eye on her, David, knowing all you do. The furrows deepened on Billy's brow. David took his pipe from his mouth. God's my witness, I will that, he said. Thus things stood while Janet coiled in the meshes, lay laughing up at Billy. What do you think of your haul, Captain Billy Daddy? The man sighed. You wouldn't let those dreadful old sharks, they are sharks, Captain. You wouldn't let them hurt your poor little fish now, would you? The rippling girlish laugh jarred Billy's nerves. He must take a new tack. See here, Janet, do you mind this? You ain't just my child, Lord knows you ain't, you're hers. Hers? Yes. Ah, you mean my mother. The net lay quite still. Having no memory of the mother, Janet was not deeply impressed. I know, Captain, when you are in a difficulty you always bring her in. What she would like, and what she wouldn't. It's my belief, Captain, she'd have done and thought exactly as we told her to. Tain't so, neither. She had heaps of common sense. And as she got near port she saw terrible clear, and she talked considerable about learning, and how it could steer your craft better than anything else. And she loud, if you was gall or lad, after you got learning, she wanted you to go out into the world and test it. She wasn't oversought about the station. She had visited other places. Janet sat up and idly draped the net about her. I suppose if my mother had lived, she said, I would have listened to her, some. But, Captain Daddy, I reckon she would have gone off with me. Like is not, we would have taken borders, but don't you see, Captain, I would have had her. True, and it's that what's held my hand, many's the time. Your not having her has crippled us both. But a summer on the mainland ain't a going to swamp us, Janet. With the comrade tied to David's wharf, and me here, what's going to happen to a girl like you? Janet looked across the summer sea. What? Sure enough, Captain Daddy, just what? And I ought to be earning my keep. I'm going to set you up with some gal fixin's what I've saved for you. Your mother's things. You ain't never seen them. Suppose we take a look now. A summer with running over to the station will be real interesting, Janet. And you must tell me everything. There ain't no reason why you shouldn't sail over every little while, but I do hope you'll make yourself useful somehow. It will help by and by. And I'm getting stiff. He arose awkwardly and strode toward the tiny house. Janet followed, trailing her fishnet robe and humming lightly. The house was composed of three small rooms with a lean to, whereof late years Billy had slept. From the middle room, which was the living room, a ladder set against the wall led to the loft overhead. The man slowly climbed upward and Janet went after. The space above was hardly high enough for an upright position, so man and girl sat down upon the floor, and it happened that a locked chest stood between them. Janet, you ain't never seen these things, have you? No, Captain Billy. The mocking laugh was gone from the face. You ain't got no sense of curiosity about anything, Janet, not even your mother. Most girls would have asked questions. This seemed like a rebuke, and Janet kept silent. Ain't you got no curious feeling about your mother? Captain Billy, you haven't ever let me miss anything in all my life. I suppose that's why I haven't asked. I never knew her, did I, Captain Billy? You made up for everything. This unnerved Billy. That's logic, he nodded, and it's good-heartedness as well. But, Janet, I'm going to tell you somewhat of your mother. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked the chest, and raised the lid. Them things is hers, he said reverently. Little frocks. Three he laid out upon the floor. Cheap, rather gaudy they were, but of cut and fashion unknown to the beach-bread girl. And little underthings, and a hat, and sack, shoes, just look at them, Janet. Little feet they covered, but such willing little feet, always a trot and bout till the very last. So terrible a frayed they wouldn't be grateful enough. Lord, but that was what she said. The pitiful store of woman's clothing lay near Janet, but she made no motion to touch it. And this is her. Captain Billy took a photograph from the bottom of the chest, unwrapped it from its covering of tissue paper, and handed it to the quiet girl opposite. This is her, and as like as life. The same little hat on, what she set such store by. I ain't had the heart to show you this before. Janet seized the card eagerly. The light from a small window in the roof fell full upon it. Oh, she breathed. She was—why, Captain Billy, she was more than pretty. I think I should have felt her more if I had seen this. Maybe, Janet. Am—am I like her? Like as not, if you was wider and spindlier, there'd be a likeness. An uneasiness struggled in Billy's inner consciousness, as he viewed the girl. You're more wild like, he added. I wish I had asked a lot about her, Janet whispered, and there was a mist in her eyes. I have been careless, just because I've been happy. It seems as if we had sort of pushed her away and kept her still. Well, it's her turn to speak now, girl, and that's what I've been steering around to. You're hers and—and yours, Captain Billy, even if you have taught me to say Captain instead of Father. It was her word for me, child, and you added Daddy of your own will. My Captain, she used to say. It sounded awful, soothing, and her so grateful about nothing. Show, and she wanted you to be help-long of me. Then was her words, and lordy child, I'm willing to work and share with you, but saving is pretty hard when there ain't nothing much to save from, and if this summer boarding business is going to open up a chance for you, it ain't because I want help, but she'd like you to have more things, don't you see? And I just know you'll get your inns on the mainland. I have been a selfish girl, Janet murmured, holding the photograph closer, a human crab, just clinging and gripping you, then running wild and fighting against you when you wanted me to learn to be useful. I think, Captain Billy, if you had shown me, my mother, and talked more of her, maybe it would have been different. Maybe not, with a soft sigh. I reckon everyone has to be ready for seeing. I don't just know how to—how to get my share from those—those borders. But I'll find a way. I mean to be helpful, Captain. I can't bring myself to wait on them. Mrs. Joe G. doesn't seem to mind that, but I do, and I hate to see them eat in crowds. But I'll find something to do. Put the clothes in the carpet-bag, Captain Billy Daddy. I may not wear them over there, but I'd like to have them. May I take the picture? Yes, only be powerful, careful of it, and don't show it around. Somehow, she seems to belong to nobody but just us two. Harriet T. Comstock. Captain David began to climb the long flight of iron stairs. It was his custom to start early, in order that he might stop upon each landing, and take a view of the land and water on his way up. As David got higher and higher, his spirits rose in proportion. Below were duty and care. A loft was the light. That was his pride and glory, and the freedom of solitude and silence. When David began his climb, because it was the manner of the man to face life with a song upon his lips, he hummed softly, I would not live all way, no, welcome the tomb. He paused on the first landing and took in the satisfying prospect of his garden, edged around by summer flowers, and showing a thrifty collection of needful vegetables. And only man is vile, panted David, starting upward and changing his song. By the time the third landing was reached, care and anxiety were about forgotten, and the outlook upon the rippling bay was inspiring. And we put three shots in the lobster pots, three cheers for the witches three. David remembered only snatches of this song, but its hilarious tunefulness appealed to his state of feeling on the third landing. David chuckled, gurgled, and puffingly mounted higher. Looks like it might be a good crab season, he muttered, and I hope to gum the city folks won't trifle with the ice-sters out of season. Brightly gleams our father's mercy from his lighthouse evermore, but to us puff, pant, groan. He gives the keepin' of the lights along the shore. David had reached the light. He always timed himself to the moment. When the sun dropped behind the hills, David's light took possession of the coming night. He stepped inside the huge lamp, rubbed an imaginary spot off the glistening glass, turned up the wick, and touched it with the ready match. Then he came forth and eyed the westering sun. That monarch, riding through the longest day of the year, was reluctant to give up his power, but David was patient. With hand upon the cloth covering he bided his time. It was a splendid sunset. Beyond the hills the clouds were orange-red and seemed to part in order that the round sun should have a wide course for his royal exit. The shadows were coming up out of the sea. David felt, rather than saw, the purpling light stealing behind him, but he had for the present to do only with the day. There was glory over all the land, quoted the man, a flood of glory. Then the sun was gone. On the instant the covering was snatched away and David's light shone cheerily in the glory that at first obscured it. Your turn will come, comforted the keeper as if to a friend. They'll bless you, come darkness. With that he stepped out upon the narrow balcony surrounding the tower to freshen up. From that point the dunes, dividing the ocean and the bay, seemed but weak barriers. The sea rolled nearer and nearer. Thus far and no farther, whispered David reverently, the Lord don't need anything bigger than that strip of sand to make his waters obey his will. No mountains could be safer than them dunes when once the Lord has set the limit. That looks like the comrade off beyond the point, he went on. I'll take my beef without cabbage if that ain't Janet a makin' for the light, and as late as this, too. Billy's told her about the change and she wouldn't wait once she was convinced. She might have stayed with Billy till morning, the impatient little cuss. The sailboat was scutting before the ocean breeze. Its white wing was the only one upon the bay, and David watched it with a new interest. Comin' over to make her fortune, he muttered. Comin' over to help fleece the borders. By gum I wonder, knowin' what Billy knows, and havin' the handlin' of a craft like Janet. He didn't hold the sheet-robe pretty snug as he headed her into this harbour. The boat made the landing without a jar. The girl sprang out, secured the comrade, then shouldered a carpet-bag, boy-fashioned, and came up the winding path toward the lighthouse. David watched her, bending over the railing, until she passed within. Then he straightened himself and waited. The purple gloaming came. The light took on courage and dignity. The stars shone timidly, as if apologizing for appearing, where really their little glow was not needed. Then, softly, Captain David, are you on the balcony? Who be ye comin' on the government property without permission? growled David. Janet came out of the narrow doorway and flung her arms around the keeper's neck. Captain Davy, I've come off to be adopted. I had to stop downstairs to make my room ready and pay Susan Jane two weeks in advance, but I've got business with you now. Bring out a couple of chairs, Captain. This is going to be a long watch. David paused as he went upon the errand. The money is what sticks, Janet. Money between me and Billy is a ticklish matter. Don't lay it up again, Susan Jane, girl. The connivarin' in money ways and the holy book is all that Susan Jane has, since she was struck. It's all right, Captain David, if it were only my money. And it soon will be, Davy. It soon will be. I've just waked up to the fact that I ought to be helping along, instead of hanging on Captain Billy. Seventeen and only just waking up. I've come over to the gold, mind Davy, and I'm going to do some digging for myself. David sighed and laughed together. It was a rare combination and one for which he was noted. Presently he came out with the chairs. The two put their backs to the light. David took out his pipe and Janet, bracing her feet against the railing and clasping her hands behind her head, looked up at the stars. Next to Captain Billy, this man beside her was her truest friend. Going to help wait at some table, asked David between long, heart-some puffs. Nope. Maybe washing? Nope. Anything in mind special? Yep. What? I'm going up to the hills and learn to paint pictures. By gum? Yes, I can at least see things as they are. All I shall have to do is to learn to handle the brushes and mix the paint. By gum? And, Captain David, I know what you all think. You think me a useless kind of girl, willing enough to hang on Captain Billy and take all he can give. And I know that you think him soft and maybe silly, because he hasn't been sterner with me. But you're all wrong. Captain Daddy and I haven't been wasting our time. We've got awfully close to each other while we've lived alone and had only ourselves. I've been thinking a long time of how I could help him best. I didn't want to come over and, and what shall I say? Well, plunder the city folks. That's what everyone is doing. Sometimes I'm sorry for them, the city folks. It seems like we ought to treat them more as visitors than as ships that have been tossed up. Lord! spluttered David through his smoke. They know how to look after themselves. Yes, and when I think of that, I'm afraid of them. They'll get something out of us for all the money they spend. And, Davey, I'd like to help them out of the city folks. I don't want them to get it out of me. Get it out of you! David struck his pipe on the railing, and the sparks fell into the night like a shower of stars. Janet nodded her head. Yes, get it out of me. All the same, if I'm going to help make my living, this seems the only way, so I'm going in with the rest. But I want to choose my own path. Davey, did you ever see my mother? Of course you did. She was pretty, but I'm a lot better looking. Captain Billy's been telling me about her. Telling you about her? All? David asked, faintly. Oh, I reckon not all. He was choking while he talked, and I hated to ask him particulars. How old was I when she died, Captain Davey? You weren't no age at all, child. As your little skiff-hoven to sight, hers set sail. You didn't any more than hail each other and pass them. Oh, tell me more, Davey. T'was an awful night you chose, Janet. Wind off sea and howlin' like mad, sleet and rain minglin, and porridge ice slammin' on to shore. Billy had the midnight patrol, and before he started out, he arranged that we should keep one eye out toward his cottage. I happened to be on that night, and if we saw a light in the lean-to winter, I was to rouse Mrs. Joe G. Long about two I saw the light, and I made tracks for Mrs. Joe G's. The wind almost knocked us down as we set out for Billy's. I waited in the lean-to, and Mrs. Joe G. she went into the bedroom. Go on, Captain Davey. I wish I had known always about Mrs. Joe G. She didn't mind the storm. Somehow I never thought of her like that. T'was only human, Janet. Her and your ma was the only females at the station. Long about four Billy came a staggerin' in. He had seen the light shinein' in the winter. He was coated over with ice, ice hangin' to his beard and lashes, but Lord, how his eyes was glitterin'! I couldn't say a blessed thing. Come, there wasn't a thing to say. I just gripped him like a loony, and he gripped me, and there we stood, a-starrin' and a-starrin'. Why don't you go in, I asked? And why didn't he? Janet was struggling with an inclination to cry. Why didn't he? David, fearing he had ventured upon dangerous ground, muttered. He said he couldn't. Then was his own words. Billy was always queer. Just then Mrs. Joe G. came into the living-room. She had you. We didn't know it, then, for you was just a round bundle in her arms. Mrs. Joe G. always speaks to the point when she does speak, Davey continued, and all she said was, This is all that's left, Captain Billy. The mother's gone. Oh, my Captain, murmured Janet, and only to-night I have heard this. Now don't take on, Janet. David clumsily stroked the pretty head that had found a resting place upon the iron railing. It was because Billy hated any taking on that he kept mum. Him and me and Mrs. Joe G., we have always acted as if nothing unusual had happened. You had a stormy voyage, child, and Billy wanted that you should have calm while he was in control. Oh, Captain Billy, my poor old daddy! And I've been a wild, uncaring girl, David. Never taking hold like the others. Just following daddy about and being a burden. And to think it was... it was borders that aroused me. Oh, Davey, it makes me sick. Now see here, Janet. David got up and walked twice around the little gallery. I ain't a saiyan but what you ought to be helping yourself and taking anxiety off of Billy, but I do say that it ain't going to ease Billy any if you go gallivanting off to the hills with any fool notion that good looks is going to help you. They always help, Captain David. Always. Janet's assertion came through a muffled sob. You mustn't think I care for my looks myself. I'd just as soon be as peeked and blue-white as Mrs. Joe G's mod. But I know pretty looks are just so much to the good. Or bad, broke in, David. Well, have it that way. But it is according to how you use them. I'm going to use my good looks wisely. By gum, muttered David. This was his escape valve. When other words failed, by gum, eased the tension. You ain't much on looks, Janet, when you come to that, he said presently. You ain't tidy nor tasty. You ain't a likely promise for what a handywoman ought to be. You're powerful breezy and uncertain, and you're unlike what folks is used to. David, Janet came in front of him and the light fell full upon her. David, you just listen and see how wise I am. Do you know why the city folks have come to Quinton? We never, at least not many of us, saw anything very splendid about the hills, the dunes, and the bay now, did we? The fact is, we didn't. Well, these people are wild about them, because they're unlike the common things they are used to. I am like Quinton, Davey. I know it way down in my heart. You won't catch me fixing up like city folks and looking queer enough to turn you dizzy. Quinton and I are going to be true to ourselves, Davey, and you'll soon see if my looks do not help. By gum, sighed David, and remembering his vow to Billy to watch over this girl, he sighed again, and ordered her below in no very gentle voice. Janet was aroused the next morning by hearing Captain David creaking across the floor of the living-room with his daily burden in his arms. The girl was neither deep asleep nor wide awake. She was never uncertain of her whereabouts or identity once she had crossed the borderland. The early sun was creeping into the east window of her tiny room on one side of the living-room of the lighthouse. On the opposite side was Captain David's sleeping apartment into which he carried his helpless wife every evening before he had to go up a loft, and out of which he bore her to the chimps-covered rocker every morning after he had come below. For ten long years David had known this sorrow, and he knew that it was to be his until death spake the final word. It seems to me, David, the querulous voice was saying, that the sun up your way rose mighty late to-day. There, there, Susan Jane, tis the same old sun as rises and sets for all. Had a bad night, Susan Jane? Bad night! That shows what sympathy you have for me, David. All my nights are bad, bad as bad can be, unless they be worse. Well, Susan Jane, let's hope that a bad night argues a good day. There, are you fixed, reasonably comfortable? Perhaps the pillar's ought to be a might higher. How's that? And now, if you want to read a bit, I'll fix the breakfast. I got some biscuits overnight. Give me the Bible, David, in my money-box. There, open to the same old chapter. Thank the Lord, that chapter is all on one page. Since he thought it wise to take the usefulness from my members, I'm glad he made folks print my favorite chapter so there's no need to turn it over. Land knows who'd ever think of waiting on me. Come now, Susan Jane, I'm always willing, when I ain't on government duty. Government duty or sleep? Man is all alike. How would you feel if you was stricken like me? Powerful bad, Susan Jane, powerful bad. You bear your lot in uncommon patience, Susan Jane. I'm never overlooking that. But if you put your mind to it, wife, you'll see that if I do my duty, I must sleep some. How'm so ever, Mark Tapkins will have his turn tonight, same as usual. And I can set with you this evening. The government is powerful generous, Susan Jane, to give this every other night shift. Generous, huh? There, David, do get the meal. I guess if you had laid awake all night, you'd have considerable craving in your stomach for vitals. I have a real sinkin'. Show! I must get a double wriggle on, Susan Jane. David stumbled over a stool on his way to the stove. He was dizzy from sleepiness, and he too had a sensation of sinking. Show! I'd be gettin' monstrous awkward, he muttered, apologetically. I hope I ain't waked Janet. Suppose you had, snapped his wife. You think that more important than my nerves? I don't mourn half like Janet comin' here. If it hadn't been for me, I know you'd taken her for nothin'. No matter if I do have to go to the poor house on account of your shiftlessness. I, stricken and helpless, she can come here for nothin'. I just know, David, that it would be a real release for a great strong man like you to be rid of a poor stricken wife. But I guess you'll have to bide the Lord's will, whether you want it or not. At this point David spilled a kettle of water he was bearing from the pump outside the door to the range. By gum, Susan Jane, he said cheerfully, I guess no one but you could put up with a blunder and old feller like me. You'd better reconsider and stay to see the game out. Two eggs this mornin' wife or one? Two, David. You didn't think to scrimp me, did ya? If one egg has got to be given, you'd better begin on yourself or Janet. Come, come, Susan Jane, there is two apiece, and six for company. Company! David, have you had the heartlessness to invite company here without asking me? Lord, Susan Jane, can't you take a joke? I only meant eggs as plenty. The draft's good this mornin', that's a sign of clear weather. The biscuits is Riz fit to kill, Susan. I never had better luck. That comes to havin' a handy wife to train ya. I'm glad you can see some good in me, David. Susan Jane was sniffling. I think Janet is downright lazy and triflin', lyin' in bed when a struck woman like me can have the ambition enough to be up and doin'. Mior, one in a hundred, Susan Jane, but then it ain't morn fair to state that Janet's a boarder, according to your own placin'. Oh, that's right. Blame me for miserliness, and excuse her for slackness. She's perfect. I'm the sinner. Now, Susan Jane. Oh, I can see through a person if he ain't too dazzlin'. Susan Jane drank from the cup of coffee that David held to her lips. I suppose you'd like to take a tray into her, David? Now, Susan Jane, don't be so amusing. It's wonderful how you keep your spirits. Spirits! David, I suppose you're speakin' sarcastic. You think my mind ain't right. You're treatin' me like a child. The woman turned from the cup, weeping audibly. Janet, at this point noiselessly arose and made a hurried toilet. Sickness, physical weakness of any kind, was repulsive to the girl of perfect health and outdoor nature, but one thing she realized. While she stayed at the lighthouse, she must share David's burden. Her sense of loyalty to David made this imperative. She must help him how and when she could, and she must be as silent as he in regard to it. Good morning! she cried presently, going into the living room. Here, Captain David, take your place at the table. I'll do the rest. You won't mind, Susan Jane, will you, if I boss a little? I'm so used to bossing my Captain Billy. Taint decent for a great girl like you, Janet, to call Billy in that fashion. Father seems good enough for the other girls around here. I like my way better. Janet smiled over the plate of biscuits she was bearing from the range. I'm saucy and bossy, Susan Jane, but I have good points, too. Here, I'll spread your biscuits and fix your eggs. David, you finish your breakfast and go to bed. I'll feed Susan and tidy up. David cast a grateful look at her, and Susan Jane turned to her breakfast with an appetite that was one of the few pleasures left to her stricken existence. All that morning, to the accompaniment of Susan Jane's complaints, praise of herself, and disapproval of Janet's appearance and manners, the girl did the housework, prepared the midday meal, and thought her busy thoughts. At twelve o'clock David issued forth from the bedroom. He was heavy-eyed from sleep and dishelled as to looks. By gum, he exclaimed, going out to Janet on the porch, I suppose he wanted to go up to the hills this morning and peddle your good looks. I clean forgot your ambitions. I was that sudden with weariness. No, David, it's all right. I want to get my breath first. I'm going to bluffhead this afternoon. I may not have many more chances. I hear bluffhead is going to be open, too. Yes, Mr. Devont sent word down to Eliza Jane Smith to have the place ready. Biden the time he might come. But seems like I heard that Eliza Jane ain't going today. She's taken washing in for the borders and making money out of it. Eliza Jane will get top lofty if she finds she ain't naturally dependent on James B. It don't do for some women to know their worth. Janet laughed. It helps others, she answered lightly. When the dinner-dishes were disposed of, Janet took her sunbonnet and started off for bluffhead. The day was hot and the road dusty. The sunbonnet, as a feminine requisite of old Quinton, was desirable. But Janet swung hers from her arm, thereby satisfying Mrs. Grundy's demands and not interfering with her own rights. At one o'clock in the Quinton of the day the city borders were eating en masse, and the Quinton Knights, in various capacities, were serving them. So the girl on the highway had the place to herself. The lighthouse rose red and gleaming from Captain David's garden spot. The bay, blue and rippling, spread in and out of its tiny sub-bays where the land stretched like five fingers of a hand, with the blue water in between. To the west lay the hills in their artistic desolation, and to the north of them the bluff, with Mr. Devont's long-closed house gracing the summit. It mattered little to Janet whether Eliza Jane Smith was in command of bluffhead or not. The past would never have been as sweet as Janet knew it had she depended upon Eliza Jane's movement to govern her ingress and egress to the place. Going rapidly along the girl presently came to the grounds of the big house. Years ago attempts at landscape gardening had been indulged in, while the master of the place fancied to pass his summers there, but years of recent neglect had all but obliterated the marks of culture. Wildness was all over, but it was the wildness of former refinement. Past the sundial ran the girl and around to the rear of the house. Then she burrowed under a dense rose-bush and pushed her way through a basement window, almost hidden by the undergrowth, the sash of which swung inward at the familiar pressure. It was but a moment's work to scramble through and then run up the dark, disused stairway. The place had a moldy smell, but it was neat and orderly, and the weekly airings given by Eliza Jane saved it from dampness. The silence and absence of human nearness might well have daunted one, but Janet, the only living thing apparently in the deserted house, felt no qualms. She went directly to the library. There was little else of interest in the place to her. For years this spot had been her secret treasure-nook. When as a little child she had entered the place with Eliza Jane, it was not as other children, but with an inborn yearning to see and touch those wonderful rows of books. She was permitted to dust those she could reach, and her touch was reverent and gentle. The pictures had at first fascinated her. Later the district school teaching had given her power to understand the words. Then had dawned the new heaven and the new earth. Like a miser with his gold she guarded her joy. She discovered the unfastened window and timed her visits when she was sure of privacy. And so she had trod, undirected, and like the wild creature she was, the paths of literature. The Devont Library, gathered through generations, was stored in the country-house that had originally been built as a family home. But the sons of the race were rovers and often years would slip by without a personal inspection. James B. and Eliza Jane were the guardians, and there was little need of a master's anxiety while those two were in command. Janet glanced about the library and her face grew radiant. She inhaled long breaths. The odor of the leather and old paper thrilled her. She mounted the little steps and took a book, with unerring touch, from the fifth shelf, when she sprang lightly to the floor and went with her prize to the shelter of a deep bay window. Softly she raised the sash and drew in the sweetness of the June day. It's good, she murmured, heavenly good. Then she nestled among the cushions in the window-seat and, shielded by the heavy curtains from the emptiness of the room, she entered her paradise. The key that opened the gateway was a rare edition of Shakespeare, the play Romeo and Juliet. A tiny scrap of paper marked the place of the last reading. The girl's eyes, blue now as the summer sky, fell upon the words of delight and instantly Quintin was forgotten, Quintin and all its familiar worries and small pleasures. Janet of the dooms was Juliet of Italy. A crunching of gravel upon the driveway startled the girl cruelly. I believe I have a key, Saxton, said a deep, firm voice. Yes, here it is. I can let myself in. Drive back to the station and wait for the baggage train. See that everything is carefully loaded on the wagon from the livery. You can get me a bite when you return. Stop at the corners and bring back enough food for tonight. Tomorrow we'll set up housekeeping. I'll make myself comfortable. And, oh, Saxton! Yes, sir? Stop at the post office and ask for mail. Janet's blood rose hotly. Caught! she whispered. Then she smiled feebly. She could not see the speaker. He was at the front of the house. She heard the wheels outside turn and go rapidly away. A grating of the lock on the long, unopened front door sounded next. Then a rapid stride brought the stranger to the library. Rather a quiet welcome home! the man, believing himself alone, spoke aloud and laughed unconcernedly. There's always a feeling of companionship in books. Everything looks in good condition. He gave a comprehensive glance around the room. This was no stranger but the master of bluff head. When Janet was six she had last seen this man, and he had changed less since then than had she. From her shelter she eyed him as he flung traveling coat, hat, and dress-suit case upon a divan, and himself in a deep leather chair. He was tall, handsome, and elegant. The iron-grey head pressing the chair-back was one to draw the second glance from a stranger as a matter of course. The clear, blue-grey eyes took in the walls lined with books. The white hands, clasped in front of the broad chest, showed nerve-force and strength. Janet, trapped and desperate, first contemplated a leap from the open window, but that method of exit was discarded upon second thought. It would definitely end all further expectation of reaching the world of books. While there was hope in other directions, she must choose more sanely. She ventured a cough. So slight a sound in that silence might well have shaken the strongest nerves. The man in the chair, however, did not move. But his eyes fell instantly upon the alcove. The parted curtains, now that the girl raised herself forward, gave a full view of the slight form and vivid face. The calm eyes from the chair wavered an instant, and the nostrils twitched. Then the man laughed carelessly. "'Won't you come out and be friendly?' he said. "'Thank you,' Janet came forth, book in hand, with eyes full of amusement. There was an awkward pause while the man gazed steadily at her. Then Janet spoke. "'I—I suppose you've come now to stay?' It sounded brusque and unmanorly, but it was the only remark that occurred to her. "'I had thought of making rather a stay.' The eyes rested upon the bright face. However, possession is nine-tenths of the law. If you say the word, I'll skedaddle. "'Oh,' panted Janet, I pray you pardon me.' The sentence sounded Shakespearean in the gathering confusion. "'I only thought—do you not see? I suppose you are Mr. Devont, and I know you would end—end—' "'What, pray?' "'I'm not uncompromisingly final. I've been known to let things run on.' "'Why, you see, I've been in the habit for years of crawling in your cellar window, coming up here and reading your books. I began it when I was a very little girl. It comes to be a kind of habit.' The man laughed with keen relish. "'You quite flatter me, Miss—Miss,' he paused. "'Oh, Janet! Janet of the Dunes, you know, Captain Billy's Janet. You may not remember me, but I saw you once, years and years ago. I was at the light, David's light. You came visiting there. I called you Mr. Government. Miss Janet, do take a seat. Permit me.' He arose, and with courtly grace, placed a chair for his companion. "'I recall you perfectly. The mistake you made in my name came to be a joke and by word after I went home. You saw me snooping around the light and thought I was the Government, inspecting Captain David's domain. It all comes to me quite clearly. I remember you put your back against a certain closet and intimated in no doubtful language that it was private property. You were a bewitching small child, Miss Janet, if you will pardon an old man's freedom of speech. I am delighted to renew our acquaintance.' Janet flushed. "'I presume, counting upon your memory of my inspection of the lighthouse, you felt free to inspect my house? Are the books to your taste, Miss Janet?' "'They have been my greatest joy in all these years.' A serious tone and a sudden moisture of the blue eyes touched the man. He spoke in a sincere manner, looking more sharply at the glowing face. "'You are a book-lover by nature, I see.' "'Yes, I never see a book, but I feel as I do when I stand by the sea on a foggy morning. I can see nothing, but I know that everything lies hidden in the fog. I wonder what kind of a day lies there, and what the day bears. So it is with a book. I open the covers, and the fog slowly melts away.' "'Yes,' a smell of the sea stole into the room window, and the man took a long breath. "'You have read wisely, I hope,' he said. I began with the pictures. Then I spelled out the words in the books on the bottom shelf. I've worked my way up. I'm on the fifth shelf by the door now. I do not seem to be able to get any further than this.' She passed the book to him. "'I've been at this book three whole months. I sort of hoped—please forgive me—but I sort of hoped I might get to the sixth shelf before you came back.' "'Shake spear,' mused the master of Bluffhead. "'And he's held you three months, Ms. Janet, after you've waited through heaven only knows what?' "'Yes, he makes me forget everything. I cannot explain. Only he sings to me, and he talks to me. And he makes me a hundred people all in one.' "'Ms. Janet, heaven forbid that a mere master of Bluffhead should close the gates to this genius as Eden to such a lover as you. Allow me!' He handed out the key that had given him entrance to his home. "'Permit me to give you royal freedom to what surely is more yours than mine.' "'A cellar window has been honored enough. The doorway is not wide enough for so true a worshipper.' "'I do not understand you. I feel you're laughing at me.' "'Heaven save us. No, my child. I mean simply this. Come at your own sweet will and read to your heart's content. If you will graciously permit me, I most gladly will wander with you through these.' He waved his hand toward the shelves. "'I may be able to point out some new pleasure paths. I am certain you can make me love old ones better. If I am absent from Bluffhead, I will leave orders that you are to be undisturbed while you honor this room. I trust my old friend of the light as well?' "'Yes, but—oh, how can I thank you?' "'By returning, my dear child?' "'There, I hear Saxton. How the time has flown.' He arose, and Janet slipped to her feet and passed from the room. Devont called after her. "'Good-bye for the present, Janet of the Dunes!' For a moment the girl paused. "'Good-bye, Mr. Government!' she replied, and was gone, leaving a trailing ripple of laughter as a memory of the strange meeting. End of Chapter 3. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 4 of Janet of the Dunes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. Janet of the Dunes. By Harriet T. Comstock. Chapter 4 Janet, where you going? Over to the hills, Susan Jane. Everything rid up? Everything. I never felt my powerlessness so much as I have since you come. I'm sorry, Susan Jane. It must be hard to see others active if one is tied as you are. Try not to look at me. Not look at you. Gals need watching. I know it would suit more on you like it's not if I'd been struck blind as well as helpless. But I ain't blind. I see all that's going, and more, too." Janet sighed. The atmosphere of the light below stairs was depressing. What's Mark Tapkins hanging round for? It was his turn at the light last night, Susan Jane. Land's sake, I know that. Didn't I hear David snore and fit to bust till morning? But Mark didn't used to lap his turn clear on to the next forenoon. Janet, do you know what I think? No, Susan Jane. I think Mark Tapkins is shining up to you. Do you, Susan Jane? Janet was struggling with her hair. Yes, I do, and I feel it's my place to tell you that it ain't a bad chance for you. Mark's a steady, slow fellow, but he ain't lacking. You're dreadful giddy and don't take to houseways. Mark's father is the best housekeeper I know on. He's sort of daft, but all the sense he has left has gone to cookin' and manage in a house. He ain't old, and the soft-headed kind lasts longer than keener folks. It would fit into your wades right proper. Mrs. Joe G's girl couldn't stand it. She is so brisk and contrivin', and Mrs. Joe G, being right here on hand, has hopes of workin' mod grates off on some border. But you ain't got nobody to pilot you, Janet, and you're queer and unlikely, except in looks and some doubts the worth of them. As long as Mark is leanin' toward you, I think it my duty to head you toward him. Thank you, Susan Jane, but I'll pilot myself, please. The girl's face showed an angry flush. Shall I open the Bible for you before I go? Yes, you know the place? It falls open to the page, Susan Jane. Thank you, and please put the money box where I can see it. Was it one or two weeks you paid for? Two, Susan Jane. Now, I must be off. Tell David not to wait dinner. Wait dinner, sniffed Susan Jane. Well, listen to them heirs. Wait dinner. I'd like to see any one, border or saucy jade, as would make me wait dinner. Janet had fled before the rising storm. There she goes, sail set and full rigged, and Mark Tapkins followin' on a hind like a little lopsided tug after an ocean steamer. Poor, helpless Susan Jane looked after the two, all her irritable, action-checked misery breaking through her eyes. Lord! she moaned. I don't want to live, and yet for all I know this may be better than nothing. I don't want to be nothing. Just lookin' on is better than that. Janet, striding along the wood path beyond the light, heard the shambling steps behind her. She turned and saw Mark. He was tall and lank. He leaned forward from the shoulders loosely, and his face had the patient dull expression of a faithful but none-too-fine breed dog. Where are you going, Mark? the girl turned. Long are you, Janet? I've—I've got to say something. Oh, please don't, Mark. I've been hearing things since sun up, and you've been in the light all night. You're in no condition to say things. Yes, I be too, Janet. I always feel keener after a night awake. Since I've sought up in the light, I've been considerable spryer, or maybe it's you. Janet heaved a sigh. Mark, she pleaded, there isn't an earthly thing you can say that I want to hear this morning. I'm going to the hills on business, and I must be as calm as I can. It's them hills, as has made me come to the point. Them hills is bristling with city-folks, men and women. I've heard what you're aiming at—going up to the hills to get a job of some sort. You're innocent, and you're a gal, Janet, and I'm a man, and I've spent six months in the city, and I know its ways, and I know men. You're too good-looking, Janet, to mix up with what's on the hills. The mixture of foolishness and wisdom, the effort to protect in man-fashion what was weak, moved Janet strangely. Mark, she faltered, you need not be afraid. I know I do not understand, and that helps. If I thought I did, there might be danger. It's just the same as if I were James B. going up there to pedal, well, clams. You need not fear a bit more for me than for him. Mark gazed stupidly at the glowing face. I guess I must love you, he said at last. Things come kind of slow to me. I was always one to drift along with the tide, but when I plump into a rock I get some jarred, same as others. I went to the city that time to see if I could get my bear in at a distance, but when I come back I sort of lost the channel and took again to drifting. But this here hills business has livened me up considerably. Did you ever think what I left Poffer and went to the city, Janet? I thought you wanted to see the world, Mark. Well, I didn't. Quinton is world enough for me. I went to see if I could get, off there alone, a proper sense of just what I did want. I wanted to choose a course for myself, independent of Pa, but save us. I hankered after Pa so, and I came nigh to perishing for his cooking. I come nigher, though, to perishing from trying to get something like it once while I was away. A gleam of thin humor crossed the dull face. What was that, Janet asked, thankful for any side path that led away from the danger point. Crullers, Mark laughed, a rattling, unmerthful laugh. Crullers! I got thinking of Pa's one day, and I went to a pasty shop, and I says, Have you got crullers? The gal behind the counter says, Yes, how many? I recalling Pa's, and feeling weak in the pit of my stomach from hunger, I answered back, three dozen. The gal leaped back a step, then she hauled out a bag about the size of a bushel, and began shoveling in round, humpy things, most all whole in the centre, but considerable sizable as to girth. I was up to city ways by then, and I weren't going to show any surprise if she had loaded an oyster boat full of cakes on me. So I paid up without a word, and went out of the shop, shoulder in the bag. It took me about a week to get rid of them crullers, groaned Mark. And I've told Pa, since I come back, that he better learn to make city crullers for the city trade this summer. Counting holes and puffy air, they pay better than Pa's solid little cakes. Janet was laughing merrily. Why, Mark, she said presently, you've got an idea. Tell your father to make his crullers for the city trade. He'll make his fortune. Put a sign on your gate and teach the boarders what crullers really are. Mark was not heeding. I vom, he went on presently. While I was down to the city, what with poor food, not enough of it, and homesickness fit to kill, I thought I seed my course clear. I had a job open in oysters, and I worked, I can tell you. About all the city folks eat oysters, and I seed a good bit of life down at my shop, and I learned city ways and badness. Then I got sick and come home, thinking I was ready to settle down, and then I got to Drifton, and so it went till now. And when I heard about you going up to the hills and knowing what I'd do about city ways, I just reasoned out that I must love you, else I wouldn't mind so much. I ain't no great shucks, but I can watch you, and no one shan't harm you, and pause more and willing to seed of the house, and cook, no matter who comes in as my wife, and you can run wild, and no one will have the right to hinder, and I'll stand off and watch, and that's something. Oh, Mark, please, please don't. The poor fellow's dumb effort to protect her was an added heartache to carry to the hills. You must not, Mark, dear. You don't want a woman to watch. You want one to watch with you, one whom you love and who loves you. Put that sign out for crellers, Mark. I know you can make money, and some day a good, helpful girl will come your way. No, Janet, Mark's patient voice sank drearily. If you won't let me watch over you, I'll watch without your leave. I won't bother you, none, but I thank God I've got city ways to meet city ways. I'm plum-shamed of the way our gals is acting with the borders. I'm a good watcher, Janet." They had come to the dividing of the ways. Can't I go on, Janet? No, Mark, you must go home and sleep. Good-bye, Janet, till tomorrow. Good-bye, Mark." She watched the slouching figure out of sight. With all my watchers she faltered. I feel like a ship riding near the bar with the crew's eyes upon it. And then she went, less courageously, on the upward way. The path ran uphill and downhill, with always a steady rise. The water of the bay lay blue and smiling round about the hills. The scrub oak, the blueberries, the luxuriant wild rose, and variegated grasses, made colors so exquisite and rare that the only wonder was that the hills were not crowded with adoring nature-worshipers. The never-ceasing breeze came caressingly over the flower-strewn stretches. Nothing stayed at its course, and there was health-giving tonic in its breath. Beyond, where a brown brother raised at superior height, the artist colony had pitched its tents. Toward that settlement, with her daring request, Janet walked. As she neared it, her brave heart grew weak and weaker. How was she to word her proposition? What was she to offer in return for instruction that was to help her to fame and fortune? She feared every moment that she might meet a little wagon drawn by a sun-bonneted, long-aproned woman, or a man not less picturesque. She sat down to consider. And then, to make thought easier, she lay at full length, closing her eyes and dreaming luxuriously. The summer day lured her senses deliciously. Even the late experience with Mark was mellowed by the present delight. The memory of the recent encounter with the master of Bluffhead stirred her pulses to a quicker time. Ah, life was glorious! Life was full, in spite of it all! It was like the sea in a fog, or an unopened book. She had only to wait and smile and love, and life would expand into a perfect day. Something drew the girl to a sitting posture. A nameless fear was upon her. She glanced around, and near her, upon a knoll, sat a man, a young man. No little wagon put its seal upon his calling, but the broad hat, set well back from the handsome face, had a distant but fatal mark of the artist colony upon it. The stranger had a board firmly placed upon his knees, and even as he gazed at Janet with a devouring intensity, he was working rapidly with a long, slim brush. What are you doing? The question was torn from the girl without reason or forethought. Painting a picture! The voice was solemn, almost too absurdity. A picture of what? Outraged imagination arose to the fore. The spirit of the dunes. Keep still a minute, then I'll let you see it if you want to. Yes, I do want to. Dignity of a new order was born within Janet at that instant. This probably was a lesser being than the wagon-loaded geniuses. Their work was not unknown to the girl, nor had it escaped her scorn. If this meaner devotee of art had mangled her into a hideous likeness of herself, she would resent it, and with reason. Slowly she arose and went up behind the man. What she saw stayed anger and all other emotions, save wonder. Surely the hills, with all their real color and outline, were ensnared upon that square of paper. Never was there a truer reflection of the bay. Janet could almost feel the breeze that swayed the scrub oaks and wild roses in the picture. But that marvel was the least. Who, what was that in the soft dimple of the little hill? A being of grace, of beauty, and of a wildness that was part of the hills and wind. In the final estimate of any picture two artists must bear part, the one who has wrought and the one who appreciates. These two looked now upon the exquisite sketch. How do you like it? The man did not turn or raise his eyes, but his voice brought the quick color to the smooth brown cheeks. Do I look like that? As near as mere man can reproduce you. If I had a magic brush and heaven's own paint pots, I believe I could have done better. I wish you had stayed a half hour longer, but thank God I've at least caught a hint of you. I look like that? Amazement thrilled through and through the low voice. You look like that, and I am grateful for the best criticism I could ask. What's the matter? What in thunder is the matter? For Janet had sunk down beside him, hid her head in her folded arms, and was sobbing as if her heart would break. What in, I say, Miss, Miss, what shall I call you? For heaven's sake, tell me what I've done. Oh, you've dashed every bit of hope I had to earn money, and fame, for Cap and Daddy and me. The young artist laid his sketch tenderly aside to dry. It was too precious to endanger, even in this disturbed moment. Once it was safe, he stood his full height of six feet two, put his hands in his jacket pockets, looked down upon the heaving body of the spirit of the dunes, and said firmly, You've got to explain yourself, you know. I don't want to use force, but really, you must look me in the face and try to make me understand. Janet lowered her hands at once and gazed upward with her eyes full of distress and apology. I do not know what you will think of me. I'm ashamed, indeed I am. But, well, you cannot understand. I never minded so much when I saw the things the others did. Their pictures didn't look like anything real, anything like our dunes and the hills and I thought I could learn at least to do such pictures as theirs and get money. But you've shown me another kind. I can never, never learn to make such pictures as that. Her sorrowful gaze fell upon the sketch, drying nearby. And you, you seem to be taking something away from us. Something that is ours, not yours at all. What right have you to take the hills and me without paying well for the privilege? During this harangue the man had stood motionless, gazing in growing astonishment upon the radiant uplifted face which was swept by passion's clouds as the June sky was swept by softer ones. By Jove, he muttered at last, and a smile broke upon his handsome brown face. You Quintenites make us pay well for all we get. You swoop down upon us like a cloud of vultures or witnesses. But it's driving the bargain pretty hard when you set a price upon what we see in it all, and what heaven meant should be free. As for you, he paused and threw himself full length upon the sand and laughed, good-humoredly. I beg your pardon. I really had no right to put you in the picture without your permission. I thought, as Chua's heaven hears me, that you were like, well, the other girls of the place, and they coaxed to have themselves taken, as they call it. Now that I hear you speak, I see that you are different, and I beg your pardon, upon my word, I do. And what's more, the sketch is yours, unless you give me the right to keep it. I'm afraid I cannot make you understand my position, but the temptation to put you in the picture was too much for mortal painter-man. Janet's face cleared slowly. If you mean I'm different from the other girls because I speak differently, she said slowly, I can tell you that it is simply because I've listened and read more. I hate to use words badly when they sound so much better, right? I practice, but I'm just a Quinten girl. Oh, I see. You have higher aspirations? That is why you wanted to learn to paint? No. At least, that isn't the real reason. I want money. Great, Scott! There was mockery and a new pleasure in the man's voice now. He was open to revelation in regard to Quinten characteristics, and he sensed an original type before him. You, to tell me in this brutally frank manner that you want money? You, with that face? A flush tinged the bronze of Janet's cheeks again. Yes, I want money, she said defiantly. Some get it by waiting on table. Some feed you and wash for you. I cannot do those things. I just cannot. Heaven forbid! But there must be some way? The frank, almost boyish tone, disarmed the listener. His smile fled, and when he spoke the mockery had departed. His better nature rose to meet the blind need in the girl's desire, and his artistic sense guided him to a possible path. I wish you would give me some name to call you by, he said. You have mentioned Cap'n Daddy. Am I to understand that your name is—is— My captain's name is Morgan. I'm Janet. Thank you, Miss Janet. I haven't a card, but Mr. Richard Thornley presents his compliments. The humor of the situation began to dawn upon the girl. We are all captains down here, she explained. We each have our captain. Mine is over at the station on the beach. I'm staying just now with Captain David at the light while I'm looking for something to do. Miss Janet, I have a business proposition. Thornley folded his arms. I've had an inspiration. During the three-quarters of an hour that you lay upon the sands, I saw you, not only as I saw you then and caught you, but I saw you flitting through several pictures. I even named the pictures Spirit of the Dunes. I advise you for your own good, Miss Janet. Do not struggle to learn to make dobs. It never pays. It's hard enough to make the best go. But you can help me, and together we'll create some pictures that will set the town gaping. What do you say? I do not understand. Well, sit for me. Be my model. Let me put you in my pictures. I'll pay you well, and if I sell the pictures you'll have a kind of fame to offer your Captain Daddy that no girl need be ashamed of. Have you caught my meaning? You mean if I sit here upon the hills, sit, stand, or lie among them, Thornley explained. You'll paint me and pay me, and then take your pictures to the city and sell them? Try to, Thornley laughed easily. I'm one of the few fortunate devils who has sold a picture or two. My hopes for the future are good. I'll do it, cried Janet. It's about the easiest way to get the border's money I've heard of yet. The laugh that rang out made Thornley stare. I did not know anyone could laugh in quite that way, he said. It sounded, well, it sounded like part of the air and place. Miss Janet, he spoke slower, feeling his way as he went. I'm going to ask you to keep this business arrangement private. The other artists would be quick enough to filch my prize if they could. No one else shall paint me, Janet assured him. If I see a little wagon, I'll pull down my bonnet. Thank you, and those on your side too, Miss Janet. Your Captain Daddy and that Captain of the Light. I'd like to surprise them by and by. Is it a go? Oh, yes! The frank innocence in the girl's face again stirred Thornley. It's a go, if my watchers do not interfere. Your watchers? Yes, I'm considered rather a, well, something like a ship that's likely to be wrecked. I don't know why folks are always thinking I may go to the bar, but they do. And several of them have an eye on me. I can almost feel Daddy's eye way over from the station. And there's Davy. I shouldn't wonder now if he were looking at me as he hauls the oil up to the lamp. And Susan Jane, chair-ridden as she is, has eyes that go out like a devilfish's feelers. And then there's Mark Tapkins. I'm afraid you'll have trouble with Mark's eyes. Thornley was laughing uproariously. You open a vista of human possibilities that makes me about crazy, he said. Your associates must all be arguses. But I like not, Mark. Just where does Tapkins come in? Most everywhere. Janet joined in the carefree laugh. She felt perfectly at her ease with this stranger now. Born and reared where equality and good fellowship existed, she knew no need of caution. To dislike a person was the only ground for suspicion. To like him was an open sesame to heart and confidence. And Janet liked the stranger immensely. Mark comes in most everywhere, she repeated. You'll have to look out for Mark. Mark, he loves you, I suppose? Thornley forbore to laugh, and he searched the frank face near him. Now, whatever made you guess that? He is not quite sure himself. He's never sure of anything, and I never suspected it until lately. You're rather keen. Well, we'll escape Tapkins's eagle eye. Four warned is four armed. Now, see here, partner, can you blow this whistle? Thornley took a small golden watch charm from his fob. It seemed a toy, but when Janet placed it to her lips and blew, it emitted a shrill, far-reaching call that startled her. I'll prowl on these parts every day when it doesn't pour cats and dogs, Thornley explained. And when you can escape the watch, come to the hills, blow the whistle, and presto! Change! I'll be on the scene before you can count twenty. Miss Janet, fame and fortune yawn before us, actually yawn. And now, may I keep this? He picked up the sketch and came close to the girl, his shoulder touching hers, as they look at the picture together. Yes, Janet said softly, the beauty of the thing holding her anew. Yes, you've made them your very own, the hills and me, and the sky and the water. It's very wonderful. I never saw anything like it. If you only forget, it is easy to imagine that this is a reflection. Thank you! Thornley moved away. Thank you! That's about the greatest praise I've ever had. This is only a water sketch, too. Wait till you've seen it in oil. I've a shanty over there, he pointed below them, where a hollow, opening toward the bay, held a tiny building in its almost secret shelter. I'm generally there when I'm not tramping the open. Would you, uh, well, would you mind letting me pose you there some day? Oh, no! Janet beamed delightedly. I'd love to see the inside of your shanty. I daresay it's enchanted, and besides, she showed her white teeth deliciously. I do not believe Mark could watch me there. She rose and picked up her son Bonnet. The sun has passed noon, she said ruefully. And I've a good three miles to walk. Good-bye, Mr. Thornley. It's been a wonderful morning. She started rapidly down the hill. Thornley waved to her as she went, until a friendly hillock hid her. End of Chapter 4 Recording by Roger Maline