He knew that his companion would regard his agitation as an evidence of conscious guilt, and this knowledge did not help to calm him. He strode up and down the floor.

"Look out," said Mrs. Bascom, coldly, "you'll kick over the lantern."

Her husband stopped in his stride. "Darn the lantern!" he shouted.

"S-sh-sh! you'll wake up the Brown man."

This warning was more effective. But Seth was still furious.

"Emeline Bascom," he snarled, shaking his forefinger in her face, "you've said over and over that I wa'n't a man. You have, haven't you?"

She was looking at his shirt cuff, then but a few inches from her nose.

"Who sewed on that button?" she asked.

This was so unexpected that his wrath was, for the instant, displaced by astonishment.

"What?" he asked. "What button?"

"That one on your shirt sleeve. Who sewed it on?"

"Why, I did, of course. What a crazy question that is!"

She smiled. "I guessed you did," she said. "Nobody but a man would sew a white button on a white shirt--or one that was white once-- with black thread."

He looked at the button and then at her. His anger returned.

"You said I wa'n't a man, didn't you?" he demanded.

"Yes, I did. But I'll have to take part of it back. You're half a man anyhow; that sewin' proves it."

"Huh! I want to know. Well, maybe I ain't a man; maybe I'm only half a one. But I ain't a fool! I ain't a fool!"

She sighed wearily. "Well, all right," she admitted. "I sha'n't argue it."

"You needn't. I ain't--or anyhow I ain't an EVERLASTIN' fool. And nobody but the everlastin'est of all fools would chase Sarah Ann Christy. I didn't. That whole business was just one of your--your Bennie D.'s lies. You know that, too."

"I know some one lied; I heard 'em. They denied seein' Sarah Ann, and I saw 'em with her--with my own eyes I saw 'em. . . . But there, there," she added; "this is enough of such talk. I'm goin' now."

"I didn't lie; I forgot."

"All right, then, you forgot. I ain't jealous, Seth. I wa'n't even jealous then. Even then I give you a chance, and you didn't take it--you 'forgot' instead. I'm goin' back to the bungalow, but afore I go let's understand this: you're to stay here at the lights, and I stay where I am as housekeeper. We don't see each other any oftener than we have to, and then only when nobody else is around. We won't let my Miss Graham nor your Brown nor anybody know we've ever met afore--or are meetin' now. Is that it?"

Seth hesitated. "Yes," he said, slowly, "I guess that's it. But," he added, anxiously, "I--I wish you'd be 'specially careful not to let that young feller who's workin' for me know. Him and me had a-- a sort of agreement and--and I--I--"

"He sha'n't know. Good-by."

She fumbled with the latch of the heavy door. He stepped forward and opened it for her. The night was very dark; a heavy fog, almost a rain, had drifted in while they were together. She didn't seem to notice or mind the fog or blackness, but went out and disappeared beyond the faint radiance which the lantern cast through the open door. She blundered on and turned the corner of the house; then she heard steps behind her.

"Who is it?" she whispered, in some alarm.

"Me," whispered the lightkeeper, gruffly. "I'll go with you a ways."

"No, of course you won't. I'm goin' alone."

"It's too dark for you to go alone. You'll lose the way."

"I'm goin' alone, I tell you! Go back. I don't want you."

"I know you don't; but I'm goin'. You'll fetch up in the cove or somewheres if you try to navigate this path on your own hook."

"I sha'n't. I'm used to findin' my own way, and I'm goin' alone--as I've had to do for a good while. Go back."

She stopped short. Seth stopped, also.

"Go back," she insisted, adding scornfully: "I don't care for your help at all. I'm partic'lar about my company."

"I ain't," sullenly. "Anyhow, I'm goin' to pilot you around the end of that cove. You sha'n't say I let you get into trouble when I might have kept you out of it."

"Say? Who would I say it to? Think I'm so proud of this night's cruise that I'll brag of it? WILL you go back?"

"No."

They descended the hill, Mrs. Bascom in advance. She could not see the path, but plunged angrily on through the dripping grass and bushes.

"Emeline--Emeline," whispered Seth. She paid no attention to him.

They reached the foot of the slope and suddenly the lady realized that her shoes, already wet, were now ankle deep in water. And there seemed to be water amid the long grass all about her.

"Why? What in the world?" she exclaimed involuntarily. "What is it?"

"The salt marsh at the end of the cove," answered the lightkeeper.

"I told you you'd fetch up in it if you tried to go alone. Been tryin' to tell you you was off the track, but you wouldn't listen to me."

And she would not listen to him now. Turning, she splashed past him.

"Hold on," he whispered, seizing her arm. "That ain't the way."

She shook herself from his grasp.

"WILL you let me be, and mind your own business?" she hissed.

"No, I won't. I've set out to get you home, and I'll do it if I have to carry you."

"Carry me? You? You DARE!"

His answer was to pick her up in his arms. She was no light weight, and she fought and wriggled fiercely, but Seth was big and strong and he held her tight. She did not scream; she was too anxious not to wake either the substitute assistant or Miss Graham, but she made her bearer all the trouble she could. They splashed on for some distance; then Seth set her on her feet, and beneath them was dry ground.

"There!" he grumbled, breathlessly. "Now I cal'late you can't miss the rest of it. There's the bungalow right in front of you."

"You--you--" she gasped, chokingly.

"Ugh!" grunted her husband, and stalked off into the dark.