“I’m goin’ to send in my resignation as keeper of these lights.  That’s what I’m goin’ to do, and I’ll do it to-morrow.”

“Run away again?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?  Why?  Emeline Bascom, do you ask me that?”

“I do, yes.  See here, Seth, we ain’t children, nor sentimental young folks.  We’re sensible, or we’d ought to be.  Land knows we’re old enough.  I shall stay here and you ought to.  Nobody knows I was your wife or that you was my husband, and nobody needs to know it.  We ain’t even got the same names.  We’re strangers, far’s folks know, and we can stay strangers.”

“But—­but to see each other every day and—­”

“Why not?  We’ve seen each other often enough so that the sight won’t be so wonderful.  And we’ll keep our bein’ married a secret.  I sha’n’t boast of it, for one.”

“But—­but to see each other—­”

“Well, we needn’t see each other much.  Why, we needn’t see each other any, unless I have to run over to borrer somethin’, same as neighbors have to every once in a while.  I can guess what’s troublin’ you; it’s young Brown.  You’ve told him you’re a woman-hater, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Humph!  Is he one, too?”

The lightkeeper’s mouth was twisted with a violent emotion.  He remembered his view of that afternoon’s swimming lesson.

“He said he was,” he snarled.  “He pretends he is.”

Mrs. Bascom smiled.  “I want to know,” she said.  “Umph!  I thought . . .  However, it’s no matter.  Perhaps he is.  Anyhow he can pretend to be and you can pretend to believe him.  That’ll be the easiest way, I guess.  Of course,” she added, “I ain’t tellin’ you what to do with any idea that you’ll do it because I say so.  The time for that is all past and gone.  But it seems to me that, for once in my life, I’d be man enough to stick it out.  I wouldn’t run away again.”

Seth did not answer.  He scowled and stared at the circle of lantern light on the stone floor.  Mrs. Bascom rose from her seat on the stairs.

“Well,” she observed, “I must be gettin’ back to the house if I want to get any sleep to-night.  I doubt if I get much, for a body don’t get over a shock, such as I’ve had, in a minute.  But I’m goin’ to get over it and I’m goin’ to stay right here and do my work; I’m goin’ to go through with what seems to be my duty, no matter how hard it is.  I’ve done it afore, and I’ll do it again.  I’ve promised, and I keep my promises.  Good night.”

She started toward the door.  Her husband sprang from the oil barrel.

“Hold on,” he cried; “you wait a minute.  I’ve got somethin’ to say.”

She shook her head.  “I can’t wait,” she said; “I’ve got to go.”

“No, you ain’t, neither.  You can stay a spell longer, if you want to.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t want to.”

“Why not?  What are you afraid of?”