“‘Emeline,’ says I, ‘it’s got to be.  You must tell him to go, or else—­’

“She’d been lookin’ at me again with that kind of queer look in her eyes, almost a hopeful look, seem’s if ’twas, and yet it couldn’t have been, of course.  Now she drawed a long breath.

“‘I can’t tell him to go, Seth,’ says she.  ’I promised to give him a home as long as I had one.’

“I set my jaws together.  ‘All right,’ I says; ‘then I’m goin’.  Good by.’

“And I went.  Yes, sir, I went.  Just as I was, without any hat or dunnage of any kind.  When I slammed the back door it seemed as if I heard her sing out my name.  I waited, but I guess I was mistaken, for she didn’t call it again.  And—­and I never set eyes on her since.  No, sir, not once.”

The lightkeeper stopped.  John Brown said nothing, but he laid a hand sympathetically on the older man’s shoulder.  Seth shuddered, straightened, and went on.

“I cleared out of that town that very night,” he said.  “Walked clear into Gloucester, put up at a tavern there till mornin’, and then took the cars to Boston.  I cal’lated fust that I’d ship as mate or somethin’ on a foreign voyage, but I couldn’t; somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  You see, I’d promised her I wouldn’t ever go to sea again, and so—­well, I was a dum idiot, I s’pose, but I wouldn’t break the promise.  I knew the superintendent of lighthouses in this district, and I’d been an assistant keeper when I was younger.  I told him my yarn, and he told me about this job.  I changed my name, passed the examination and come directly here.  And here I’ve stayed ever since.”

He paused again.  Brown ventured to ask another question.

“And your—­and the lady?” he asked.  “Where is she?”

“I don’t know.  Livin’ in her house back there on Cape Ann, I s’pose.  She was, last I knew.  I never ask no questions.  I want to forget—­to forget, by time! . . .  Hi hum! . . .  Well, now you know what nobody this side of Boston knows.  And you can understand why I’m willin’ to be buried alive down here.  ’Cause a woman wrecked my life; I’m done with women; and to this forsaken hole no women scarcely ever come.  But, when they do come, you must understand that I expect you to show ’em round.  After hearin’ what I’ve been through, I guess you’ll be willin’ to do that much for me.”

He rose, evidently considering the affair settled.  Brown stroked his chin.

“I’m sorry, Atkins,” he observed, slowly; “and I certainly do sympathize with you.  But—­but, as I said, ’I guess you’ll have to hire another boy!’”

“What?  What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re not the only woman-hater on the beach.”

“Hey?  Has a woman given you the go by?”

“No.  The other way around, if anything.  Look here, Atkins!  I’m not in the habit of discussing my private affairs with acquaintances, but you’ve been frank with me—­and well, hang it!  I’ve got to talk to somebody.  At least, I feel that way just now.  Let’s suppose a case.  Suppose you were a young fellow not long out of college—­a young fellow whose mother was dead and whose dad was rich, and head over heels in money-making, and with the idea that his will was no more to be disputed than a law of the Almighty.  Just suppose that, will you?”