The young lady offered a hand.  Brown took it.

“Graham?” he repeated.  “Where?” Then, remembering a portion of what Seth had told him, he added, “I see! the—­the artist?”

“My brother is an artist.  He and his friend, Mr. Hamilton, own this bungalow.  They are abroad this summer, and I am going to camp here for a few weeks—­Mrs. Bascom and I. I paint a little, too, but only for fun.”

Brown murmured a conventionality concerning his delight at meeting the pair, and once more headed for the door.  But Mrs. Bascom’s curiosity would not permit him to escape so easily.

“I thought,” she said, “when I see you standin’ over there by the lights, that you must be one of the keepers.  Not the head keeper—­I knew you wa’n’t him—­but an assistant, maybe.  But I guess you’re only a visitor, Mister—­Mister—?”

“Brown.”

“Yes, Mr. Brown.  I guess you ain’t no keeper, are you?”

“I am the assistant keeper at present.  Yes.”

“You don’t say!” Mrs. Bascom looked surprised.  So, too, did Miss Graham.  “You don’t look like a lighthouse keeper,” continued the former.  “Oh, I don’t mean your clothes!” noticing the young man’s embarrassed glance at his wet and far from immaculate garments.  “I mean the way you talk and act.  You ain’t been here long, have you?”

“No.”

“Just come this summer?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.  You ain’t a Cape Codder?”

“No.”

“I was sure you wa’n’t.  Where do you come from?”

Brown hesitated.  Miss Graham, noticing his hesitation, hastened to end the inquisition.

“Mr. Brown can’t stop to answer questions, Mrs. Bascom,” she said.  “I’m sure he wants to get back to his work.  Good morning, Mr. Brown.  No doubt we shall see each other often, being the only neighbors in sight.  Call again—­do.  I solemnly promise that you shall have to fight no more wasps.”

“Say!” The stout woman took a step forward.  “Speakin’ of wasps . . . stand still a minute, Mr. Brown, won’t you.  What’s them lumps on your forehead?  Why, I do believe you’ve been bit.  You have, sure and sartin!”

Miss Graham was very much concerned.  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed; “I hope not.  Let me see.”

“No, indeed!” The assistant was on the step by this time and moving rapidly.  “Nothing at all.  No consequence.  Good morning.”

He almost ran down the hill and crossed the creek at the wading place.  As he splashed through, the voice of the housekeeper reached his ears.

“Cold mud’s the best thing,” she screamed.  “Put it on thick.  It takes out the smart.  Good and thick, mind!”

For the next hour or two the lightkeeper’s helper moved about his household tasks in a curious frame of mind.  He was thoroughly angry—­or thought he was—­and very much disturbed.  Neighbors of any kind were likely to be a confounded nuisance, but two women!  Heavens!  And the stout woman was sure to be running in for calls and to borrow things.  As for the other, she seemed a nice girl enough, but he never wanted to see another girl, nice or otherwise.  Her eyes were pretty, so was her hair, but what of it?  Oh, hang the luck!  Just here he banged his swollen forehead on the sharp edge of the door, and found relief in profanity.