“The creek, and even the bay itself are safe enough at flood,” he went on.  “I often go there then.  When the tide is coming in it is all right even for—­”

He paused.  She finished the sentence for him.  “Even for a girl, you were going to say.”  She waded forward to where the shoal ended and the deeper part began.  There she turned to look at him over her shoulder.

“I’m going to that beach over there,” she said, pointing across the cove.  “Do you want to race?”

Without waiting to see whether he did or not, she struck out for the beach.  And, without stopping to consider why he did it, the young man followed her.

The race was not so one-sided.  Brown won it by some yards, but he had to work hard.  His competitor did not give up when she found herself falling behind, but was game to the end.

“Well,” she gasped, “you beat me, didn’t you?  I never could get that side stroke, and it’s ever so much faster.”

“It’s simple enough.  Just a knack.  I’ll teach you if you like.”

“Will you?  That’s splendid.”

“You are the strongest swimmer, Miss Graham, for a girl, that I ever saw.  You must have practiced a great deal.”

“Yes, Horace—­my brother—­taught me.  He is a splendid swimmer, one of the very best.”

“Horace Graham?  Why, you don’t mean Horace Graham of the Harvard Athletic?”

“Yes, I do.  He is my brother.  But how . . .  Do you know him?”

The surprise in her tone was evident.  Brown bit his lip.  He remembered that Cape Cod lightkeepers’ helpers were not, as a usual thing, supposed to be widely acquainted in college athletic circles.

“I have met him,” he stammered.

“But where—­” she began; and then, “why, of course! you met him here.  I forgot that he has been your neighbor for three summers.”

The assistant had forgotten it, too, but he was thankful for the reminder.

“Yes.  Yes, certainly,” he said.  She regarded him with a puzzled look.

“It’s odd he didn’t mention you,” she observed.  “He has told me a great deal about the bungalow, and the sea views, and the loneliness and the quaintness of it all.  That was what made me wish to spend a month down here and experience it myself.  And he has often spoken,” with an irrepressible smile, “of your—­of the lightkeeper, Mr. Atkins.  That is his name, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I want to meet him.  Horace said he was—­well, rather odd, but, when you knew him, a fine fellow and full of dry humor.  I’m sure I should like him.”

Brown smiled, also—­and broadly.  He mentally pictured Seth’s reception of the news that he was “liked” by the young lady across the cove.  And then it occurred to him, with startling suddenness, that he had been conversing very familiarly with that young lady, notwithstanding the solemn interchange of vows between the lightkeeper and himself.

“I must be going,” he said hastily; “good morning, Miss Graham.”