“Seth,” called a low voice; “Seth, are you there?”

For a moment the agitated lightkeeper could not trust his voice to answer.

“Seth,” repeated the voice; “Seth.”

The figure was moving off in the direction of the other tower.  Then Seth answered.

“Here—­here I be,” he stammered, in a hoarse whisper.  “Who is it?”

He knew who it was, perfectly well; the question was quite superfluous.

“It’s me,” said the voice.  “Let me in, I’ve got to talk to you.”

Slowly, scarcely certain that this was not a part of some dreadful nightmare, Seth descended the iron ladder to the foot of the tower, dragged his faltering feet to the door, and slowly swung it open.  The bulky figure entered instantly.

“Shut the door,” said Mrs. Bascom.

“Hey?  What?” stammered Seth.

“I say, shut that door.  Hurry up!  Land sakes, hurry!  Do you suppose I want anybody to know I’m here?”

The lightkeeper closed the door.  The clang reverberated through the tower like distant thunder.  The visitor started nervously.

“Mercy!” she exclaimed; “what a racket!  What made you slam it?”

“Didn’t,” grumbled Seth.  “Any kind of a noise sounds up in here.”

“I should think as much.  It’s enough to wake the dead.”

“Ain’t nobody but the dead to wake in this place.”

“Yes, there is; there’s that young man of yours, that Brown one.  He ain’t dead, is he?”

“Humph! he’s asleep, and that’s next door to dead—­with him.”

“Well, I’m glad of it.  My nerves are pretty steady as a general thing, but I declare I’m all of a twitter to-night—­and no wonder.  It’s darker than a pocket in here.  Can’t we have a light?”

Atkins stumbled across the stone floor and took the lantern from the hook by the stairs.  He struck a match, and it went out; he tried another, with the same result.  Mrs. Bascom fidgeted.

“Mercy on us!” she cried; “what does ail the thing?”

Seth’s trembling fingers could scarcely hold the third match.  He raked it across the whitewashed wall and broke the head short off.

“Thunder to mighty!” he snarled, under his breath.

“But what does—­”

“What does?  What do you s’pose?  You ain’t the only one that’s got nerves, are you?”

The next trial was successful, and the lantern was lighted.  With it in his hand, he turned and faced his caller.  They looked at each other.  Mrs. Bascom drew a long breath.

“It is you,” she said.  “I couldn’t scarcely believe it.  It is really you.”

Seth’s answer was almost a groan.  “It’s you,” he said.  “You—­down here.”

This ended the conversation for another minute.  Then the lady seemed to awake to the realities of the situation.

“Yes,” she said, “it’s me—­and it’s you.  We’re here, both of us.  Though why on earth you should be, I don’t know.”