“What’s become of them Rogerses?  Still livin’ in the Perry house, are they?”

“No.  Old Abel Perry turned ’em out of that when the rent got behind.  He’s the meanest skinflint that ever strained skim milk.  He got married again a year ago.”

“No!  Who was the victim?  Somebody from the Feeble-Minded Home?”

She gave the name of Mr. Perry’s bride, and before they knew it the pair were deep in village gossip.  For many minutes they discussed the happenings in the Cape Ann hamlet, and then Seth was recalled to the present by a casual glance at his watch.

“Land!” he exclaimed.  “Look at the time!  This talk with you has seemed so—­so natural and old-timey, that . . .  Well, I’ve got to go.”

He was scrambling to his feet.  She also attempted to rise, but found it difficult.

“Here,” he cried, “give me your hand.  I’ll help you up.”

“I don’t want any help.  Let me alone.  Let me alone, I tell you.”

His answer was to seize her about the waist and swing her bodily to her feet.  She was flushed and embarrassed.  Then she laughed shortly and shook her head.

“What are you laughin’ at?” he demanded, peering over the knoll to make sure that neither John Brown nor Miss Graham was in sight.

“Oh, not much,” she answered.  “You kind of surprise me, Seth.”

“Why?”

“’Cause you’ve changed so.”

“Changed?  How?”

“Oh, changed, that’s all.  You seem to have more spunk than you used to have.”

“Humph!  Think so, do you?”

“Yes, I do.  I think bein’ a lightkeeper must be good for some folks—­some kind of folks.”

“I want to know!”

“Yes, you better be careful, or you’ll be a real man some day.”

His answer was an angry stare and a snort.  Then he turned on his heel and was striding off.

“Wait!” she called.  “Hold on!  Don’t you want your shirt?  Stay here, and I’ll go into the house and fetch it.”

He waited, sullen and reluctant, until she returned with the article of apparel in one hand and the other concealed beneath her apron.

“Here it is,” she said, presenting the shirt to him.

“Thank you,” he grumbled, taking it.  “Much obliged for sewin’ on the button.”

“You’re welcome.  It squares us for your pilotin’ me over the marsh, that’s all.  ’Twa’n’t any favor; I owed it to you.”

He was turning the shirt over in his hands.

“Well,” he began, then stopped and looked fixedly at the garment.

“I see you’ve mended that hole in the sleeve,” he said.  “You didn’t owe me that, did you?”

She changed color slightly.

“Oh,” she said, with a toss of her head, “that’s nothin’.  Just for good measure.  I never could abide rags on anybody that—­that I had to look at whether I wanted to or not.”

“’Twas real good of you to mend it, Emeline.  Say,” he stirred the sand with his boot, “you mentioned that you cal’lated I’d changed some, was more of a man than I used to be.  Do you know why?”