“I don’t know.  Back home, I s’pose.  Though what I’ll do when I get there I don’t know.  I’ve sold the house, so I don’t exactly know where I’ll put up.  But I guess I’ll find a place.”

“You’ve sold your house?  The house we used to live in?”

“Yes.  The man that’s been hirin’ it has bought it.  I’m glad, for I need the money.  So good-by, Seth.  ’Tain’t likely we’ll meet again in this life.”

She started toward the door once more, and this time he was too greatly disturbed and shaken by what she had told him to detain her.  At the threshhold she turned and looked at him.

“Good-by, Seth,” she said again.  “I hope you’ll be happy.  And,” with a half smile, “if I was you I’d stay keepin’ lights; it, or somethin’ else, has improved you a whole lot.  Good-by.”

Then he sprang forward.  “Emeline,” he cried, “Emeline, wait.  You mustn’t go.  I can’t let you go this way.  I . . .  What’s that?”

“That” was the sound of horse’s feet and the rattle of wheels.  The lightkeeper ran to the window.

“It’s Henry G.’s grocery cart,” he said.  “I cal’late he’s fetchin’ some truck I ordered last week.  Do you want him to see you here?”

“I don’t care.  He don’t know but what you and me are the best of friends.  Yet, I don’t know.  Maybe it’s just as well he don’t see me; then there’ll be no excuse for talk.  I’ll step inside and wait.”

She returned to the kitchen, and Seth went out to meet the wagon.  Its driver was the boy who had brought the flypaper and “Job.”

“Hello,” hailed the youngster, pulling in his steed; “how be you, Mr. Atkins?  I’ve got some of them things you ordered.  The rest ain’t come from Boston yet.  Soon’s they do, Henry G.’ll send ’em down.  How you feelin’ these days?  Ain’t bought no more dogs, have you?”

Seth curtly replied that he “wa’n’t speculatin’ in dogs to no great extent any more,” and took the packages which the boy handed him.  With them was a bundle of newspapers and an accumulation of mail matter.

“I fetched the mail for the bungalow, too,” said the boy.  “There’s two or three letters for that Graham girl and one for Mrs. Bascom.  She’s housekeeper there, you know.”

“Yes.  Here, you might’s well leave their mail along with mine.  I’ll see it’s delivered, all right.”

“Will you?  Much obliged.  Goin’ to take it over yourself?  Better look out, hadn’t you?  That Graham girl’s a peach; all the fellers at the store’s talkin’ about her.  Seems a pity she’s wastin’ her sassiety on a woman-hater like you; that’s what they say.  You ain’t gettin’ over your female hate, are you?  Haw, haw!”

Mr. Atkins regarded his questioner with stern disapproval.

“There’s some things—­such as chronic sassiness—­some folks never get over,” he observed caustically.  “Though when green hides are too fresh they can be tanned; don’t forget that, young feller.  Any more chatty remarks you’ve got to heave over?  No?  Well, all right; then I’d be trottin’ back home if I was you.  Henry G.’ll have to shut up shop if you deprive him of your valuable services too long.  Good day to you.”