At seven, as it was dark, he took upon himself the responsibility of climbing the winding stairs in each tower and lighting the great lanterns.  It was the first time he had done it, but he knew how, and the duty was successfully accomplished.  Then, as Atkins was still absent and there was nothing to do but wait, he sat in the chair in the kitchen and thought.  Occasionally, and it showed the trend of his thoughts, he rose and peered from the window across the dark to the bungalow.  In the living room of the latter structure a light burned.  At ten it was extinguished.

At half past ten he went to Seth’s bedroom, found a meager assortment of pens, ink and note paper, returned to the kitchen, sat down by the table and began to write.

For an hour he thought, wrote, tore up what he had written, and began again.  At last the result of his labor read something like this: 

“Dear miss Graham: 

“I could not say it this afternoon, although if you had stayed I think I should.  But I must say it now or it may be too late.  I can’t let you go without saying it.  I love you.  Will you wait for me?  It may be a very long wait, although God knows I mean to try harder than I have ever tried for anything in my life.  If I live I will make something of myself yet, with you as my inspiration.  You know you said if a girl really cared for a man she would willingly wait years for him.  Do you care for me as much as that?  With you, or for you, I believe I can accomplish anything.  Do you care?

“Russell Brooks.”

He put this in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and without stopping to put on either cap or raincoat went out in the night.

The rain was still falling, although not as heavily, but the wind was coming in fierce squalls.  He descended the path to the cove, floundering through the wet bushes.  At the foot of the hill he was surprised to find the salt marsh a sea of water not a vestige of ground above the surface.  This was indeed a record-breaking tide, such as he had never known before.  He did not pause to reflect upon tides or such trivialities, but, with a growl at being obliged to make the long detour, he rounded the end of the cove and climbed up to the door of the bungalow.  Under the edge of that door he tucked the note he had written.  As soon as this was accomplished he became aware that he had expressed himself very clumsily.  He had not written as he might.  A dozen brilliant thoughts came to him.  He must rewrite that note at all hazards.

So he spent five frantic minutes trying to coax that envelope from under the door.  But, in his care to push it far enough, it had dropped beyond the sill, and he could not reach it.  The thing was done for better or for worse.  Perfectly certain that it was for worse, he splashed mournfully back to the lights.  In the lantern room of the right-hand tower he spent the remainder of the night, occasionally wandering out on the gallery to note the weather.