“Is it any better outside?”

“No, sir; wuss.  I ain’t seen nothin’ like it ’long the coast for years.  Good-night,” and Parks took another hole in the belt holding his tarpaulins together, opened the back door, walked to the edge of the house, steadied himself against the clapboards, and boldly facing the storm, continued his patrol.

The captain stretched himself again on his bed; he had tried to sleep, but his brain was too active.  As he lay listening to the roar of the surf and the shrill wail of the wind, his thoughts would revert to Bart and what his return meant; particularly to its effect on the fortunes of the doctor, of Jane and of Lucy.

Jane’s attitude continued to astound him.  He had expected that Lucy might not realize the advantages of his plan at first—­not until she had seen Bart and listened to what he had to say; but that Jane, after the confession of her own weakness should still oppose him, was what he could not under stand, he would keep his promise, however, to the very letter.  She should have free range to dissuade Bart from his purpose.  After that Bart should have his way.  No other course was possible, and no other course either honest or just.

Then he went over in his mind all that had happened to him since the day he had driven Bart out into the night, and from that same House of Refuge, too, which, strange to say, lay within sight of the Station.  He recalled his own and Bart’s sufferings; his loneliness; the bitterness of the terrible secret which had kept his mouth closed all these years, depriving him of even the intimate companionship of his own grandson.  With this came an increased love for the boy; he again felt the warm pressure of his hand and caught the look in his eyes the morning Archie congratulated him so heartily on Bart’s expected return, he had always loved him; he would love him now a thousand times more when he could put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and tell him everything.

With the changing of the patrol, Tod and Polhemus taking the places of Archie and Parks, he fell into a doze, waking with a sudden start some hours later, springing from his bed, and as quickly turning up the lamp.

Still in his stocking feet and trousers—­on nights like this the men lie down in half their clothes—­he walked to the window and peered out.  It was nearing daylight; the sky still black.  The storm was at its height; the roar of the surf incessant and the howl of the wind deafening.  Stepping into the sitting-room he glanced at the aneroid—­the needle had not advanced a point; then turning into the hall, he mounted the steps to the lookout in the cupola, walked softly past the door of the men’s room so as not to waken the sleepers, particularly Parks and Archie, whose cots were nearest the door—­both had had four hours of the gale and would have hours more if it continued—­and reaching the landing, pressed his face against the cool pane and peered out.