The Pillar of Light. Tracy Louis

ghouls here," said Constance. "It is modern, scientific, utilitarian in every atom of its solid granite."

      But Enid was silent as they climbed the steep stairs. Once she stopped and peeped into her father's bedroom.

      "That is where they brought me when I first came to the rock," she whispered. "It used to be Mr. Jones's room. I remember dad saying so."

      Constance, on whose shoulders the reassuring cloak of science hung somewhat loosely, placed her arm around her sister's waist in a sudden access of tenderness.

      "You have improved in appearance since then, Enid," she said.

      "What a wizened little chip I must have looked. I wonder who I am."

      "I know who you soon will be if you don't take care."

      Enid blushed prettily. She glanced at herself in a small mirror on the wall. Trust a woman to find a mirror in any apartment.

      "I suppose Jack will ask me to marry him," she mused.

      "And what will you reply?"

      The girl's lips parted. Her eyes shone for an instant. Then she buried her face against her sister's bosom.

      "O, Connie," she wailed, "I shall hate to leave you and dad. Why hasn't Jack got a brother as nice as himself."

      Whereupon Constance laughed loud and long.

      The relief was grateful to both. Enid's idea of a happy solution of the domestic difficulty appealed to their easily stirred sense of humor.

      "Never mind, dear," gasped Constance at last. "You shall marry your Jack and invite all the nice men to dinner. Good gracious! I will have the pick of the navy. Perhaps the Admiral may be a widower."

      With flushed faces they reached the region of light. Brand was writing at a small desk in the service-room.

      "Something seems to have amused you," he said. "I have heard weird peals ascending from the depths."

      "Connie is going to splice the admiral," explained Enid.

      "What admiral?"

      "Any old admiral."

      "Indeed, I will not take an old admiral," protested the elder.

      "Then you had better take him when he is a lieutenant," said Brand.

      This offered too good an opening to be resisted.

      "Enid has already secured the lieutenant," she murmured, with a swift glance at the other.

      Brand looked up quizzically.

      "Dear me," he cried, "if my congratulations are not belated – "

      Enid was blushing again. She threw her arms about his neck.

      "Don't believe her, dad," she said. "She's jealous!"

      Constance saw a book lying on the table: "Regulations for the Lighthouse Service." She opened it. Brand stroked Enid's hair gently, and resumed the writing of his daily journal.

      "The Elder Brethren!" whispered Constance. "Do they wear long white beards?"

      "And carry wands?" added the recovered Enid.

      "And dress in velvet cloaks and buckled shoes?"

      "And – "

      "And say 'Boo' to naughty little girls who won't let me complete my diary," shouted Brand. "Be off, both of you. Keep a lookout for the next ten minutes. If you see any signals from the mainland, or catch sight of the Lancelot, call me."

      They climbed to the trimming stage of the lantern, which was level with the external gallery. Obedient to instructions, they searched the Land's End and the wide reach of Mount's Bay beyond Carn du. Save a scudding sail or two beating in from the Lizard and a couple of big steamers hurrying from the East – one a Transatlantic Transport liner from London – there was nothing visible. In the far distance the sea looked smooth enough, though they needed no explanation of the reality when they saw the irregular white patches glistening against the hull of a Penzance fishing-smack.

      "O, Connie, the reef!" said Enid, suddenly, in a low voice.

      They glanced at the turbid retreat of the tide over the submerged rocks. The sea was heavier, the noise louder, now that they listened to it, than when they arrived in the Daisy, little more than an hour earlier. Some giant force seemed to be wrestling there, raging against its bonds, striving feverishly to tear, rend, utterly destroy its invisible fetters. Sometimes, after an unusually impetuous surge, a dark shape, trailing witch-tresses of weed, showed for an instant in the pit of the cauldron. Then a mad whirl of water would pounce on it with a fearsome spring and the fang of rock would be smothered ten feet deep.

      For some reason they did not talk. They were fascinated by the power, the grandeur, the untamed energy of the spectacle. The voice of the reef held them spellbound. They listened mutely.

      Beneath, Brand wrote, with scholarly ease:

      "Therefore I decided that it would best serve the interests of the Board if I sent Bates and Jackson to Penzance in the boat in which my daughter – " he paused an instant and added an "s" to the word – "fortunately happened to visit me. As I would be alone on the rock, and the two girls might be helpful until the relief came, I retained them."

      He glanced at the weather-glass in front of him and made a note:

      "Barometer falling. Temperature higher."

      In another book he entered the exact records. A column headed "Wind direction and force," caused him to look up at the wind vane. He whistled softly.

      "S. W.," he wrote, and after a second's thought inserted the figure 6. The sailor's scale, ye landsman, differs from yours. What you term a gale at sea he joyfully hails as a fresh breeze. No. 6 is a point above this limit, when a well-conditioned clipper ship can carry single reefs and top-gallant sails, in chase full and by. No. 12 is a hurricane. "Bare poles," says the scale.

      Slowly mounting the iron ladder, he stood beside the silent watchers. The Bay was nearly deserted. No sturdy tug-boat was pouring smoke from her funnel and staggering towards the rock. Northwest and west the darkness was spreading and lowering.

      He did not trouble to examine the reef. Its signs and tokens were too familiar to him. Its definite bellow or muttered threat was part of the prevailing influence of the hour or day. He had heard its voice too often to find an omen in it now.

      "This time I must congratulate both of you," he said quietly.

      "On what?" they cried in unison, shrill with unacknowledged excitement.

      "Ladies seldom, if ever, pass a night on a rock lighthouse. You will have that rare privilege."

      Enid clapped her hands.

      "I am delighted," she exclaimed.

      "Will there be a storm, father?" asked Constance.

      "I think so. At any rate, only a miracle will enable the tug to reach us before tomorrow, and miracles are not frequent occurrences at sea."

      "I know of one," was Enid's comment, with great seriousness for her. He read her thought.

      "I was younger then," he smiled. "Now I am fifty, and the world has aged."

      CHAPTER V

      THE HURRICANE

      They descended into the service-room.

      "Let me see," said Enid; "it will be nineteen years on the 22d of next June, since you found me floating serenely towards the Gulf Rock in a deserted boat?"

      "Yes, if you insist on accuracy as to the date. I might cavil at your serenity."

      "And I was 'estimated' as a year old then? Isn't it a weird thing that a year-old baby should be sent adrift on the Atlantic in an open boat and never a word of inquiry made subsequently as to her fate? I fear I could not have been of much account in those days."

      "My dear child, I have always told you that the boat had been in collision during the fog which had prevailed for several days previously. Those who were caring for you were probably knocked overboard and drowned."

      "But