Rilla of the Lighthouse. North Grace May

maiden” knelt in her open window, and looking toward the starry heavens, asked God to care for her new friend, Gene Beavers.

      Meanwhile, as the lad had surmised, Doctor Winslow was searching for his guest.

      CHAPTER VI.

      A SEARCHING PARTY

      It was nearing midnight and the huge lamp in the tower above the cliff was mechanically swinging in its great iron frame, hurling its beacon rays far out to sea, slowly, rythmically turning. For a brief moment the Outer Ledge was revealed, deserted and surf washed, then the almost even roll of waves were illumined, their white crests flashing in the dazzle of light, to be again engulfed in darkness. Slowly the lamp turned toward the town, where the three lanterns, two red and one white, still burned on the end of the wharf to guide a homeward belated fisherman, then the little fleet of fishing boats and the cask-like buoy were for a moment revealed. The summer colony of boarded-up cabins was next illumined; too the low, rambling inn that would not be opened for many months; then again the wide path of light swung out to sea and started once more on its circling sweep that would continue until dawn.

      It was the custom of Captain Ezra to waken at midnight to be sure that the mechanism of the lamp was in perfect order. He was just descending the spiral stairway after a visit of inspection when there came an imperative pounding without.

      Shags, sleeping outside of Rilla’s door, heard it and leaped to his feet with an ominous growl.

      The girl, startled from slumber, sprang from her bed and dressed quickly. She had often done this before when a crashing thunder storm had awakened her, and she wanted to be on watch with her grand-dad. Her first conscious thought had been that the expected equinoctial storms had come, but when the knocking continued and a man’s voice called, “Cap’n Ezra, quick! Open the hatch,” a new fear clutched at the heart of the girl.

      Perhaps the summons had something to do with Gene Beavers, the lad from the city. She had not been able the evening before to hail him from the top of the cliff, but surely he could have kept warm if he wrapped well in the sail cloth, and there had been food enough in the basket for two days at least.

      Muriel was soon hurrying down the short flight of stairs that led from her small room above the kitchen. Her grand-dad had already flung the door wide open and there Rilla saw several longshoremen in slickers and sou’westers, who were carrying lanterns. Doctor Winslow was in the lead, and his white, drawn face plainly told how great his anxiety had been.

      “Lem, ol’ pal, what’s gone wrong?” Captain Ezra inquired. He drew the physician, who had been a friend of his boyhood, into the kitchen, which was still warm, as the fire in the stove had but recently died down and a few embers were burning.

      “Ez,” Doctor Winslow began, when the men had entered and closed the door, “have you seen a young boy, a chap about eighteen, sailing anywhere near Windy Island today? You’ve heard me speak of Dan Beavers, who was a college mate of mine. Well, this is his son. He came to Tunkett to try to regain his strength after a serious illness. Truth is, he ought not to have attempted to sail a boat alone. I wouldn’t have permitted it if I had been at home, but I had several calls to make across the marshes, and when I go there I make a day of it.”

      The old sea captain was shaking his grizzled head as his friend talked. “No, Lem,” he replied when the other paused. “I reckon yer off’n yer bearin’s, I ain’t sighted a city chap cruisin’ ’round in these waters, not since the colony closed, but, for onct, I wish I had, bein’ as it’s some-un b’longin’ to yo’, mate.”

      A cry from Rilla caused them all to turn and look at her as she stood in the open stair door. Running to Doctor Winslow, she caught his hand. “Uncle Lem,” she said, “I know where he is, if it’s a lad named Gene Beavers that yo’re wantin’.”

      Then, seeing the inquiring expression on the face of Captain Ezra, she hurried on to explain: “His boat was wrecked, Grand-dad, that’s how he come to be here, but I didn’t dare to tell yo’, yo’re that sot agin city chaps. I didn’t do anythin’ that yo’ wouldn’t want me to, Grand-dad. I didn’t go near the cave where he was, not once in all the afternoon. Yo’ know I didn’t, for I stayed right with yo’ a-mendin’ the net.”

      “I figger yo’ did the best yo’ could, fust mate,” the old man replied; “I cal’late it’s me that’s bungled matters, makin’ yo’ skeered to come and tell things straight out. But like’s not we’ll find the boy sleepin’ in the cave. Don’t let’s hang out distress signals till we’re sure we’re goin’ to sink.” As he talked he put on his slicker and cap, as the night wind was cold. Then, taking a lighted lantern, Cap’n Ezra, after bidding Rilla to liven up the fire and put the kettle on, opened the door and led the way to the top of the cliff. Making a trumpet of his hands, he shouted: “Ho, there, down below! Yo’re wanted up on deck.”

      Then they waited, listening, but the crashing of the surf was all that they heard. One of the younger men who was used to scaling cliffs, however steep, climbed down to the ledge and held his lantern so that the small cave was illumined. After a moment’s scrutiny he called up to the anxious group: “Empty as an ol’ clam shell. Nothin’ in there but a box an’ a sail cloth that’s spread out flat an’ concealin’ nobody.”

      When Muriel heard the men returning, she threw open the door and her eager glance scanned the group, hoping to find among them her new friend, Gene Beavers. “He wa’n’t thar, fust mate,” the old sea captain said gloomily, “an’ I figger it’s all my fault for bein’ so tarnal sot agin city chaps. I reckoned, one bein’ a scoundrel, they all was, like’s not.” Then, turning to Doctor Winslow, he added with spirit: “Lem, we won’t give up yit. We’ll throw out a drag net if need be. I’m goin’ along, wherever yo’ cruise to. Rilly gal can tend to the light for a spell. I couldn’t rest easy if I wa’n’t tryin’ to help locate the lad. The heft of this trouble comes from me being so tarnal sot about things.”

      The physician placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Look here, Ez,” he said, “neither you nor Rilla are to blame. The lad has not used good judgment, but older men than he is have failed in that, now and then. You mustn’t come with us. A heavy fog is rolling in and you might be needed any moment right here at the light. Some ship may send in a distress signal and Rilla is only a little girl, after all, only fifteen, and we mustn’t ask her to assume so serious a responsibility.”

      While the physician was talking, the girl whom he had called “little” was pouring the tea she had made into four heavy cups and one of these she took to Doctor Winslow, saying, “Uncle Lem, drink this, please do, ’fore you go out agin into the wet fog, an’, too, thar’s a cup for each of you.”

      The men seemed glad for the warmth of the beverage and then, when the cups had been drained, they started out, calling back that they would swing the red lanterns in a circle three times from the end of the town wharf if Gene Beavers was found that night.

      When they were gone, Rilla removed her grandfather’s slicker and he sank down in his armchair and buried his face in his hands.

      Muriel stood at his side, her arm about his neck, not knowing what to say.

      Reaching up, the old man clasped the girl’s hand in his big brown one as he said: “Rilly gal, I figger yer ma was right, arter all. ‘Dad,’ says she, many’s the time, ‘it’s hate that brings the sorrow an’ trouble to the world an’ it’s love that brings in the happiness.’ Like’s not my little gal’d be livin’ now if I’d tried seein’ things her way; if I’d welcomed the man she wanted to marry, ’stead of hatin’ him an’ turnin’ him out. He went, when I tol’ him to, an’ he took my gal. I reckon it’s that same sort o’ hate that’s fetched this trouble to my ol’ messmate, Lem Winslow. I’m done wi’ it, Rilly gal, done wi’ hate, though I figger mos’ likely it’s too late.”

      Muriel felt a hot tear splash on her hand. Pressing her fresh young cheek against the leathery one, she implored, “Don’ be talkin’ that way! How’s it too late, Grand-dad? We’ll begin all over, shall we, yo’ an’ me; we’ll begin lovin’ and not hate anyone at all, shall we, Grand-dad?”

      The