He waited, sullen and reluctant, until she returned with the article of apparel in one hand and the other concealed beneath her apron.
"Here it is," she said, presenting the shirt to him.
"Thank you," he grumbled, taking it. "Much obliged for sewin' on the button."
"You're welcome. It squares us for your pilotin' me over the marsh, that's all. 'Twa'n't any favor; I owed it to you."
He was turning the shirt over in his hands.
"Well," he began, then stopped and looked fixedly at the garment.
"I see you've mended that hole in the sleeve," he said. "You didn't owe me that, did you?"
She changed color slightly.
"Oh," she said, with a toss of her head, "that's nothin'. Just for good measure. I never could abide rags on anybody that--that I had to look at whether I wanted to or not."
"'Twas real good of you to mend it, Emeline. Say," he stirred the sand with his boot, "you mentioned that you cal'lated I'd changed some, was more of a man than I used to be. Do you know why?"
"No. Unless," with sarca**, "it was because I wa'n't around."
"It ain't that. It's because, Emeline, it's because down here I'm nigher bein' where I belong than anywheres else but one place. That place is at sea. When I'm on salt water I'm a man--you don't believe it, but I am. On land I--I don't seem to fit in right.
Keepin' a light like this is next door to bein' at sea."
"Seth, I want to ask you a question. Why didn't you go to sea when you ran--when you left me? I s'posed of course you had. Why didn't you?"
He looked at her in surprise.
"Go to sea?" he repeated. "Go to SEA? How could I? Didn't I promise you I'd never go to sea again?"
"Was that the reason?"
"Sartin. What else?"
She did not answer. There was an odd expression on her face. He turned to go.
"Well, good-by," he said.
"Good-by. Er--Seth."
"Yes; what is it?"
"I--I want to tell you," she stammered, "that I appreciated your leavin' that money and stocks at the bank in my name. I couldn't take 'em, of course, but 'twas good of you. I appreciated it."
"That's all right."
"Wait. Here! Maybe you'd like these." She took the hand from beneath her apron and extended it toward him. It held a pan heaped with objects flat, brown, and deliciously fragrant. He looked at the pan and its contents uncomprehendingly.
"What's them?" he demanded.
"They're molasses cookies. I've been bakin', and these are some extry ones I had left over. You can have 'em if you want 'em."
"Why--why, Emeline! this is mighty kind of you."
"Not a mite," sharply. "I baked a good many more'n Miss Ruth and I can dispose of, and that poor helper man of yours ought to be glad to get 'em after the cast-iron pound-weights that you and he have been tryin' to live on. Mercy on us! the thoughts of the cookies he showed me this mornin' have stayed in my head ever since. Made me feel as if I was partly responsible for murder."
"But it's kind of you, just the same."
"Rubbish! I'd do as much for a pig any day. There! you've got your shirt; now you'd better go home."
She forced the pan of cookies into his hand and moved off. The lightkeeper hesitated.
"I--I'll fetch the pan back to-morrer," he called after her in a loud whisper.