care of her, when I’m gone, than any one else, bein’ as he is her own folks.”
Captain Barney bristled. “I dunno as to that,” he declared. “’Pears to me that Lem Winslow or mesilf ought to be her guardeen if yo’ go to cruisin’ the unknown sea ahead of us. How’r we to know her own pa cares a tarnal whoop for her. He hasn’t been cruisin’ ’round these waters huntin’ her up, has he? Never’s been known to navigate this way, sence – sence – ” He paused. Something in the face of his friend caused him to leave his sentence unfinished. Ezra Bassett arose and looked around both corners of the shack. All that he saw was a stretch of rolling white sand with here and there a clump of coarse, wiry grass or a dwarfed plum bush.
Evidently satisfied that there was no one near enough to hear, he returned and, drawing his old armchair nearer the one occupied by Captain Barney, he said in a low tone: “I reckon ’twa’n’t his fault, so to speak. I reckon ’twa’n’t.” Then, noting the surprised expression in the face of his friend, he continued: “Truth is, he doesn’t even know there is a little gal; fact was, he never did know it.” Then he hurried on to explain. “He’d gone West on business that couldn’t wait, ’pears like, an’ my gal reckoned as how that would be a mighty good time to come to Windy Island and get me to forgive her and him. They was livin’ in New York, but she didn’t get farther’n Boston when the little one came. I got a message to go to her at once. I went, but when I got there the doctor said as they both had died. That was the message they’d sent on to him, but; arter all, a miracle happened. The baby showed signs of life an’ – an’ what’s more, she lived. I tol’ the doctor he needn’t send another message to the father. I said as I was the grand-dad, I’d tend to it and take care of the baby till he came.”
While the old man talked, he had been studying a clump of wire grass in the sand at his feet. Pausing, he cast a quick glance at his listener, and then, as quickly looked away and out to sea. For the first time in the many years of their long friendship there was an accusing expression in the clear blue eyes of the Irishman.
“D’y think yo’ve acted honest, Ez?” Captain Barney inquired. “Wa’n’t it the same as stealin’ his gal?”
At that Captain Ezra flared. “Didn’t he steal my gal fust, if it comes to that? Turn about’s fair play, ain’t it?”
The old Irishman shook his head. “Dunno as ’tis, Ez,” he said slowly. “I reckon a person’s a heap happier doin’ the right thing himself, whether the other fellar does it or not.”
Captain Ezra Bassett felt none too comfortable. “Wall,” he said, “that’s why I wanted to have this talk with yo’. I got to thinkin’ lately of what would become of Rilly if I should get a sudden call across the bar, as the meeting-house hymn puts it, without havin’ left any word, or made any provisions; so I reckoned I’d tell yo’ as how I’ve writ that letter. I put it in the iron box on the shelf way up top o’ the tower where I keep the tools for regulatin’ the light.”
Captain Barney nodded. He knew the shelf well, for he had often helped clean the big lamp or aided in some needed adjustment.
“Where’d yo’ reckon he is now – Rilla’s dad?” he asked after they had puffed awhile in thoughtful silence.
“Dunno,” was the reply. “Never heard sense. I allays suspicioned as how he might have stayed anchored out West, but I do know where Rilly gal can go to find out, if need be, an’ I’ve put the address in the letter.” Then the old man rose, looking the picture of rugged health. “Not that I’m expectin’ to start in a hurry on the long v’yage for which no charts have been made,” he said, “but I sort o’ got to thinkin’ it’s well to be beforehanded, an’ – ”
He did not finish the sentence, for a breeze, sweeping over the dunes, brought to them, not only the soft, salt tang of the sea, but also the notes of a girlish song. Both men turned to see a picture which rejoiced their hearts. Rilla, swinging her Sunday best hat by its ribbon strings, was skipping toward them over the hard sand, her long red-brown hair blowing about her shoulders, her face radiant as she sang.
Captain Ezra beckoned to her. “Yo-ho, Rilly gal!” he called. “It’s mid-morning by the sun and the big lamp’s to have a fine polishin’ today. I reckon the storms’ll come most any time now and the light needs to be its brightest then.” Turning to Captain Barney, he said in a low voice: “Keep it dark, mate, ’bout the letter in the box – till I’m gone – then tell her.”
When his two best friends had departed, Captain Barney sat long in front of his shack. He wondered what was to come of it all, but only the future could reveal that.
CHAPTER IX.
A FIRST LETTER
Muriel had almost forgotten the banded box of foreign appearance which she had in her Treasure Cave. So many things of unusual interest had occurred of late that even so wonderful a box had taken a secondary place in her thoughts.
That afternoon Captain Ezra devoted to polishing the lamp, a task he would not permit Rilla to share, saying that peeling potatoes and the like was her part of the drudgery, and, as he never helped her with that, neither should she help with the lamp.
Muriel did not insist, for she believed that her grand-dad took a great deal of pride in tending to the big light all by himself. “I reckon he’d think he was gettin’ old if he had to be helped,” the girl soliloquized as she walked along the top of the bluff, the dog at her side.
They descended the trail toward that part of the beach where she had first seen the lad. For a time she stood silently gazing down at the spot where he had been on that never to be forgotten day. Suddenly she laughed aloud. Stooping, she patted the head of her long-haired companion.
“Shagsie, ol’ dog,” she chuckled gleefully, “yo’ wouldn’t be eatin’ Gene Beavers up even when I tol’ yo’ to, would yo’ now?” Then merrily she added: “I’ll tell yo’ a secret, ol’ dog, if yo’ won’t be tellin’ it.” Then she whispered into the long shaggy ear: “I reckon I’m glad now that yo’ wouldn’t.” Then, springing up, she scrambled down the rocks and ran along the narrow pebbly beach, the dog racing and barking at her heels. When they were just below the lighthouse Rilla paused and looked up at the small entrance to her cave.
“Shags,” she suggested, “let’s take another look at the treasure.” Together they slowly ascended the perilously steep cliff where one unused to climbing could barely have found a foothold.
When the cave was reached Rilla uttered a little cry of eagerness, for under one of the straps on the box was a folded bit of paper.
Opening it, she looked at it, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glowing.
Doctor Winslow had tried to teach the girl to read, but, since he was the resident physician in a New York hospital most of the year, he had been able to make but little headway. Each autumn he took from one to two months’ vacation, returning to the home of his boyhood for what he called an absolute rest, but the fisherfolk, who loved him, flocked to him for advice and help, and the kind, elderly man welcomed them gladly. Too, he gave to every one who came a bit of optomistic philosophy which did much toward keeping them well and happy during the months of his absence.
Muriel had seated herself upon the closed box and studied the note. Luckily the words were simple and plainly printed. She picked out one here and there that she knew, then suddenly rising she went to a crevice in the rocks and brought forth a Second Reader which the doctor had given her. She knew every word in it, but she could not always recognize the same words if they were out of the
