before, when he first saw her, an Indian salutation which he had
learned from Jim had risen to his lips, but in the odd feeling which her
fascination of the light had caused him he had not spoken. He watched
her bent figure scuttling away like some frightened animal, with a
critical consciousness that she was really scarce human, and went back
to the lighthouse. He would not run after her again! Yet that evening he
continued to think of her, and recalled her voice, which struck him now
as having been at once melodious and childlike, and wished he had at
least spoken, and perhaps elicited a reply.

He did not, however, haunt the sweat-house near the river again. Yet he
still continued his lessons with Jim, and in this way, perhaps, although
quite unpremeditatedly, enlisted a humble ally. A week passed in which
he had not alluded to her, when one morning, as he was returning from a
row, Jim met him mysteriously on the beach.

"S'pose him come slow, slow," said Jim gravely, airing his newly
acquired English; "make no noise--plenty catchee Indian maiden." The
last epithet was the polite lexicon equivalent of squaw.

Pomfrey, not entirely satisfied in his mind, nevertheless softly
followed the noiselessly gliding Jim to the lighthouse. Here Jim
cautiously opened the door, motioning Pomfrey to enter.

The base of the tower was composed of two living rooms, a storeroom and
oil-tank. As Pomfrey entered, Jim closed the door softly behind him.
The abrupt transition from the glare of the sands and sun to the
semi-darkness of the storeroom at first prevented him from seeing
anything, but he was instantly distracted by a scurrying flutter and
wild beating of the walls, as of a caged bird. In another moment