"A half hour longer 'd have made you sicker 'n death," said the man, eying him.
"That 's so," said Joe, with a desperate qualm. "Dry land for me, thank you."
"How long do ye want to stay?" said the boat man.
Joe looked up at the light-house—then at the tossing white-capped waves.
"Always," he said, laughing, "if it 's going to heave like that—not more than an hour, or may be half an hour," he added, seriously; "it is n't going to blow any worse, is it?"
"Oh no," said the man, "it 'll quiet down before long," and he prepared to make his boat fast.
Tilly was hard at work trying to fasten her clothes on the line. They never waited for quiet weather before hanging out their clothes at the light-house. It was of no use. Tilly's back was toward the wharf where Joe had landed. Her sleeves were rolled up to her shoulders, and her arms shone white in the sun. She had twisted a red silk handkerchief of her father's tight round her head; a few straggling curls of dark hair blew out from under this; her cheeks were scarlet, and her brown eyes flashed in her contest with the wind. Nobody ever called Tilly pretty; but she had a healthy, honest face, and at this moment she was pretty; no—not pretty; picturesque, which is far better than pretty, though Joe did not know that, and in his simplicity only wondered how a woman
