"That’s the worst of people," Garth said; "they stare at you whatever you do. I don’t see why signaling isn’t perfickly all right. That’s one reason why you’re so nice, Joan; you like to do any sort of thing at all."
Joan smiled a little. She wondered to herself if, a few weeks ago, she would have sat upon the deck of a steamer waving her arms at a hatless child, whether any one was looking on or not.
"We’re almost in, anyhow," she said; "we couldn’t have done it much longer."
"Oh, look there, Joan!" cried Garth. "There’s another lighthouse! It’s not nearly as nice as ours."
It was not; for it consisted of a hideous mansard-roofed house, painted red and perched upon a heap of raw, stone blocks, the light-tower sprouting from the middle of the roof like some strange fungus very much out of place.
"I do believe there’s a cat sitting on the step!" said Joan. "I wonder how he likes living in the middle of the bay."
"Cap’n Brewer, that kept our Light before we did," said Garth, "used to have hens. Cap’n ’Bijah says that they could swim just like ducks. He saw them often, he says, but I don’t
