through the summer night, hinter, astride a rangy roan, rode the ten mile trail that lay between the foot of rond eau and the light-house. on his left the giant pines stood with sharp points clearly defined against the starlight like the bayonet-fixed guns of a sleeping army; to his right swept dwarf cedars and stunted oaks and beyond them the bay marshes, with weaving fire-flies shimmering like star-dust close above them.

it was a lonely trail but hinter had ridden it often. he knew that in the shadows lurked wild things which resented his intrusion of their retreat; that later, when the night grew old, timber-wolves would voice their protest, and fierce-eyed lynx, tufted ears flat and fangs bared in hatred, would look down upon him from overhanging branch of tree. but behind him stalked protection in the form of two great dogs against which no wolf or cat had ever waged successful warfare. besides, there was the heavy "40-40" revolver in his belt.

"two great danes and a 'bull-dog' should be protection enough for any man," he would laugh to landon, the light-house keeper, when the latter shook his head doubtfully over hinter's foolhardiness in riding this lone night trail. and landon, whose asthma made talking difficult for him, would say no more, realizing that it was useless.

the light-house keeper, who lived with his daughter in a comfortable house on the extreme end of the point, had always been glad to welcome hinter to his isolated loneliness. with an invalid's self-centeredness, he believed that it was to relieve the monotony of his existence that this man paid him periodical visits. he did not dream that his daughter, erie, named after the lake, whose blue lay deep in her eyes and whose moods were of herself a part, was the real attraction which drew hinter to their home. indeed it would have taken a much more astute observer than the man who had been keeper of the light for more than thirty years to have observed this. never by look, word or sign had hinter shown that in this slender, golden-haired girl, whose laughter was the sweetest note in the world—this girl who could trim a sail in biting gale and swim the wide, deep channel when tempest angered it to clutching under-currents—was more to him than just a glad, natural product of her world. always his manner towards her had been one of kindly respect. in time she grew ashamed of the distrust she had on first acquaintance intuitively felt for him. he was good to her father and considerate of her. he talked interestingly of the big outside world and described the cities he had visited. her father liked him and always looked forward to his visits, and with a sick man's petulance grumbled if hinter failed to come on his regular nights.

"he's a fine man, erie," he would say to is daughter, "and well off, too. i'd like to see you married to a man like hinter before i go. ever since your ma died, i've been worried about leavin' you behind."

"but i am going to marry frank, daddy," the girl would say softly.

"hey? oh, all right, all right. stanhope's a fine youngster, but poor, poor."

he would lapse into silence, sucking his pipe, and watching erie putting away the supper-dishes.

"he'll never find the scroggie will," he would speak again. "he'll always be poor."

"but, daddy," the girl would laugh, "we love each other. we are happy and real happiness is worth more than money, isn't it, dear?"

"aye," he would answer. "your mother and i were happy in that way. but she was taken away and all i had in her place was heart loneliness—but for you." then she would kiss him softly and, stealing about her household tasks, sing him to fitful sleep as she moved quietly about the room.

tonight as hinter rode through the pine-scented gloom the light-house keeper sat in his big chair beside the window that looked upon the lake. spent from a trying fit of coughing, his nerves crying for the rest which was denied him, the sick man had gazed across to where the shuttle of sunset was weaving its fabric of changing colors upon sky and water. but he had not seen those glad lights; had not heard the cries of the haven-seeking gulls or the soft plaintive notes of the night birds from the point forest. the lights had flashed and departed unseen, the wild calls had been voiced and sunk to silence unheard, because a tenderer light, which had belonged to this, his own hour, had vanished; a sweeter song than even night birds could voice had been stilled—the light in his erie's eyes and the low notes from her glad heart.

he knew why. she had told him. god, destiny, fate, had come between her and the man she loved. the man had lost more than life in playing the part of a man. he was blind! behind him were only memories that could not be buried. before him only darkness, bleakness, despair. and he had done an heroic thing in giving her up. helpless, powerless to support her, what else was there for him to do? so, in his love for her, he had dug a grave and in it buried hope and all that god in his wise ordinance had allowed him to live and feel. and they had kissed and parted, kneeling beside this grave, cold lips to cold lips, broken heart to broken heart. it was the kiss on the cross which each must carry.

so much had she told him, and the light had gone from her eyes, the song from her lips.

the sick man sank lower in his chair, his face working, his heart crying the same pleading cry as cried the heart of rachel of old for her children—a cry understood only by the heart in which it was born—and god.

and so hinter found him there before the window in the gloom, his thin hands clutching the arms of his chair, his white face sunk on his breast. "landon, old friend, asleep?" he asked softly. no answer. hinter struck a match and lit the lamp on the table. then he touched the sleeper's arm; still he did not stir.

alarmed, hinter drew the big chair about so that the light would fall on the sick man's face. slowly landon opened his eyes. he struggled erect and attempted to speak, but a fit of coughing assailed him and robbed him of breath.

from his pocket hinter drew a flat bottle and poured a portion of its contents into a glass. gently raising the emaciated form to a more comfortable position, he held the glass to the blue lips. under the stimulant of the brandy landon rallied.

"thanks," he whispered. then, hospitality his first thought, he motioned towards a chair. hinter sat down.

"worse than usual tonight, isn't it?" he asked in kindly tones.

"yes, asthma's that way—eases off—then comes back—hits you sudden." he glanced at the bottle. hinter, understanding, poured him out another portion.

"it seems to be the only thing that helps," gasped landon as he swallowed the draught.

hinter nodded. "not a bad medicine if rightly used," he said. he filled his pipe, lit it, and passed the tobacco-pouch to landon. he was watching the door leading to the inner room.

"erie out in her boat?" he asked, casually. "i don't hear her voice, or her whistle."

"she's out on the bay," answered the father and lapsed again into brooding silence.

hinter waited. at length landon roused from his musings. "my heart's heavy for her," he said, "and heavy for the young man who loves her. you've heard, of course. news of the like spreads quickly."

"yes, i've heard." hinter rose abruptly and strode to the window overlooking the bay. a full moon was lifting above the pines. in its silvery track a tiny sail was beating harborward.

after a time he turned and walked back slowly to where the sick man sat. "mr. landon," he said, gravely, "i love your daughter. with your permission i would make her my wife. wait," as the older man attempted to speak. "hear what i have to say. i have endeavored to be honorable. never by word or look have i given her to understand what my feelings are toward her. for stanhope, the man who was brave and strong enough to give her up, i have always had the deepest respect; and now, knowing the price he has paid, i honor him. he was far more worthy of your daughter than i am. but now, as all is over between them, i would do my best to make her happy."

"that i know well," spoke the father eagerly. "ever since my clutch on life has been weakenin' i've worried at the thought that perhaps i may leave her unprovided for. you have lifted the load, my friend. i will speak to erie and place your proposal of marriage before her. she's a good girl; she'll be guided by her father in the matter."

hinter gravely thanked him. "i would advise that you say nothing for a time," he said. "she is high-spirited, loyal to the core. she is suffering. time will assist us; we will wait. i shall visit you oftener than heretofore, but until i think the moment expedient say nothing to her."

a light step sounded on the gravel; the door opened and erie entered. she was dressed in white. the damp bay-breeze had kissed the golden hair to shimmering life but there were shadows beneath the violet eyes, a dreary pathos about the unsmiling mouth.

she placed a cold little hand in the eager one which hinter extended to her and her fleeting glance left him to fasten on the sick man in the arm chair.

"daddy," she cried, running over to kneel beside him. "it was selfish of me to leave you alone."

"i've had our good friend hinter for company, girlie," said her father, stroking the damp curls.

erie flashed their visitor a look of gratitude. "it is good of you to come to him," she said. "he always looks forward to your visits, and grows quite fretful if you are late." she smiled and patted the father's hand. "the east wind's bad for the cough but tomorrow you'll be as good as ever, won't you, daddy?"

landon did not reply. he simply pressed the girl's cold hand. hinter caught the look of suffering in her eyes as she arose and passed into the outer room. when she returned she carried a heavy, wicker-bound can.

"my lamps need filling," she explained. "no, please don't come," as hinter made to take the can from her, "i would rather you stayed with him."

he bowed, and his eyes followed her from the room. "what a wonderful creature she is," he thought.

"hinton," landon's weak voice broke in on his thoughts, "you haven't given me the neighborhood news. have they found out who robbed the store yet?"

"no," answered hinter, resuming his seat, "i believe not. some were disposed to think that the shoremen had a hand in the robbery but i don't think so."

"why don't you? the sand-sharkers aren't above doin' it, are they?"

"well, i don't say that they are. that job was not done by any amateurs, though. the men who broke into spencer's store were old hands at the game. i was at the store and had a look over it. i've seen the work of professional burglars before. these fellows made a clean sweep and left not a single clew. still, i made my own deductions. i can't tell you more until i have proved my suspicions correct. hush!" he warned, "she's coming. i must be hitting the trail for the settlement."

as hinter picked up his hat erie entered and the light words he was about to speak died on his lips at sight of the girl's stricken face. "you are tired," he said, in deep concern. "the work of tending the lights alone is too much for you. why not let me send someone from the settlement to help you, at least until your father is strong enough to take up his end of the work again?"

she shook her head. "the work is not hard and i love it," she answered. "after the lights are lit i have nothing to do. daddy's asthma will not let him sleep, so he sits in his big chair all night and keeps his eye on the light while i sleep. then when the sun sucks up the mists from bay and lake he is able to get his sleep. so, you see," smiling bravely, "we get along splendidly."

hinter held out his hand. "well, good night, miss erie," he said. "i'll be up again soon, with some books for you."

"but you mustn't go without having a cup of tea and a bite to eat," she protested. "please sit down and i'll have it ready in a minute."

he shook his head. "not tonight, thanks. you're tired, and i've a long ride before me. next time i come we'll have tea," he promised as he turned to shake hands with landon.

"your guardians are with you i suppose?" said erie, as he turned to go.

he laughed, "sphinx and dexter, you mean? yes, they are out in the stable with my horse. by the way, they didn't see you last time we were here, and they seemed to feel pretty badly about it. would you mind stepping outside and speaking a word to them?" he asked. "they are very fond of you, you know."

she shivered. "and i'm very fond of them, only," she added as she followed him to the door, "i never know whether they want to eat me up or caress me."

"you won't forget to come back again soon, hinter?" called the sick man. "it does me a sight of good to see you and get the news from the settlement."

"i'll return soon," hinter promised. "don't worry about anything. a speedy recovery—and good night."

a full moon was veiling lake and bay in sheen of silvery whiteness as hinter and erie went out into the august night. eastward the long pine covered point swept a dark line against the grey, shadowy rush-lands. somewhere among the hidden ponds mallards and grey ducks were quacking contentedly as they fed. a swamp coon raised his almost human cry as he crept the sandy shores in search of the frogs whose tanging notes boomed from the boglands.

man and girl paused for a little time on the strip of white sand to drink in the beauty of the night and the sounds of its wild life. then hinter stepped to the stable and opened the door. "come boys," he commanded and the two great dogs came bounding out to leap upon him with whines of welcome, then on to where the girl stood, waiting, half eagerly, half frightened.

"gently now," hinter cautioned, and they threw themselves at her feet, massive heads on outstretched paws, deep-set eyes raised to her face. she bent and placed a hand on the head of each.

"surely," she said, "they are not as ferocious as they are said to be?"

hinter knit his brows. "i'm afraid they are," he answered. "but my friends are their friends, you see. there is only one other person besides yourself and myself who can do what you are doing now, though."

she looked up quickly. "and may i ask who that is?"

"certainly; it's young billy wilson. you know—the lad who is always roaming the woods."

"yes," she said softly. "i know him perhaps better than most folks do. i am not surprised that he can handle these dogs, mr. hinter."

he glanced at her closely, struck by the odd note in her voice. "he seems a manly little chap," he said. "i must get to know him better."

"you may succeed," she replied, "but i'm afraid you would have to know billy a long time to know him well."

she bent and gave the dogs a farewell pat; then moved like the spirit of the moonlight to the house. "good night," she called softly from the doorway.

"good night," he echoed.

five minutes later he was riding the two-mile strip of sand between the light-house and the pines, the great danes close behind. when he reached the timber he reined in to look back over his shoulder at the tall white tower with its ever-sweeping, glowing eye. then, with a sigh, he rode forward and passed into the darkness of the trees. half way down the trail he dismounted and, after hitching his horse to a tree and commanding his dogs to stand guard, plunged into the thickly-growing pines on the right of the path.

half an hour later he came out upon the lake shore. quickly he scraped together a pile of drift wood. he applied a match to it and as fire leaped up stood frowning across the water. then, as an answering light flashed from some distance out in the lake, he sighed in relief and seating himself on the sand lit his pipe. after a time the sound of oars fell on his ears. a boat scraped on the beach. two men stepped from it and approached the fire.