"You mind the noise, don't you?" She was looking at him sympathetically.

"Well, 't ain't the noise so much,--I've heard the ocean roar,--it's
folks. Pesters me havin' 'em round--so many on 'em."

Her look changed to a little wonder. "I should think you would like to
be with them. You help them." She spoke the words softly, almost shyly.
The clear glow of her eyes rested on his face.

The face showed no pride. "Yes, I reckon I help 'em--some. There's
gen'ally suthin' to do, if you're where folks be; but I have to get away
from 'em. Can't breathe if I don't. And there ain't any place to go to.
I was feelin' a good deal cooped up to-night, and then I thought o' your
place here." He moved his hand toward the dark recesses. "It's kind o'
clean and high."

They sat in silence, the girl's head resting on her hand.

Uncle William watched her face in the half-light. "You're gettin' tired
and kind o' peaked."

She looked up. "I am resting."

"Yes--yes, I know how it is. You stan' all you can and byme-by you come
to a place you can rest in, and you jest rest--hard."

"Yes."

"You ought to 'a' asked somebody to help ye," said Uncle William,
gently.