heart. Her fantastic dress gleamed like a fiery cloud against the
gray outside: her hair fell like a glory about her vivid, shining
face. A moment she stood there, a vision, a flying star, trailing
angry light, never to be forgotten by those who saw; then, like a
flash, she vanished.

Captain January tottered to his old chair and sat down in it. "The
child is right, Lady and Gentleman!" he said. "I lied! I lied to my
God, and to the little child who loved me. May God and the child
forgive me!" And he hid his face in his hands, and silence fell for
a moment.

Then Mr. Morton, who had walked hastily to the window, and was doing
something with his handkerchief, beckoned to his wife. "Isabel," he
said, in a low tone, "I will not be a party to this. It's an atrocious
and vindictive outrage. I--I--you are not the woman I took you for,
if you say another word to that old angel. Let him have the child,
and send him one or two of your own into the bar--" but Isabel Morton,
laughing through her tears, laid her hand over her husband's lips
for a moment. Then going to the old man's chair, she knelt down by
it, and took his two hands in hers.

"Captain January!" she said, tenderly. "Dear, dear Captain January!
the lie is forgiven: I am very, very sure it is forgiven in heaven,
as it will be forgiven in the child's loving heart. And may God never
pardon me, if ever word or look of mine come again between you and
the child whom God gave you!"

The gray evening was closing in around the lighthouse tower. The
guests were gone, and Captain January sat alone beside the fire in