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Updated: June 20, 2025
"It is a masterpiece!" cried the artist in the man, as he gazed upon the glorious face. "It is my woman!" responded the man in the artist. "My Spirit of the dunes with the strength of the Hills and the mystery of the sea." A sudden knock shattered the ecstasy. "Come!" called Thornly and turned to meet his guest. Mark Tapkins awkwardly entered. Mark had been a great resource to Thornly lately.
The afternoon had brought Mark Tapkins with his gloomy face, too, so Janet had been obliged to give the Hills a wide berth and only darkness brought relief. Susan Jane was bewailing her woes in David's patient ears, it was Mark's night in the Light, so, unseen and unsuspected, Janet loosed the Comrade, unfurled the white wing before the obliging land breeze, and made for the Station.
Pa Tapkins had his explanation ready. It had borne part in his boyhood and was a fully confirmed fact in later life. "It all come of the poplars bein' sich liars, Janet. Never trust no poplar! When things was only sand an' beginnin's in these parts, all the trees sprung up together. But the poplars, bein' snoopier than common, shot up considerable an' took a look around.
Thornly's gaze contracted, and he clasped his hands rigidly around his knees. He felt as if he were before a bar of justice and he must weigh the evidence against himself. "The sand bar," Mark replied. "Every once so often some fellers come down here with a fool notion o' cuttin' down the sand bar, an' dredge deep enough to make a inlet int' the bay." "Perhaps they may, some day, Tapkins."
Thornly, I don't know as you understand why I've been runnin' here so much lately? You see I wanted, so t' speak, t' git the lay o' the land 'twixt you an' her!" Tapkins kept his eyes upon the vivid face, only by its inspiration could he hold to his purpose. "Have you got it, Tapkins?" Thornly bent closer and gazed at his visitor keenly. "I seem t' sense it," was the low reply.
Mark Tapkins had informed him of the artist's departure; and that, together with Susan Jane's death and funeral, had given Billy, never before cowardly, a time of grace. But he knew that his girl had come to him in some trouble. Every expression of the dear face was known to him, and he was ready to throw out the line of help as soon as the signal was sure.
In the far distance the girl heard the panting shriek of the engine of the morning train from the city. Could that shambling, weary figure approaching be Mark? Why, he looked older than Pa Tapkins! Janet waited until he was abreast of her. His hands were plunged in his pockets, his shabby valise slung over his shoulder, and his head was bowed upon his chest.
Over all this, Mark Tapkins watched and brooded, and he slouched more dejectedly between the Light and his father's little home. "I tell you!" he often confided to his inner self, "city life is blightin'! When I was there, it took the breath out o' me, an' now it's come t' Quinton, it's knocked a good many different from what they once was!"
Cuttin' down barriers ain't goin' t' do nothin' but cause waste o' time in buildin' 'em up agin." Never before in his life had Mark spoken so eloquently nor so lengthily. A dimness rose in Thornly's eyes, and a respect for the awkward fellow grew in his heart. He arose and stood before Tapkins, his hand resting protectingly upon "The Pimpernel."
It must be hard to see others active, if one is tied as you are. Try not to look at me." "Not look at you? Huh! Gals need watchin'. I know it would suit more'n you, like as not, if I'd been struck blind as well as helpless. But I ain't blind. I see all that's goin', an' more, too!" Janet sighed. The atmosphere of the Light, below stairs, was depressing. "What's Mark Tapkins hangin' round fur?"
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