SILVER FOXES AND SEACOWS 235

and imagines it clad with a few more yards of soil and less of water.

The lighthouse-keeper came forward at once when he saw another Visitor, for he knew perfectly well he was destined to impart information. The point looked so bare without any trees around.

“Killed off by the salt spray,” I surmised quickly.

Not so.

“Can’t grow trees on government property,” the keeper pointed out.

Apparently, his garden wouldn’t grow either. Sympathy, I suppose.

“People come here and paint,” he said. He seemed surprised.

All along the coast, but far out, fishing boats with sails plied to and fro or drifted lazily.

“From Caraquet,” interpreted the keeper. “Our boats have motors, but these stay out for two weeks and salt their fish. On the day they return their wives have dug up clam bait for them. They take the fish, re-salt it, and sell it.”

Gradually a rainbow of softly blending shadows formed an arch over the little boats clustered below. A delicate sash . . . a bow of promise . . an exquisite frame for a perfect picture. And the little boats stayed there motionless between the grey sea and sky, with the promise of God above them.

“Somebody’s having rain,” observed the keeper.

We walked to the edge of the tall cliff.

“People must lose animals over these high banks,” remarked Jean.

“They do. A neighbour of mine lost a cow not long ago. I saw her outside the fence before she went over,