Captain Salter, in his five years of widowhood, had fallen into habits that varied but little from day to day. He cooked his own breakfast, and was off to his boat, or to the long shed where in winter he built them for other people, before Mrs. Bachelder set foot within his doors.

This Sabbath morning he rose, shaved, and made his customary demi-toilet, then went out to the stove and set the kettle to boil.

He lingered for a minute, smiling, before the Yellowstone postal-cards, his thoughts busy with the events of the evening before.

He held an imaginary reel in his hands and began slowly winding the invisible line.

“Take your time, Miss Betsy,” he hummed.

His cottage stood on a corner of land, facing out to sea. Rocks were to the left of it, a stony beach to the right. His boat-house was in sight. A flower-garden was in front, with a path that ran down between the beds.

Many a summer visitor had admired the position of the little white house, and tried to tempt Hiram to part with it; but his grandfather had built it, and the captain’s invariable reply to would-be purchasers was: “I haven’t come to that, yet.”

By habit he now moved to the window to note the sea’s mood. Some strange object caught his eye. His head went forward, his eyes seemed to bulge. A woman was seated on the rustic bench outside. Her back was toward him as she watched the rolling waves. She was dressed in dark brown, with hat and veil; and a traveling-bag reposed on the seat beside her.

“Steady, Hiram, steady!” he murmured, making long silent strides to the inner room, and catching up his coat. He gave two strokes of the brush to his stiff hair, and then strode out on tiptoe again to the window.

“’Twa’n’t any dream,” he muttered. “She’s there! Steady! Look out for the boom!”

He opened the door, and as Betsy turned her head, he spoke, quite as if it had been his daily custom to greet her at six-thirty A. M. in his garden.

“Good-mornin’. Things look kind o’ washed up and shinin’ after the rain, don’t they?”

His keen eyes studied his caller’s face as he advanced with a casual air.

“It’s a beautiful mornin’,” returned Betsy, her hand clasping the top of her bag tightly, and bright spots coming in her pale cheeks.

“You look as if you was goin’ off jauntin’ again,” said Hiram, feeling his way with care. “Gettin’ to be such a traveler you don’t make anythin’ of dartin’ off and dartin’ back again, like a—like a swaller.”

The lump in Betsy’s throat would not let her speak. Her silence mystified the captain more than anything she could have said. Determined not to frighten her, he plunged into generalities.

“I think it’s about time you paid a visit to my garden. Don’t you think it’s lookin’ good? If you’d a seen them lilies o’ the valley a month ago ’twould ’a’ done your heart good. They’re a-spreadin’ so, I donno but the cottage’ll have to git up ’n git. I remembered what you said once—that is,” added Hiram, correcting himself lest his visitor should rise and fly,—“my mother was always set on sweet peas, I try to have plenty of ’em.”

“They’re perfectly beautiful,” said Betsy, her eyes resting on the riot of color that embedded the white house in violet and rose and white. “I think it’s my favorite flower.”

“That’s what you said—” began Hiram eagerly, and then cleared his throat and stammered. “My mother—yes, she used to say they was like butterflies, just swayin’ on the stem, and ready to fly.”

Betsy met his eyes as he stood apart, his stalwart figure uneasily moving, now toward her and then away, in his eager embarrassment. Something in her look drew him close to the seat.

“There ain’t any train for an hour yet,” he said gently. “I s’pose you took a bite, but you’ll have breakfast with me, won’t you, Betsy, ’fore I take ye over to the depot? I s’pose you’re leavin’ again.”

“Yes.”

She said it gravely, and dropped her eyes from his kind face.

“For how long this time?”

“Forever.”

The word was spoken quietly; but her lips quivered.

“What?” The man started, and frowned.

“Oh, Hiram,”—the lips were quivering still, and she paused, then reached up a hand which was quickly lost in both of his,—“can’t you see? I’ve come home.”

There were only the rocks, and the beach, and the waves that hissed and broke, to look upon them.

Instantly Hiram was beside her on the garden-seat, with Betsy in his arms, her thin cheek pressed against his broad chest, and sobs convulsing her slender body.

He scowled, and smiled at the restless sea across his precious burden. Not a word he said, but his big hand patted her in gentle rhythm, and once he kissed her temple.

At last she pushed herself from him, and sat up.

“There’s one favor I’m goin’ to beg,” she said, with pauses, her handkerchief still at her eyes. “That is, that you won’t ask me why. I feel as if I couldn’t go over it.”

“My Betsy,” replied the captain slowly, “there was only one question I ever wanted to ask o’ you. I did it a good many times, ’cause you didn’t give the right answer. Now you’ve done it, and I sha’n’t ask ye anything more.”

“And Hiram,” she went on, struggling for self-control, “I have a feelin’ as if—as if I didn’t want it—to happen here.”

“What?” asked the captain, doubtfully, “breakfast?”

“No—no—the—I feel as if I didn’t want any minister in Fairport.”

“I see.” He nodded. “Leave it to me, Betsy. Leave everything to me. I know I’m a blunderer lots o’ times; but I’ll attend to this right. I love ye.” He drew her down again on his comfortable shoulder. “Will ye come in?” he asked, after a minute.

“No. I’ll stay out here, Hiram.”

“All right.” He kissed her forehead. “To think ye’ll stay!” he said softly. “That’s the wonderful part of it. To think ye’ll stay!”

He went into the house and brought a calico cushion with him from somewhere, putting it behind her back. She accepted it, too spent to smile.

Hiram saw her pallor, and hastened the breakfast. Soon a little table appeared before the garden-seat, and coffee and toast and eggs were speedily forthcoming.

He sat beside her, and arranged everything with the utmost care.

“How good you are!” she said, once. Otherwise she was silent, and so was he.

Before they had finished, a small boy entered the gate with papers under his arm. His jaw dropped as he recognized the captain and a guest at breakfast under the ragged balm-of-Gilead tree.

“B’Judas, I forgot him,” muttered the host. “Come here, sonny.”

The boy obeyed, and mechanically handed the captain his paper while keeping unwinking eyes on Betsy. “Now d’ye want to earn a quarter?”

“Yus.”

“Well, go to Mrs. Bachelder and tell her somethin’ for me. Think ye can?”

“Yus.”

“She’s ben wantin’ to go to Portland and do some tradin’. Can you tell her that I’ve got some business to do that’ll keep me away all to-day and she needn’t come over to get dinner?”

“Yus.”

“And she can go up town to-day or to-morrer mornin’ and do her tradin’ if she wants to. Can ye tell her that?”

“Yus.”

“Well, go on then. Here’s yer quarter. Go right there from here. D’ye hear?”

“Yus.”

“If I find to-morrer that ye haven’t done it, I’ll use ye for porgie-bait. Understand?”

“Yus.”

With this the boy removed his eyes from Betsy for the first time, and ran at a dog-trot toward the beach.

“I never saw that child,” said Betsy.

“No. There’s another generation comin’ up. He won’t be able to tell Mrs. Bachelder who’s havin’ breakfast with me; and when she comes home from Portland she’ll get a letter tellin’ her she’s lost her job.”

“I’ll write it,” said Betsy. “She’s a good soul.”

“You’ll write it!” The captain was standing, and he paused, a cup and saucer in each hand, and gazed at her admiringly. “Clever Betsy! and she’s mine.”

“She’s taken good care of you, Hiram. I want her to know we appreciate it.”

“We!” repeated the radiant man. “You care that I’ve been took good care of, Betsy?”

The coffee had restored some energy to the guest. She gave her one-sided smile. “I do wish, Hiram,” she said deprecatingly, “that you wouldn’t feel you’ve got so much in gettin’ me.”

To her consternation he dropped the gold-banded old china he had been holding. Both cups fell in tinkling pieces on the ground as he wiped his eyes, and blew his nose lustily.

“O Hiram!” she cried, starting.

“Never mind, dear.” The man’s breath caught. “I didn’t notice. I had to work at the pumps. Our ship o’ matrimony is bein’ launched. Let’s say we broke ’em on purpose over it. Nothin’ was too good. Set still.”

And Betsy did. She leaned back against the calico cushion and let her faithful lover carry away the table, while she watched the sea, and breathed the sumptuous perfume of the sweet peas.

The last thing Hiram carried into the house was the traveling-bag. Her hand went out to it involuntarily as he picked it up; but he looked at her, and she leaned back again, and let it go.

At last he took his knife, and going about the flowers, cut a large bunch of white sweet peas. These he tied with a piece of linen thread, and Betsy smiled as he gave them to her. He watched while she fastened them in the front of her white waist.

“Are you ready now?” he asked.

For answer she rose, and together they moved down to the floating wharf, and Hiram handed her into the row-boat by which they went out to the Clever Betsy.

It took some time to unfurl the sails and put them up, and Betsy went into the little cabin and made acquaintance with her namesake.

It was queer, she thought, that it didn’t seem queerer to be here, and irresponsible of all things earthly except Hiram. Even Rosalie did not need her. Last night’s arraignment was proof positive of her success.

Her duty was here now, and nowhere else; and the wonderful feature of the position was that it seemed so natural, and—yes, so sweet. As the boat bounded forward, borne on strong white wings, Betsy’s heart seemed to soar also into some new and freer region. Some wireless message from a New England ancestry reached her.

“Is it right to be so happy?” she asked herself. Suddenly she turned and met Hiram’s eyes.

“This is a long leg, Betsy,” he said quietly. “Come over and sit against this cushion. I want to get my hand on ye and know it ain’t a dream.”

“Yes, it’s right!” answered Betsy’s heart, and she obeyed.