“A pie of beach-plums, sweet and crusty,” Anne repeated to herself the next day as she carried Martha out to the playhouse, and rearranged her bits of crockery, and looked off across the harbor.

“I do wish they would ripen speedily,” she said aloud. “Indeed those I tasted of yesterday had a pleasant flavor, and I am sure Mistress Stoddard would be well pleased if I could bring home enough for a pie. I will take the small brown basket and follow the upper path, for the plum bushes grow thickly there,” and Martha was carefully settled in her accustomed place, and Anne ran to the house for the brown basket, and in a few moments was following a sandy path which led toward the salt meadows.

She stopped often to pick the yellowing beach-plums, and now and then tasted one hopefully, expecting to find the sweet pungent flavor which the children so well loved, but only once or twice did she discover any sign of ripeness.

“I’ll cross the upper marsh,” she decided; “’Tis not so shaded there, and the sun lies warm till late in the day, and the plums are sure to be sweeter. I hope my father finds many to eat along his journey. I wish I had told him that it was best for me to go with him. We could have made little fires at night and cooked a fish, and, with berries to eat, it would not have been unpleasant.”

The July sun beat warmly down, but a little breath of air from the sea moved steadily across the marshes filled with many pleasant odors. Here and there big bunches of marsh rosemary made spots of soft violet upon the brown grass, and now and then little flocks of sand-peeps rose from the ground and fluttered noisily away. But there was a pleasant midsummer stillness in the air, and by the time Anne had crossed the marsh and reached the shade of a low-growing oak tree she began to feel tired and content to rest a time before continuing her search for ripe beach-plums.

“I wish I had put Martha in the basket,” she thought as she leaned comfortably back against the scrubby trunk of the little tree; “then I could have something to talk to.” But she had not much time to regret her playmate, for in a second her eyes had closed and she was fast asleep. There was a movement in the bushes behind her, a breaking of twigs, a soft fall of padded feet, but she did not awaken.

A big animal with a soft, gray coat of fur, with sharp nose and ears alertly pointed, came out from the woods, sniffed the soft air cautiously, and turned his head warily toward the oak tree. The creature was evidently not alarmed at what he saw there, for he approached the sleeping child gently, made a noiseless circle about her, and then settled down at her feet, much as a big dog might have done. His nose rested upon his paws and his sharp eyes were upon the sleeping child.

In a little while Anne awoke. She had dreamed that Jimmie Starkweather had led a beautiful, big gray animal to Mistress Stoddard’s door, and told her that it was a wolf that he had tamed; so when she opened her eyes and saw the animal so near her she did not jump with surprise, but she said softly, “Wolf!”

The creature sprang to its feet at the sound of her voice, and moved off a few paces, and then turned and looked over its shoulder at Anne.

“Wolf!” Anne repeated, brushing her hair from her eyes and pulling her sunbonnet over her head. Then she reached out for the plum basket, and stood up. Still the animal had not moved.

“I do believe it is tame,” thought Anne, and she made a step toward her visitor, but the gray wolf no longer hesitated, and with a bound it was off on a run across the marsh, and soon disappeared behind a clump of bushes.

“I wish it had stayed,” Anne said aloud, for there had been nothing to make her afraid of wild creatures, and Jimmie’s stories of a big wolf ranging about the outskirts of the settlement had not suggested to her that a wolf was anything which would do her harm, and she continued her search for beach-plums, her mind filled with the thought of many pleasant things.

“I do think, Mistress Stoddard, that I have plums enough for a pie,” she exclaimed, as she reached the kitchen door and held up her basket for Mistress Stoddard’s inspection.

“’Twill take a good measure of molasses, I fear,” declared Mrs. Stoddard, “but you shall have the pie, dear child. ’Twill please Captain Enos mightily to have a pie for his supper when he gets in from the fishing; and I’ll tell him ’twas Anne who gathered the plums,” and she nodded smilingly at the little girl.

“And what think you has happened at the spring this morning?” she went on, taking the basket from Anne, who followed her into the neat little kitchen. “Jimmie Starkweather and his father near captured a big gray wolf. The creature walked up to the spring to drink as meek as a calf, and Mr. Starkweather ran for his axe to kill it, but ’twas off in a second.”

“But why should he kill it?” exclaimed Anne. “I’m sure ’Tis a good wolf. ’twas no harm for it to drink from the spring.”

“But a wolf is a dangerous beast,” replied Mrs. Stoddard; “the men-folk will take some way to capture it.”

Anne felt the tears very near her eyes. To her, the gray wolf had not seemed dangerous. It had looked kindly upon her, and she had already resolved that if it ever were possible she would like to stroke its soft fur.

“Couldn’t the wolf be tamed?” she questioned. “I went to sleep near the marsh this morning and dreamed that Jimmie Starkweather had a tame wolf.” But for some reason, which Anne herself could not have explained, she did not tell her good friend of the wild creature which had come so near to her when she slept, and toward whom she had so friendly a feeling, and Mrs. Stoddard, busy with her preparations for pie-making, did not speak further of the wolf.

There was a good catch of fish that day, and Captain Enos came home smiling and well pleased.

“If we could hope that the British ships would keep out of harbor we could look forward to some comfort,” he said, “but Starkweather had news from an Ipswich fisherman that the ‘Somerset’ was cruising down the cape, and like as not she’ll anchor off the village some morning. And from what we hear, her sailors find it good sport to lay hands on what they see.”

The appearance of the beach-plum pie, warm from the oven, turned the captain’s thoughts to more pleasant subjects. “’Tis a clever child to find ripe beach-plums in July,” he said, as he cut Anne a liberal piece, “and a bit of tartness gives it an excellent flavor. Well, well, it is surely a pleasant thing to have a little maid in the house,” and he nodded kindly toward Anne.

After supper when Anne had gone up to her little chamber under the eaves, and Captain Enos and Mrs. Stoddard were sitting upon their front door-step enjoying the cool of the evening, Captain Enos said:

“Martha, Anne calls you Mistress Stoddard, does she not?”

“Always,” answered his wife. “She is a most thoughtful and respectful child. Never does she speak of thee, Enos, except to say ‘Captain.’ She has been in the house for over two months now, and I see no fault in her.”

“A quick temper,” responded Captain Enos, but his tone was not that of a person who had discovered a fault. Indeed he smiled as he spoke, remembering the flight of the Cary children.

“I would like well to have the little maid feel that we were pleased with her,” continued the captain slowly. “If she felt like calling me ‘Father’ and you ‘Mother,’ I should see no harm in it, and perhaps ’twould be well to have her name put on the town records as bearing our name, Anne Stoddard?” and Captain Enos regarded his wife questioningly.

“It is what I have been wishing for, Enos!” exclaimed Mrs. Stoddard, “but maybe ’twere better for the child to call us ‘Uncle’ and ‘Aunt.’ She does not yet forget her own father, you see, and she might feel ’twere not right to give another his name.”

Captain Enos nodded approvingly. “A good and loyal heart she has, I know,” he answered, “and ’twill be better indeed not to puzzle the little maid. We’ll be ‘Uncle’ and ‘Aunt’ to her then, Martha; and as for her name on the town records, perhaps we’ll let the matter rest till Anne is old enough to choose for herself. If the British keep on harrying us it may well be that we fisherfolk will have to go further up the coast for safety.”

“And desert Province Town?” exclaimed Mrs. Stoddard, “the place where your father and mine, Enos, were born and died, and their fathers before them. No—we’ll not search for safety at such a price. I doubt if I could live in those shut-in places such as I hear the upper landings are.”

Captain Enos chuckled approvingly. “I knew well what you would say to that, Martha,” he replied, “and now we must get our sleep, for the tide serves early to-morrow morning, and I must make the best of these good days.”

“Captain Enos was well pleased with the pie, Anne,” said Mrs. Stoddard the next morning, as the little girl stood beside her, carefully wiping the heavy ironware.[1] “And what does thee think! The captain loves thee so well, child, that it would please him to have thee call him Uncle Enos. That is kind of him, is it not, Anne?” and Mistress Stoddard smiled down at the eager little face at her elbow.

“It is indeed, Mistress Stoddard,” replied Anne happily; “shall I begin to-night?”

“Yes, child, and I shall like it well if you call me ‘Aunt’; ’twill seem nearer than ‘Mistress Stoddard,’ and you are same as our own child now.”

Anne’s dark eyes looked up earnestly into Mistress Stoddard’s kind face. “But I am my father’s little girl, too,” she said.

“Of course you are,” answered her friend. “Captain Enos and I are not asking you to forget your father, child. No doubt he did his best for you, but you are to care for us, too.”

“But I do, Aunt Martha; I love you well,” said Anne, so naturally that Mrs. Stoddard stopped her work long enough to give her a kiss and to say, “There, child, now we are all settled. ’twill please your Uncle Enos well.”

As soon as the few dishes were set away Anne wandered down the hill toward the spring. She no longer feared the Cary children, and she hoped to see some of the Starkweather family and hear more of the gray wolf, and at the spring she found Jimmie with two wooden buckets filled and ready for him to carry home to his waiting mother.

“You missed the great sight yesterday, Anne,” he said, as she approached the spring. “What think you! A wolf as big as a calf walked boldly up and drank, right where I stand.”

“’twas not as big as a calf,” declared Anne; “and why should you seek to kill a wild creature who wants but a drink? ’Tis not a bad wolf.”

Jimmie looked at her in surprise, his gray eyes widening and shining in wonder. “All wolves are bad,” he declared. “This same gray wolf walked off with Widow Bett’s plumpest hen and devoured it before her very eyes.”

“Well, the poor creature was hungry. We eat plump hens, when we can get them,” answered Anne.

Jimmie laughed good-naturedly. “Wait till you see the beast, Anne,” he answered. “Its eyes shine like black water, and its teeth show like pointed rocks. You’d not stand up for it so boldly if you had but seen it.”

Anne made no answer; she was not even tempted to tell Jimmie that she had seen the animal, had been almost within arm’s reach of it.

“I must be going,” she said, “but do not harm the wolf, Jimmie,” and she looked at the boy pleadingly; “perhaps it knows no better than to take food when it is hungry.”

“I’d like its skin for a coat,” the boy answered, “but ’Tis a wise beast and knows well how to take care of itself. It’s miles away by this time,” and picking up the buckets he started toward home, and Anne turned away from the spring and walked toward the little pasture where Brownie fed in safety.

She stopped to speak to the little brown cow and to give her a handful of tender grass, and then wandered down the slope and along the edge of the marsh.

“Maybe ’twill come again,” she thought, as she reached the little oak tree and sat down where she had slept the day before. “Perhaps if I sit very still it will come out again. I’m sure ’Tis not an unfriendly beast.”

The little girl sat very still; she did not feel sleepy or tired, and her dark eyes scanned the marsh hopefully, but as the summer morning drifted toward noon she began to realize that her watch was in vain.

“I s’pose Jimmie Starkweather was right, and the gray wolf is miles away,” she thought, as she decided that she must leave the shadow of the oak and hurry toward home so that Aunt Martha would not be anxious about her.

“I wish the wolf knew I liked him,” the little girl said aloud, as she turned her face toward home. “I would not chase him away from the spring, and I would not want his gray fur for a coat,” and Anne’s face was very sober, as she sent a lingering look along the thick-growing woods that bordered the marsh. She often thought of the wolf, but she never saw it again.