Captain Dan was seated in his old chair, at his old desk, behind the counter of the Metropolitan Store. His pipe, the worn, charred briar that he had left in the drawer of that very desk when he started for the railway station and Scarford, was in his mouth. Over the counter, beyond the showcases and the tables with their piles of oilskins, mittens, sou'westers, and sweaters, through the panes of the big front windows, he could see the road, the main street of Trumet. The road was muddy, and the mud had frozen. Beyond the road, between the shops and houses on the opposite side, he saw the bare brown hills, the pond where the city people found waterlilies in the summer—the pond was now a glare of ice—the sand dunes, the beach, the closed and shuttered hotel and cottages, and, beyond these, the cold gray and white of the wintry sea rolling beneath a gloomy sky. To the average person the view would have been desolation itself. To Captain Dan it was a section of Paradise. It was the picture which had been in his mind for months. And here it was in reality, unchanged, unspoiled, a part of home, his home. And he, at last, was at home again.

They had been in Trumet a week, the captain and Serena and Gertrude. Azuba had been there two days longer, having been sent on ahead of the family to open the house and get it ready. Laban remained behind as caretaker of the Scarford mansion. His term of service in that capacity was not likely to be a long one, for the real estate dealer was in active negotiation with his client, and the dealer's latest report stated that the said client was considering hiring the house, furnished, for a few months and, in the event of his liking it as well as he expected, would then, in all probability, buy.

Laban's remaining as caretaker was his own suggestion.

“Me and the old gal—Zuby Jane, I mean—have talked it over,” he explained, “and it seems like the best thing to do. You've got to have somebody here, Cap'n Dott, you've got to pay somebody, and it might as well be me. I'm out of a job just now, anyway. As for me and my wife bein' separated—well, we're different from most married folks that way; it seems the natural thing for us to BE separated. We're used to it, as you might say. I don't know as we'd get along so well together if we wasn't separated. There's nothin' like separation to keep husband and wife happy along with one another. I've been with Zuby for most three weeks steady now; that's the longest stretch we've had in a good many years. We ain't quarreled once, neither.”

He seemed to consider the fact remarkable. Captain Dott grinned.

“I suppose that shuttin' her up in the dish closet wasn't what you'd call a quarrel, hey?” he observed.

Mr. Ginn was momentarily embarrassed.

“Oh, that!” he exclaimed. “Humph! I forgot that, for the minute. But that wasn't a quarrel, rightly speakin'. 'Twas just a little difference of opinion on account of my not understandin' her reason for bein' so sot on havin' her own way. Soon's I understood 'twas all right. And you see yourself how peaceable she's been ever since.”

So, after consultation with Azuba, the arrangement was perfected. Laban was to receive ten dollars a week, from which sum he was to provide his own meals. He was to sleep in the house, but the meals were to be obtained elsewhere. Mrs. Dott would not consider his cooking in her kitchen.

Serena bore the fatigue of the journey well and the sight of her old home, with the table set for supper, plants in the dining-room windows, and all the little familiar touches which Azuba's thoughtfulness had supplied, served to bring her the contentment and happiness she had been longing for. Each day she gained in health and strength, and the rest and freedom from care, together with the early hours—they retired at nine-thirty each night—were doing wonders for her. Her husband was delighted at the improvement. He was delighted with everything, the familiar scenes, the smell of the salt marshes, and of the sea, the clear, cold air, the meeting with friends and acquaintances, the freedom from society—he had not even unpacked his dress suit, vowing to Gertrude that it might stay buried till Judgment, he wouldn't resurrect it—all these things delighted his soul. And now, on the Saturday morning at the end of his first week at home, as he sat in his arm chair behind the counter of the Metropolitan Store, looking at the view through the windows and at the store itself, he was a happy man. There was one flaw in his happiness, but that he had forgotten for the moment.

He glanced about him, took a long pull at his pipe, and said aloud: “Well, if I didn't know 'twas the same place, I wouldn't have known it. I never saw such a change in my life.”

Nathaniel Bangs, standing by the front window, turned.

“I don't see much difference,” he said. “The old town looks about the same to me.”

The captain smilingly shook his head.

“'Tain't the town,” he observed. “It's this store. Nate, you're a wonder, that's what you are, a wonder.”

For, if the view had not changed, if it was the same upon which Daniel Dott had looked for many winters, through the windows of that very store, the store itself had changed materially. Mr. Bangs had wrought the change and it was distinctly a change for the better. The stock, and there was a surprising deal of it, was new and attractively displayed. The contents of the showcases were varied and up-to-date. Neatly lettered placards calling attention to special bargains hung in places where they were most likely to be seen. There was a spruce, swept, and garnished look to the establishment; as Azuba said when she first saw it after her return, it looked as if it had had a shave and a hair cut. In other words, the Metropolitan Store appeared wide awake and prosperous, as if it was making money—which it was.

It was not making a great deal, of course, as yet. This was the dullest season of the year. But the Christmas trade had been good and, thanks to Nathaniel's enterprise and effort, the scallop fishermen, the quahaug rakers, and the members of the life-saving crews were once more buying their outfits at the Metropolitan Store instead of patronizing Mr. J. Cohen and The Emporium. Mr. Bangs was already selecting his summer stock; and his plans for the disposal of that stock were definite and business-like.

“If you don't say no, Cap'n Dott,” he had explained, “I'm going to try putting on a horse and wagon this summer. There's no reason why we shouldn't get the cottage trade down at the Neck, and all along shore. Jim Bartlett, Sam's older brother, would like the job driving that wagon. He's smart as a whip, Jim is, and he's willing to work on commission. Let him start out twice a week with a load of hats and oilskins and belts and children's shovels and pails—all the sort of stuff the boarders and cottage folks buy and that they'd buy more of if it was brought right to their doors—and he'll catch a heap of trade that goes to Bayport or Wellmouth or The Emporium now. What he don't carry he can take orders for and deliver next trip. If you don't say no, Cap'n Dott, I'm going to try it. And I'll bet a month's wages it's a go.”

Captain Dan had not said no. On the contrary he expressed enthusiastic approval of his manager's plans and enterprise. Also, he had been thinking of some adequate reward, some means of proving his gratitude real.

“You're a wonder, Nate,” repeated Daniel. “I don't know how to get even with you, but I've got an idea. I've talked it over with Serena already and she's for it. I want to ask Gertie's opinion and if she says yes, and she will, I'm almost sartin, I'll tell you what it is.”

“All right, Cap'n. Don't you worry yourself trying to 'get even,' as you call it, with me. I've enjoyed being in charge here. I always said there was money in a store in Trumet, if it was run as it should be. One year more and I can show you a few things, I'll bet.”

“You've shown 'em already. Land of love! I should say you had.”

“Give me time and I'll show you more. We have only begun.... Why, what's the matter? What made you look that way?”

“Oh, nothin', nothin'. Only your sayin' we'd only begun reminded me of—of other things. I don't suppose I'll ever hear 'only begun' without shiverin'. Humph! there's some kind of beginnin's I hope I'll never hear of again. Gertie been in this mornin', has she? She isn't in the house.”

“No, I saw her go down street a little while ago. Gone for her morning walk, perhaps. How is Mrs. Dott to-day?”

“Fine. Tip top. I ain't seen her so satisfied with life for two months or more. She's gettin' better every minute.”

“That's good. Contented to be back in Trumet, is she?”

“Seems to be. I am; you can bet high on that.”

“And—er—Gertie, is she contented, too?”

This question touched directly the one uncertainty, the one uncomfortable doubt in the captain's mind. He looked keenly at the questioner.

“What makes you ask that?” he demanded.

“Oh, nothing much. She seems changed, that's all. She used to be so full of spirits, and so bright and lively. Now she is quiet and doesn't talk much. Looks thinner, too, and as if something was troubling her. Perhaps it is my imagination. When's John Doane coming down? 'Most time for him to be spending a Sunday with you, ain't it? Engaged folks don't usually stay apart more than a week, especially when the one is as near the other as Boston is to Trumet.”

Daniel knocked the ashes from his pipe into the wastebasket.

“Oh, oh, John'll be along pretty soon, I shouldn't wonder,” he said hastily. “He—he's pretty busy these days, I suppose.”

“Nice thing his bein' taken into the firm, after Mr. Griffin died, wasn't it. Well, he's a pretty smart fellow, John is, and he deserves to get ahead. Did he tell you the particulars about it?”

“No. No, not all of 'em. Is that a customer in the other room?”

Mr. Bangs hurried away to attend to the customer. The captain seized the opportunity to make a timely exit. He went into the house, remained a while with his wife, and then returned. Nathaniel had gone on an order-taking trip and Sam Bartlett, the boy, was in charge. Just as Daniel entered the store from the side door Gertrude came in at the front.

“Hello, Daddy,” she said. “All alone?”

“Not quite, but I'd just as soon be. Sam, go into the other room; I'll hail you if I need you. Gertie, come here. I want to have a talk with you.”

Gertrude came. She took her old position, perching upon the arm of her father's chair, with her own arm about his neck.

“Gertie,” began the captain, “what would you think of my makin' Nate Bangs a partner in this concern?”

Gertrude uttered an exclamation of delight.

“Splendid!” she cried. “Just what I wanted you to do. I thought of it, but I said nothing because I wanted you to say it first. It will be just the right thing.”

“Ye-es, so it seemed to me. All that's good here in this store is due to Nathaniel. He's made a real, live business out of a remains that was about ready for the undertaker. I ought to give him the whole craft, but—but I hate to.”

“You could. You could sell out to him and still have sufficient income to live upon in comfort here in Trumet. You might sell out, retire, and be a gentleman of leisure, one of the town's rich men. You could do that perfectly well.”

Daniel grunted in disgust.

“Don't talk that way,” he repeated. “I've had enough gentleman of leisure foolishness to last me through. What do you think I am; a second-hand copy of Cousin Percy, without the gilt edges? I might be kissin' Zuba by mistake if I did that.”

The story of that eventful evening and the “mistake” had been told him by his daughter since the return home. Gertrude smiled.

“I guess not,” she declared. “You are not in the habit of 'dining out'—in Trumet, at any rate. Have you told Mother?”

“Yes, I told her. I don't think she was much surprised. She'd guessed as much before, so I gathered from what she said.”

“No doubt; the explanation was obvious enough. Well, Daddy, I did not expect you would be contented to retire and do nothing. That is not your conception of happiness. But, if you do take Mr. Bangs into partnership, let him manage the entire business. You can be in the store as much as you wish, and be interested in it, so long as you don't interfere. And you and Mother can be together and take little trips together once in a while. You mustn't stay in Trumet ALL the time; if you do you will grow discontented again.”

“No, no, I shan't. Serena may, perhaps, but I shan't.”

“Yes, you will. You both have seen a little of outside life now, and it isn't all bad, though you may think so just at this time. You mustn't settle down and grow narrow like some of the people here in Trumet—Abigail Mayo, for instance.”

“Humph! I'd have to swallow a self-windin' talkin' machine before I could get to be like Abigail Mayo. But you may be right, Gertie; perhaps you are. See here, though, how about you, yourself? You've seen a heap more of what you call outside life than your ma and I have. How are YOU goin' to keep contented here in Trumet?”

“Oh, I shall be contented. Don't worry about me.”

“But I do worry, and your mother is beginnin' to worry, too. There's somethin' troublin' you; both of us see that plain enough. See here, Gertie, you ain't—you ain't feelin' bad about—about leavin' that Cousin Percy, are you?”

The young lady's cheeks reddened, but with indignation, not embarrassment.

“DADDY!” she protested sharply. “Daddy, how can you! Cousin Percy!”

“Well, you know—”

“I hate him. I've told you so. Or I should, if he was worth hating; as it is I despise him thoroughly.”

“That's good! That's one load off my mind. But, you see, Gertie—well, when your mother and I first told you we'd made up our minds to come back here, you—you stood up for him, and said he was aristocratic and—and I don't know what all. That's what you said; and 'twas after the Zuba business, too.”

Gertrude regarded him wonderingly. “Said!” she repeated. “I said and did all sorts of things. Daddy—Daddy, DEAR, is it possible you don't understand yet that it was all make-believe?”

“All make-believe? What; your likin' Cousin Percy?”

“Yes, that and Mr. Holway and everything else—the whole of it. Haven't you guessed it yet? It was all a sham; don't you see? When I came back from college and found out exactly how things were going, I realized at once that something must be done. You were miserable and neglected, and Mother was under the influence of Mrs. Black and that empty-headed, ridiculous Chapter and would-be society crowd of hers. I tried at first to reason with her, but that was useless. She was too far gone for reason. So I thought and thought until I had a plan. I believed if I could show her, by my own example, how silly and ridiculous the kind of people she associated with were, if I pretended to be as bad as the worst of them, she would begin by seeing how ridiculous I was, and be frightened into realizing her own position. At any rate, she would be forced into giving it all up to save me. Of course I didn't expect her to be taken ill. When THAT happened I was SO conscience-stricken. I thought I never should forgive myself. But it has turned out so well, that even that is—”

“Gertie! Gertie Dott! stop where you are. Do you mean to tell me that all your—your advancin' and dancin' and bridgin' and tea-in' and Chapterin' was just—”

“Just make-believe, that's all. I hated it as much as you did; as much as Mother does now.”

“My SOUL! but—but it can't be! Cousin Percy—”

“Oh, do forget Cousin Percy! I was sure he was exactly what he was and that he was using you and Mother as conveniences for providing him with a home and luxuries which he was too worthless to work for. I was sure of it, morally sure, but I made up my mind to find out. So I cultivated him, and I cultivated his particular friends, and I did find out. I pretended to like him—”

“Hold on! for mercy sakes, hold on! YOU pretended, but—but HE didn't. If ever a feller was gone on a young woman he was, towards the last of it. Why, he—”

“Hush! hush! Don't speak of it. It makes me disgusted with myself even to think of him. If he was—was as you say, it is all the better. It serves him right. And I think that it was with my—with your money, Daddy, much more than your daughter, he was infatuated. I had the satisfaction of telling him my opinion of him and his conduct before he left.”

“Ho! you did, hey? Humph! I wish I might have heard it. But, Gertie,” his incredulity not entirely crushed, “it wasn't ALL make-believe; all of it couldn't have been. Even Zuba, she got the advancin' craziness. She joined a—a 'Band,' or somethin'.”

“No, she didn't. She pretended to, but she didn't. There wasn't any such 'Band.' She was helping me to cure Mother, that's all. It was all part of the plan. Her husband understands now, although,” with a laugh, “he didn't when he first came.”

Daniel drew his hand across his forehead.

“Well!” he exclaimed. “WELL! and I—and I—”

“I treated you dreadfully, didn't I? Scolded you, and told you to go away, and—and everything. I COULDN'T tell you the truth, because you cannot keep a secret, but I was sorry, so sorry for you, even when you were most provoking. You WOULD interfere, you know. Two or three times you almost spoiled it all.”

“Did I? I shouldn't wonder. And—and to think I never suspicioned a bit of it!”

“I don't see why you didn't. It was so plain. I'm sure Mother suspects—now.”

“Probably she does. If I wasn't what I've called myself so much lately, an old fool, I'd have suspected, too. I AM an old fool.”

“No, you're not. You are YOU, and that is why I love you—why, everyone who knows you loves you. I wouldn't have you changed one iota. You are the dearest, best father in the world. And you are going to be happy now, aren't you?”

“I—I don't know. I ought to be, I suppose. I guess I shall be—if I ever get over thinkin' what a foolhead I was. So Zuba was part of it all, hey? And John, too? He was in it, I presume likely.”

Gertrude's expression changed; so did her tone.

“We won't talk about John, Daddy,” she said. “Please don't.”

“Why not? I want to talk about him. In a way—yes, sir! in a way I ain't sure that—that I didn't have a hand in spoilin' that, too. Considerin' what you've just told me, I wouldn't wonder if I did.”

His daughter had risen to go. Now she turned back.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “What do you mean? Spoiling—what?”

“Why—why, you and John, you know. Whatever happened between you and him happened that night when he come to Scarford. And he wouldn't have come—not then—if I hadn't written for him.”

Gertrude was speechless. Her father went on.

“Long's we're confessin',” he said, “we might as well make a clean job of it. I wrote him, all on my own hook. You see, Gertie, 'twas on your account mainly. I was gettin' pretty desperate about you. Instead of straightenin' out your ma's course you were followin' in her wake, runnin' ahead of her, if anything. It looked as if you'd have her hull down and out of the race, if you kept on. I couldn't hold you back, and, bein' desperate, as I say, I wrote John to come and see if he could. And I told him to come quick.... Hey? What did you say?”

The young lady had said nothing; she had been listening, however, and now she seemed to have found an answer to a puzzle.

“So that was why he came?” she said, in a low tone, as if thinking aloud. “That was why. But—but without a word to me.”

“Oh, I 'specially wrote him not to tell you he was comin'. I didn't want you to know. I wanted to have a talk with him first and tell him just how matters stood. After you'd gone to Chapter meetin' that night—I always thought 'twas queer, your bein' so determined to go, but I see why now; 'twas part of your plan, wasn't it?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Go on.”

“Well, I judge John thought 'twas funny, too—but never mind. After you'd gone, he and I had our talk. I told him everything. He was kind of troubled; I could see that; but he stood up for you through thick and thin. He only laughed when I told him—told him some things, those that worried me most.”

Gertrude noticed his hesitation.

“What were those things?” she asked.

“Oh, nothin'. They seem so foolish now; but at that time—”

“Daddy, did you tell him of my—my supposed friendship for Mr. Hungerford?”

Daniel reluctantly nodded. “Yes,” he admitted. “I told him some. Maybe I told him more than was absolutely true. Perhaps I exaggerated a little. But he was so stubborn in not believin', that.... Hey? By Godfreys!” as the thought struck him for the first time, “THAT wasn't what ailed John, was it? He wasn't JEALOUS of that consarned Percy?”

Gertrude did not answer.

“It couldn't be,” continued Daniel. “He's got more sense than that. Besides, you told him, when you and he were alone together, why you was actin' so, didn't you? Or did he know it beforehand? I presume likely he did. Your mother and I seem to have been the only animals left outside the show tent.”

Again there was no answer. When the young lady spoke it was to ask another question.

“Daddy,” she said, not looking at him, but folding and unfolding a bit of paper on the counter, “are you SURE you mailed that letter I gave you the morning after—after he went away?”

“What? That letter to John that you gave me to mail? I'm sure as I can be of anything. I put it right in amongst the bills and checks I had ready, and when the postman came I gave 'em all to him with my own hands. Yes, it was mailed all right.”

“And no letters—letters for me—came afterwards, which I didn't receive? You didn't put one in your pocket and forget it?”

“No. I'm sure of that. Why, your mother's cleaned out all my pockets a dozen times since. She says I use my clothes for wastebaskets, and she has to empty 'em pretty nigh as often. No, I didn't forget any letter for you, Gertie. But why? What made you think I might have?”

“Oh, nothing; nothing, Daddy.” Then, throwing down the bit of paper and moving toward the door, “I must go in and see Mother. I have scarcely seen her all the morning.”

“But hold on, Gertie! Don't go. I haven't found out what—Stop! Gertie, look at me! Why don't you look at me?”

She would not look and she would not stop. The door closed behind her. Captain Dan threw himself back in the chair. When Mr. Bangs, returning from his trip after orders, entered the store he found his employer just where he had left him. Now, however, the expression of high, good humor was no longer upon the captain's face.

“Well, Cap'n,” hailed Nathaniel cheerfully. “Still on deck, I see. What are you doing; exercising your mind?”

“Humph! What little mind I'VE got has been exercised too blessed much. It needs rest more'n anything, but it don't seem likely to get a great deal. Nate, this world reminds me of a worn-out schooner, it's as full of troubles as that is full of leaks; and you no sooner get one patched up than another breaks out in a new place. Ah hum! ... What you got there? The mail, is it? Anything for me?”

There was one letter bearing the captain's name. Nathaniel handed it to the owner of that name and the latter inspected the envelope and the postmark.

“From Labe Ginn,” he observed. “Nobody else in Scarford that I know would spell Daniel with two 'l's and no 'i.' What's troublin' Laban? Somethin' about the house, I presume likely.”

He leisurely tore open the envelope. The letter was a lengthy one, scrawled upon a half dozen sheets of cheap note paper. The handwriting was almost as unique as the spelling, which is saying considerable.

“From Laban, is it?” asked Mr. Bangs casually.

“Yup, it's from Labe.”

“There was another from him, then. At any rate there was one addressed in the same hen-tracks to Azuba. I met her as I was coming out of the post-office and gave it to her; she was on her way to the grocery store, she said.”

Daniel nodded, but made no comment. He was doing his best to decipher Mr. Ginn's hieroglyphics. Occasionally he chuckled.

Laban began by saying that he expected his term as caretaker of the Scarford property to be of short duration. He had dropped in at the real estate office and had there been told that arrangements for the leasing of the mansion, furniture, and all, were practically completed. The new tenant would move in within a fortnight, he was almost sure. Mr. Ginn, personally, would be glad of it, for it was “lonesomer than a meeting-house on a week day.”

“I spend the heft of my daytimes out in the Back yard,” he wrote. “I've lokated a bordin house handy by, but the Grub thare is tuffer than the mug on a Whailer two year out. I don't offen meet anybody I know, but tother day I met barney Black. He asked about you and your fokes and I told him. He was prety down on his Luck I thort and acted Blue. His wife is hed neck and heles in Chapter goins on. I see her name in the Newspaper about evry day.

“He said give you his Regards and tell you you was a dam lukky Man.”

Captain Dan's chuckle developed into a hearty laugh. He sympathized with and understood the feelings of B. Phelps.

“He has sold his summer Plase at Trumet,” the letter went on. “Mrs. Black don't want to come thare no more. He wuddent say why but I shuddent wonder if it was becos she ain't hankering to mete your Wife after the way she treted her. He has sold the Plase to some fokes name of Fenholtz. I know thats the rite name becos I made him spel it for me. Do you know them?”

Daniel uttered an exclamation of delight and struck his thigh a resounding slap.

“What's up?” asked Nathaniel. “Got some good news?”

“You bet! Mighty good! Some people I knew and liked in Scarford have bought the Black cottage here in Trumet. I rather guess I am responsible in a way; I preached Cape Cod to 'em pretty steady. The Fenholtzes! Well, well!”

“What I realy wrote you for,” continued Mr. Ginn, at the top of page four, “was to tell you that I had a feller come to see me Yesterday. It was that forriner Hapgood who used to work for you. He looked prety run to seed. He haddent got anny Job since he left you, he sed, and he was flat Broke. I gave him a Square meel or what they call one at the bordin' house and he and me had a long talk. He told me a lot of things but manely all he wanted to talk about was that Swab of a Coussin of yours, that Hungerford. Hapgood was down on him like a Gull on a sand ele. He sed Hungerford was a mene sneak and had treted him bad. He told me a Lot about how Hungerford worked you fokes for sukkers and how he helped. Seems him and Hungerford was old shipmates and chums and had worked your ant Laviny the same way. Hungerford used to pay him, but now that he is flat Broke and can't help no more, he won't give him a cent. Hapgood says if you knew what he knows you'd be intterested. He says Hungerford pade him to get a hold of Tellygrams and letters that he thort you had better not see. He had one Coppy of a tellygram that he says come to him over the Tellyfone 3 days after John Doane left your house. I lent him a cupple of dollars and he gave me the Coppy. It is from John to Gertie, but she never got it becos Hapgood never told her. I send it in this letter.”

Captain Dan, who had read the latter part of this long paragraph with increasing excitement, now stopped his reading and began a hurried search for the “Coppy.” He found it, on a separate sheet. It was written in pencil in Hapgood's neat, exact handwriting and was, compared to Mr. Ginn's labored scrawl, very easy to read. And this was what the captain read:

“MISS GERTRUDE DOTT,

“No. — Blank Avenue, “Scarford, Mass.

“Why haven't you written? Did you receive my letters? The firm are sending me on urgent business to San Francisco. I leave to-night. If you write me there I shall know all is well and you have not changed. If not I shall know the other thing. I shall hope for a letter. San Francisco address is—”

Then followed the address and the signature, “John Doane.”

The “Coppy” dropped in Daniel's lap. He closed his eyes. Nate Bangs, glancing at him, judged that he was falling asleep, but Mr. Bangs's usually acute judgment was, in this instance, entirely wrong. So far from sleeping, the captain was just beginning to wake up.

“Why haven't you written?” That meant that John had never received the letter which Gertrude wrote, the letter which she had given him—her father—to post. Why had it not been received? It had been posted. He gave it to the carrier with his own hands.

Before the captain's closed eyes that scene in the library passed in review. He was at his desk, Gertrude entered and handed him the letter. He commented upon its address and placed it with the others, the envelopes containing bills and checks, upon the table. Then the postman came and—

No—wait. The postman had not come immediately. Serena had called and he, Daniel, had gone up to her room in answer to the call. But he had come down when the postman rang and.... Wait again! There had been someone in the library when he was called away. He dimly remembered.... What? ... Why, yes! Cousin Percy had come in and—

Daniel leaped to his feet. His chair slid back on its castors and struck the safe behind him. Mr. Bangs looked up.

“Why, what's the matter?” he cried, in alarm. “Is—Where are you going?”

Captain Dan did not answer. He was running, actually running, toward the door. Bareheaded he dashed across the yard. His foot was on the threshold of the back porch of the house, when he stopped short. For a moment he stood still; then he turned and ran back to the store again.

Nathaniel, who had followed him to the side entrance of The Metropolitan, met him there.

“For mercy sakes, Cap'n Dott!” he began. “What IS it?”

Daniel did not answer. He pushed past his perturbed manager and, rushing to the closet in which the telephone instrument hung, closed the door behind him. He jerked the receiver from the hook, placed it at his ear, and shouted into the transmitter.

“Hello! Hello there, Central!” he bellowed. “I want a long distance call. I want to talk to Saunders, Griffin and Company, Pearl Street, Boston.... Hey? ... Yes, I want to talk to Mr. Doane.... NO, not Cone! Doane—Doane—Mr. John Doane.... Hey? ... You'll call me? ... All right, then; be as quick as you can, that's all.”

He hung up the receiver and, flinging the door open, dashed out into the store again, and began pacing up and down.

Nathaniel ventured one more question.

“Of course it ain't any of my business, Cap'n Dott,” he stammered, “but—”

Daniel waved his hand.

“Sshh! shh!” he commanded. “It's all right. I'll tell you by and by. But now I want to think. To think, by time!”

Ten minutes later the telephone bell rang.

“Hello! Here is your Boston call,” announced Central.

“All right! all right! Is this Saunders, Griffin and Company? ... Hey? ... Is Mr. Doane there?... What? I want to know! Is that you, John? ... This is Dott, speakin'.... Yes, Dan Dott.... No, no, of Trumet, not Scarford.... Yes.... YES.... Here! you let me do the talkin'; you listen.”

Captain Dan ate scarcely any luncheon that day. He seemed to have lost his appetite. This was a good deal of a loss and his wife commented upon it.

“What does ail you, Daniel?” she asked anxiously. “Why don't you eat?”

“Hey? Oh, I don't know, Serena. Don't feel hungry, somehow.”

“Well, it's the first time you haven't been hungry since you came back to Trumet. I was beginning to think Azuba and I couldn't get enough for you TO eat. And now, all at once, you're not hungry. What does ail you?”

“Ail me? Nothin' ails me.”

“Don't you feel well?”

“Never felt better in my life. Don't believe I ever felt quite so good.”

“You act awfully queer.”

“Do I? Don't you worry about me, Serena. My appetite'll be back all right by dinner time. You want to lay in an extra stock for dinner. I'll probably eat you out of house and home then. Better figure on as much as if you was goin' to have company. Ain't that so, Zuba?”

He winked at the housekeeper. His wife noticed the wink.

“What is it?” she demanded. “There's something going on that I don't know about. Are you and Azuba planning some sort of surprise?”

“Surprise! What sort of surprise would Zuba and I plan? She's had one surprise in the last six weeks and that ought to be enough. Laban's droppin' in unexpected was surprise enough to keep you satisfied, wasn't it, Zuba? I never saw anybody more surprised than you was that night in the kitchen. Ho! ho!”

Azuba smiled grimly. “A few more surprises like that,” she observed, “and I'll be surprised to death. Don't talk to ME about surprises.”

“I wasn't talkin' about 'em, 'twas Serena that started it.”

Mrs. Dott was still suspicious. She turned to her daughter.

“Gertie,” she asked, “do YOU know what your father is acting so ridiculous about? Is there a secret between you three?”

Gertrude had been very quiet and grave during the meal.

“No,” she said. “There is no secret that I know of. Father is happy because we are back here in his beloved Trumet, I suppose.”

“Humph! Well, his happiness hasn't interfered with his appetite before. There's something else; I'm sure of it. Why, Gertie! aren't you going to eat, either? You're not through luncheon!”

The young lady had risen from the table.

“You've eaten scarcely anything, Gertie,” protested her mother. “I never saw such people. Are YOU so happy that you can't eat. Sit down.”

Gertrude did not look happy. She did not sit down. Instead she hastily declared that she was not hungry, and left the room.

Serena stared after her.

“Was she crying, Daniel?” she asked. “She looked as if she was just going to. Ever since she came in from her walk she has been so downcast and sad. She won't talk and she hasn't smiled once. Daniel, has she said anything to you? Do you know what ails her?”

The captain shook his head.

“She and I had a little talk out in the store,” he admitted. “I shouldn't wonder if she was thinkin' about—about—”

“About John, do you mean?”

“Maybe so.”

“Did she talk with you about HIM? She won't let me mention his name. Daniel, I feel SO bad about that. I'm afraid I was to blame, somehow. If we hadn't gone to Scarford—if ... Daniel, I'm going to her.”

She rose. Her husband laid a hand on her arm.

“Sit down, Serena,” he urged. “Sit down.”

“But, Daniel, let me go. I must go to her. The poor girl! Perhaps I can comfort her, though how, I don't know. John Doane!” with a burst of indignation. “If I ever meet that young man I'll give him my opinion of his—”

“Sshh! shh! Serena! You sit down and finish your luncheon. Don't you worry about Gertie. And you needn't worry about her appetite or mine. I tell you what I'll do: If she and I don't have appetite enough for dinner to-night—or breakfast to-morrow mornin', anyhow—I'll swallow that platter whole. There! A sight like that ought to be worth waitin' for. Cheer up, old lady, and possess your soul in patience. This craft is just gettin' out of the doldrums. There's a fair wind and clear weather comin' for the Dott frigate, or I'm no sailor. You just trust me and wait. Yes, and let Gertie alone.”

He positively refused to explain what he meant by this optimistic prophecy, or to permit his wife to go to their daughter. Gertrude went out soon afterward—for another walk, she said—and Serena retired to her room for the afternoon nap which the doctor had prescribed as part of her rest cure. For a time she could not sleep, but lay there wondering and speculating concerning her husband's strange words and his equally strange attitude of confident and excited happiness. What did it mean? There was some secret she was sure; some good news for Gertrude; there must be. She, too, began to share the excitement and feel the confidence. Daniel had asked her to trust him, and she did trust him. He, and not she, had been right in judging Mrs. Black and Cousin Percy, and Scarford, and all the rest. He had been right all through. She had reason to trust him; he was always right. With this comforting conclusion—one indication of the mental revolution which her Scarford experience had brought about—she ceased wondering and dropped to sleep.

Captain Dan and Azuba had a short conference in the kitchen.

“Understand, do you, Zuba?” queried the captain. “A late dinner and plenty of it.”

“I understand. Land sakes! I ain't altogether a numskull or a young-one, even if I do have to be shut up in the closet to make me behave.”

“Ho! ho! I expect you could have knocked my head off for bein' in the way just at that time.”

“Humph!” with a one-sided smile, “I could have knocked my own off for not listenin' afore I come downstairs. If I'd heard Laban's voice I bet you I wouldn't have come. All I needed was a chance to be alone with him and explain what Gertie and I were up to.”

“Well, I'm glad you didn't have the chance. I wouldn't have missed that show for somethin'. It beat all my goin' to sea, that did. How you did holler!”

He roared with laughter. Azuba watched him with growing impatience.

“Got through actin' like a Bedlamite?” she inquired tartly, when he stopped for breath. “If you have you can clear out and let me get to my dish-washin'.”

“I'm through. Oh, by the way, what did Labe say in your letter? I've told you what he wrote me, but I forgot that he wrote you, too.”

Mrs. Ginn looked troubled. “I don't know what to do with that man,” she declared. “I expect any minute to get word that he's been put in the lock-up. If that house of yours ain't rented or sold pretty quick, so he can get to sea again, he will be. Do you know what he's done to that Hungerford critter?”

“DONE to him! What do you mean? He hasn't seen him, has he?”

“No, he ain't seen him, thank goodness, but Labe is so wrought up over what that Hapgood thief told him, about your precious cousin stealin' your telegrams and so on, that he and Hapgood have gone in cahoots to play a trick on Mr. Percy. Labe says Hapgood told him that Percy was keepin' company now with another woman there in Scarford, a young woman with money, of course—he wouldn't chase any other kind. Well, Hapgood—he's a healthy specimen for my husband to be in with, he is—Hapgood knows a lot about Hungerford and his goin's on in the past, and he's got a lot of the Percy man's old letters from other girls. Don't ask ME how he got 'em; stole 'em, I suppose, same as he stole that telegram from John. Anyhow, Labe and Hapgood have sent those letters to the present young woman's pa.”

Daniel whistled. “Whew!” he exclaimed. “That's interestin'.”

“Ain't it, now! Laban says the old commodore—meanin' the pa, I suppose—is a holy terror and sets more store by his daughter than he does by his hopes of salvation, enough sight. Good reason, too, I presume likely; he's toler'ble sure of the daughter. Well, anyhow, the letters are gone and Labe says he's willin' to bet that Cousin Percy'll be GOIN'—out of the window and out of Scarford—when papa gets after him. Nice mess, ain't it!”

Captain Dan whistled again. “Well, Zuba,” he observed, “we can't help it, as I see. What's done's done and chickens do come home to roost, don't they?”

“Humph! I wish my husband would come home and roost where I can keep my eye on him. He says he's gettin' sick of bein' a land lubber. He'll be aboard some ship and off again afore long, that's some comfort. The only time I know that man is safe is when he's a thousand miles from dry land.”