It was true—John Baxter was dead. His violent outbreak of the previous afternoon had hastened the end that the doctor had prophesied. There was no harrowing death scene. The weather-beaten old face grew calmer, and, the sleep sounder, until the tide went out—that was all. It was like a peaceful coming into port after a rough voyage. No one of the watchers about the bed could wish him back, not even Elsie, who was calm and brave through it all. When it was over, she went to her room and Mrs. Snow went with her. Captain Eri went out to make his call upon Mr. Saunders.

The funeral was one of the largest ever held in Orham. The little house was crowded. Old friends, who had drifted away from the fanatic in his latter days, came back to pay tribute to the strong man whom they had known and loved. There was some discussion among the captains as to who should preach the funeral sermon. Elsie had left this question to Captain Eri for settlement, and the trio and Mrs. Snow went into executive session immediately.

“If John had had the settlin' of it himself,” observed Eri, “he'd have picked Perley, there ain't no doubt 'bout that.”

“I know it,” said Captain Perez, “but you must remember that John wa'n't himself for years, and what he'd have done now ain't what he'd have done 'fore he broke down. I hate to think of Perley's doin' it, somehow.”

“Isn't Mr. Perley a good man?” asked the housekeeper.

“He's good enough, fur's I know,” replied Captain Jerry, “but I know what Perez means. A funeral, seems to me, ought to be a quiet, soothin' sort of a thing, and there ain't nothin' soothin' 'bout Come-Outer' preachin'. He'll beller and rave 'round, I'm 'fraid, and stir up poor Elsie so she won't never git over it.”

“I know it,” agreed Captain Eri. “That's what I've been afraid of. And yit,” he added, “I should feel we was doin' somethin' jest opposite from what John would like, if we had anybody else.”

“Couldn't you see Mr. Perley beforehand,” suggested Mrs. Snow, “and tell him jest the kind of sermon he must preach. Tell him it must be quiet and comfortin' and—”

“And short.” Captain Eri finished the sentence for her. “I guess that's the way we'll have to settle it. I'll make him understand one thing, though—he mustn't drag in rum sellin' and all the rest of it by the heels. If he does I'll—I don't know what I'll do to him.”

The interview with the Reverend Perley that followed this conversation must have been effective, for the sermon was surprisingly brief and as surprisingly calm. In fact, so rational was it that a few of the more extreme among the preacher's following were a bit disappointed and inquired anxiously as to their leader's health, after the ceremony was over.

The procession of carryalls and buggies followed the hearse to the cemetery among the pines, and, as the mourners stood about the grave, the winter wind sang through the evergreen branches a song so like the roar of the surf that it seemed like a dirge of the sea for the mariner who would sail no more. As they were clearing away the supper dishes that night Captain Eri said to Mrs. Snow, “Well, John's gone. I wonder if he's happier now than he has been for the last ten years or so.”

“I think he is,” was the answer.

“Well, so do I, but if he hadn't been a 'Come Outer' I don't s'pose Brother Perley and his crowd would have figgered that he had much show. Seems sometimes as if folks like that—reel good-hearted folks, too, that wouldn't hurt a fly—git solid comfort out of the feelin' that everybody that don't agree with 'em is bound to everlastin' torment. I don't know but it's wicked to say it, but honest, it seems as if them kind would 'bout as soon give up the hopes of Heaven for themselves as they would the satisfaction of knowin' 'twas t'other place for the other feller.”

To which remark the somewhat shocked housekeeper made no reply.

The following day Elsie went back to her school. Captain Eri walked up with her, and, on the way, told her of his discovery of her secret, and of his interview with “Web” Saunders. It was exactly as the Captain had surmised. The note she had received on the evening of the return from the life-saving station was from the proprietor of the billiard saloon, and in it he hinted at some dire calamity that overshadowed her grandfather, and demanded an immediate interview. She had seen him that night and, under threat of instant exposure, had promised to pay the sum required for silence. She had not wished to use her grandfather's money for this purpose, and so had taken the position as teacher.

“Well,” said the Captain, “I wish you'd have come to me right away, and told me the whole bus'ness. 'Twould have saved a pile of trouble.”

The young lady stopped short and faced him.

“Captain Eri,” she said, “how could I? I was sure grandfather had set the fire. I knew how ill he was, and I knew that any shock might kill him. Besides, how could I drag you into it, when you had done so much already? It would have been dreadful. No, I thought it all out, and decided I must face it alone.”

“Well, I tell you this, Elsie; pretty gin'rally a mean dog 'll bite if he sees you're afraid of him. The only way to handle that kind is to run straight at him and kick the meanness out of him. The more he barks the harder you ought to kick. If you run away once it 'll be mighty uncomf'table every time you go past that house. But never mind; I cal'late this p'tic'lar pup won't bite; I've pulled his teeth, I guess. What's your plans, now? Goin' to keep on with the school, or go back to Boston?”

Miss Preston didn't know; she said she had not yet decided, and, as the schoolhouse was reached by this time, the Captain said no more.

There was, however, another question that troubled him, and that seemed to call for almost immediate settlement. It was: What should be done with Mrs. Snow? The housekeeper had been hired to act as such while John Baxter was in the house. Now he was gone, and there remained the original marriage agreement between Captain Jerry and the widow, and honor called for a decision one way or the other. Mrs. Snow, of course, said nothing about it, neither did Captain Jerry, and Captain Eri felt that he must take the initiative as usual. But, somehow, he was not as prompt as was his wont, and sat evening after evening, whittling at the clipper and smoking thoughtfully. And another week went by.

Captain Perez might, and probably would, have suggested action upon this important matter, had not his mind been taken up with what, to him, was the most important of all. He had made up his mind to ask Patience Davis to marry him.

Love is like the measles; it goes hard with a man past fifty, and Captain Perez was severely smitten. The decision just mentioned was not exactly a brand-new one, his mind had been made up for some time, but he lacked the courage to ask the momentous question. Something the lady had said during the first stages of their acquaintance made a great impression on the Captain. She gave it as her opinion that a man who loved a woman should be willing to go through fire and water to win her. Captain Perez went home that night pondering deeply.

“Fire and water!” he mused. “That's a turrible test. But she's a wonderful woman, and would expect it of a feller. I wonder if I could do it; seems 's if I would now, but flesh is weak, and I might flunk, and that would settle it. Fire and water! My! my! that's awful!”

So the Captain delayed and Miss Patience, who had cherished hopes, found need of a good share of the virtue for which she was named.

But one afternoon at the end of the week following that of the funeral, Perez set out for a call upon his intended which he meant should be a decisive one. He had screwed his courage up to the top notch, and as he told Captain Eri afterwards, he meant to “hail her and git his bearin's, if he foundered the next minute.”

He found the lady alone, for old Mrs. Mayo had gone with her son, whose name was Abner, to visit a cousin in Harniss, and would not be back until late in the evening. Miss Patience was very glad to have company, and it required no great amount of urging to persuade the infatuated swain to stay to tea. When the meal was over—they washed the dishes together, and the Captain was so nervous that it is a wonder there was a whole plate left—the pair were seated in the parlor. Then said Captain Perez, turning red and hesitating, “Pashy, do you know what a feller told me 'bout you?”

Now, this remark was purely a pleasant fiction, for the Captain was about to undertake a compliment, and was rather afraid to shoulder the entire responsibility.

“No; I'm sure I don't, Perez,” replied Miss Davis, smiling sweetly.

“Well, a feller told me you was the best housekeeper in Orham. He said that the man that got you would be lucky.”

This was encouraging. Miss Patience colored and simpered a little.

“Land sake!” she exclaimed. “Whoever told you such rubbish as that? Besides,” with downcast eyes, “I guess no man would ever want me.”

“Oh, I don't know.” The Captain moved uneasily in his chair, as if he contemplated hitching it nearer to that occupied by his companion. “I guess there's plenty would be mighty glad to git you. Anyhow, there's—there's one that—that—I cal'late the fog's thick as ever, don't you?”

But Miss Patience didn't mean to give up in this way.

“What was it you was goin' to say?” she asked, by way of giving the bashful one another chance.

“I was goin' to say, Pashy, that—that—I asked if you thought the fog was as thick as ever.”

“Oh, dear me! Yes, I s'pose likely 'tis,” was the discouraged answer.

“Seems to me I never see such weather for this time of year. The ice is all out of the bay, and there ain't a bit of wind, and it's warm as summer, pretty nigh. Kind of a storm-breeder, I'm afraid.”

“Well, I'm glad you're here to keep me comp'ny. I've never been sole alone in this house afore, and I should be dreadful lonesome if you hadn't come.” This was offered as a fresh bait.

“Pashy, I've got somethin' I wanted to ask you. Do you think you could—er—er—”

“What, Perez?”

“I wanted to ask you”—the Captain swallowed several times—“to ask you—What in the nation is that?”

“Oh, that's nothin' only the hens squawkin'. Go on!”

“Yes, but hens don't squawk this time of night 'thout they have some reason to. It's that fox come back; that's what 'tis.”

Miss Patience, earlier in the evening, had related a harrowing tale of the loss of two of Mrs. Mayo's best Leghorns that had gone to furnish a Sunday meal for a marauding fox. As the said Leghorns were the pride of the old lady's heart, even the impending proposal was driven from Miss Davis' mind.

“Oh, Perez! you don't s'pose 'tis the fox, do you?”

“Yes, MA'AM, I do! Where's the gun?”

“There 'tis, behind the door, but there ain't a mite of shot in the house. Abner's been goin' to fetch some from the store for I don't know how long, but he's always forgot it.”

“Never mind. I'll pound the critter with the butt. Come quick, and bring a lamp.”

The noise in the henyard continued, and when they opened the door it was louder than ever.

“He's in the henhouse,” whispered Miss Patience. “He must have gone in that hole at the side that had the loose board over it.”

“All right,” murmured the Captain. “You go 'round with the lamp and open the door. That 'll scare him, and I'll stand at the hole and thump him when he comes out.”

So, shielding the lamp with her apron, the guardian of Mrs. Mayo's outraged Leghorns tiptoed around to the henhouse door, while Captain Perez, brandishing the gun like a club, took up his stand by the hole at the side.

Without the lamp the darkness was pitchy. The Captain, stooping down to watch, saw something coming out of the hole—something that was alive and moved. He swung the gun above his head, and, bringing it down with all his might, knocked into eternal oblivion the little life remaining in the finest Leghorn rooster.

“Consarn it!” yelled the executioner, stooping and laying his hand on the victim, “I've killed a hen!”

Just then there came a scream from the other side of the henhouse, followed by a crash and the sound of a fall. Running around the corner the alarmed Perez saw his lady-love stretched upon the ground, groaning dismally.

“Great land of Goshen!” he cried. “Pashy, are you hurt?”

“Oh, Perez!” gasped the fallen one. “Oh, Perez!”

This pitiful appeal had such an effect upon the Captain that he dropped upon his knees and, raising Miss Davis' head in his hands, begged her to say she wasn't killed. After some little time she obligingly complied, and then, having regained her breath, explained the situation.

What had happened was this: The fox, having selected his victim the rooster, had rendered it helpless, and was pushing it out of the hole ahead of him. The Captain had struck the rooster just as Miss Patience opened the door, and the fox, seizing this chance of escape, had dodged by the lady, upsetting her as he went.

“Well,” she said, laughing, “there's no great harm done. I'm sorry for the rooster, but I guess the fox had fixed him anyway. Oh, my soul and body! look there!”

Perez turned, looked as directed, and saw the henhouse in flames.

The lighted lamp, which Miss Patience had dropped as she fell, lay broken on the floor, and the blazing oil had run in every direction. The flames were making such headway that they both saw there was practically no chance of saving the building. The frightened hens were huddled in the furthest corner, gazing stupidly at the fire.

“Oh, those poor Leghorns!” wailed Miss Patience. “Those hens Mrs. Mayo thought the world of, and left me to look out for. Last thing she asked me was to be sure they was fed. And now they'll be all burned up! What SHALL I do?”

Here the lady began to cry.

“Pashy!” roared the Captain, whom the sight of his charmer's tears had driven almost wild, “don't say another word. I'll save them hens or git cooked along with 'em!”

And turning up his coat collar, as though he was going into a refrigerator instead of a burning building, Captain Perez sprang through the door.

Miss Davis screamed wildly to him to come back, and danced about, wringing her hands. The interior of the henhouse was now a mass of black smoke, from which the voices of the Captain and the Leghorns floated in a discordant medley, something like this:

“Hold still, you lunatics! ('Squawk! squawk!') Druther be roasted than have me catch you, hadn't you? ('Squawk! squawk!') A—kershew! Land! I'm smothered! NOW I've got you! Thunderation! Hold STILL! HOLD STILL, I tell you!”

Just as the agonized Miss Patience was on the point of fainting, the little window at the back of the shanty was thrown open and two hens, like feathered comets, shot through it. Then the red face of the Captain appeared for an instant as he caught his breath with a “Woosh!” and dived back again. This performance was repeated six times, the Captain's language and the compliments he paid the hens becoming more picturesque every moment.

At length he announced, “That's all, thank goodness!” and began to climb through the window. This was a difficult task; for the window was narrow and, in spite of what Captain Eri had called his “ingy-rubber” make up, Captain Perez stuck fast.

“Catch hold of my hands and haul, will you, Pashy?” he pleaded. “That's it; pull hard! It's gittin' sort of muggy in behind here. I'll never complain at havin' cold feet ag'in if I git out of this. Now, then! Ugh! Here we be!”

He came out with a jerk, like a cork out of a bottle, and rolled on the ground at his lady's feet.

“Oh, Perez!” she exclaimed, “are you hurt?”

“Nothin' but my feelin's,” growled the rescuer, scrambling upright. “I read a book once by a feller named Joshua Billin's, or somethin' like it. He was a ignorant chap—couldn't spell two words right—but he had consider'ble sense. He said a hen was a darn fool, and he was right; she's all that.”

The Captain's face was blackened, and his clothes were scorched, but his spirit was undaunted.

“Pashy,” he said, “do you realize that if we don't git help, this whole shebang, house and all, will burn down?”

“Perez, you don't mean it!”

“I wouldn't swear that I didn't. Look how that thing's blazin'! There's the barn t'other side of it, and the house t'other side of that.”

“But can't you and me put it out?”

“I don't dare resk it. No, sir! We've got to git help, and git it in a hurry, too!”

“Won't somebody from the station see the light and come over?”

“Not in this fog. You can't see a hundred foot. No, I've got to go right off. Good land! I never thought! Is the horse gone?”

“No; the horse is here. Abner took one of the store horses to go to Harniss with. But he did take the buggy, and there's no other carriage but the old carryall, and that's almost tumblin' to pieces.”

“I was cal'latin' to go horseback.”

“What! and leave me here alone with the house afire? No, indeed! If you go, I'm goin', too.”

“Well, then, the carryll's got to do, whether or no. Git on a shawl or somethin', while I harness up.”

It was a frantic harnessing, but it was done in a hurry, and the ramshackle old carryall, dusty and cobwebbed, was dragged out of the barn, and Horace Greeley, the horse, was backed into the shafts. As they drove out of the yard the flames were roaring through the roof of the henhouse, and the lath fence surrounding it was beginning to blaze.

“Everything's so wet from the fog and the melted snow,” observed the Captain, “that it 'll take some time for the fire to git to the barn. If we can git a gang here we can save the house easy, and maybe more. By mighty!” he ejaculated, “I tell you what we'll do. I'll drive across the ford and git Luther and some of the station men to come right across. Then I'll go on to the village to fetch more. It was seven when I looked at the clock as we come in from washin' dishes, so the tide must be still goin' out, and the ford jest right. Git dap!”

“Hurry all you can, for goodness' sake! Is this as fast as we can go?”

“Fast as we can go with this everlastin' Noah's Ark. Heavens! how them wheels squeal!”

“The axles ain't been greased for I don't know when. Abner was going to have the old carriage chopped up for kindlin' wood.”

“Lucky for him and us 'tain't chopped up now. Git dap, slow-poke! Better chop the horse up, too, while he's 'bout it.”

The last remark the Captain made under his breath.

“My gracious, how dark it is! Think you can find the crossin'?”

“GOT to find it; that's all. 'Tis dark, that's a fact.”

It was. They had gone but a few hundred yards; yet the fire was already merely a shapeless, red smudge on the foggy blackness behind them. Horace Greeley pounded along at a jog, and when the Captain slapped him with the end of the reins, broke into a jerky gallop that was slower than the trot.

“Stop your hoppin' up and down!” commanded Perez, whose temper was becoming somewhat frayed. “You make me think of the walkin' beam on a steamboat. If you'd stop tryin' to fly and go straight ahead we'd do better.”

They progressed in this fashion for some distance. Then Miss Davis, from the curtained depths of the back seat, spoke again.

“Oh, dear me!” she exclaimed. “Are you sure you're on the right track? Seems 's if we MUST be abreast the station, and this road's awful rough.”

Captain Perez had remarked the roughness of the road. The carryall was pitching from one hummock to another, and Horace Greeley stumbled once or twice.

“Whoa!” commanded the Captain. Then he got down, lit a match, and, shielding it with his hands, scrutinized the ground. “I'm kind of 'fraid,” he said presently, “that we've got off the road somehow. But we must be 'bout opposite the crossin'. I'm goin' to drive down and see if I can find it.”

He turned the horse's head at right angles from the way they were going, and they pitched onward for another hundred yards. Then they came out upon the hard, smooth sand, and heard the water lapping on the shore. Captain Perez got out once more and walked along the strand, bending forward as he walked. Soon Miss Patience heard him calling.

“I've found it, I guess,” he said, coming back to the vehicle. “Anyhow, it looks like it. We'll be over in a few minutes now. Git dap, you!”

Horace Greeley shivered as the cold water splashed his legs, but waded bravely in. They moved further from the shore and the water seemed to grow no deeper.

“Guess this is the crossin' all right,” said the Captain, who had cherished some secret doubts. “Here's the deep part comin'. We'll be across in a jiffy.”

The water mounted to the hubs, then to the bottom of the carryall. Miss Davis' feet grew damp and she drew them up.

“Oh, Perez!” she faltered, “are you sure this is the ford?”

“Don't git scared, Pashy! I guess maybe we've got a little to one side of the track. I'll turn 'round and try again.”

But Horace Greeley was of a different mind. From long experience he knew that the way to cross a ford was to go straight ahead. The bottom of the carryall was awash.

“Port your hellum, you lubber!” shouted the driver, pulling with all his might on one rein. “Heave to! Come 'bout! Gybe! consarn you! gybe!”

Then Horace Greeley tried to obey orders, but it was too late. He endeavored to touch bottom with his forelegs, but could not; tried to swim with his hind ones, but found that impossible; then wallowed wildly to one side and snapped a shaft and the rotten whiffletree short off. The carryall tipped alarmingly and Miss Patience screamed.

“Whoa!” yelled the agitated Perez. “'Vast heavin'! belay!”

The animal, as much frightened by his driver's shouts as by the water, shot ahead and tried to tear himself loose. The other sun-warped and rotten shaft broke. The carryall was now floating, with the water covering the floor.

“No use; I'll have to cut away the wreck, or we'll be on our beam ends!” shouted the Captain.

He took out his jackknife, and reaching over, severed the traces. Horace Greeley gave another wallow, and finding himself free, disappeared in the darkness amid a lather of foam. The carriage, now well out in the channel, drifted with the current.

“Don't cry, Pashy!” said the Captain, endeavoring to cheer his sobbing companion, “we ain't shark bait yit. As the song used to say:

“I've shipped aboard of 'most every kind of craft,” he added, “but blessed if I ever expected to be skipper of a carryall!”

But Miss Patience, shut up in the back part of the carriage like a water nymph in her cave, still wept hysterically. So Captain Perez continued his dismal attempt at facetiousness.

“The main thing,” he said, “is to keep her on an even keel. If she teeters to one side, you teeter to t'other. Drat that fox!” he ejaculated. “I thought when Web's place burned we'd had fire enough to last for one spell, but it never rains but it pours.”

“Oh, dear!” sobbed the lady. “Now everything 'll burn up, and they'll blame me for it. Well, I'll be drownded anyway, so I shan't be there to hear 'em. Oh, dear! dear!”

“Oh, don't talk that way. We're driftin' somewheres, but we're spinnin' 'round so I can't tell which way. Judas!” he exclaimed, more soberly, “I remember, now; it ain't but a little past seven o'clock, and the tide's goin' out.”

“Of course it is,” resignedly, “and we'll drift into the breakers in the bay, and that 'll be the end.”

“No, no, I guess not. We ain't dead yit. If I had an oar or somethin' to steer this clipper with, maybe we could git into shoal water. As 'tis, we'll have to manage her the way Ote Wixon used to manage his wife, by lettin' her have her own way.”

They floated in silence for a few moments. Then Miss Patience, who had bravely tried to stifle her sobs, said with chattering teeth, “Perez, I'm pretty nigh froze to death.”

It will be remembered that the Captain had spoken of the weather as being almost as warm as summer. This was a slight exaggeration. It happened, fortunately for the castaways, that this particular night, coming as it did just at the end of the long thaw, was the mildest of the winter and there was no wind, but the air was chill, and the damp fog raw and biting.

“Well, now you mention it,” said Captain Perez, “it IS cold, ain't it? I've a good mind to jump overboard, and try to swim ashore and tow the carryall.”

“Don't you DO it! My land! if YOU should drown what would become of ME?”

It was the tone of this speech, as much as the words, that hit the Captain hard. He himself almost sobbed as he said:

“Pashy, I want you to try to git over on this front seat with me. Then I can put my coat 'round you, and you won't be so cold. Take hold of my hand.”

Miss Patience at first protested that she never could do it in the world, the carriage would upset, and that would be the end. But her companion urged her to try, and at last she did so. It was a risky proceeding, but she reached the front seat somehow, and the carryall still remained right-side-up. Luckily, in the channel between the beaches there was not the slightest semblance of a wave.

Captain Perez pulled off his coat, and wrapped it about his protesting companion. He was obliged to hold it in place, and he found the task rather pleasing.

“Oh, you're SO good!” murmured Miss Patience. “What should I have done without you?”

“Hush! Guess you'd have been better off. You'd never gone after that fox if it hadn't been for me, and there wouldn't have been none of this fuss.”

“Oh, don't say that! You've been so brave. Anyhow, we'll die together, that's a comfort.”

“Pashy,” said Captain Perez solemnly, “it's mighty good to hear you say that.”

It is, perhaps, needless to explain that the “dying” portion of the lady's speech was not that referred to by the Captain; the word “together” was what appealed to him. Miss Patience apparently understood.

“Is it?” she said softly.

“Yes—yes, 'tis.” The arm holding the coat about the lady's shoulder tightened just a little. The Captain had often dreamed of something like this, but never with quite these surroundings. However, he was rapidly becoming oblivious to such trivial details as surroundings.

“Pashy,” he said huskily, “I've been thinkin' of you consider'ble lately. Fact is, I—I—well, I come down to-day a-purpose to ask you somethin'. I know it's a queer place to ask it, and—and I s'pose it's kind of sudden, but—will—will you—Breakers! by mighty!”

The carryall had suddenly begun to rock, and there were streaks of foam about it. Now, it gave a most alarming heave, grounded, swung clear, and tipped yet more.

“We're capsizin',” yelled Perez. “Hang on to me, Pashy!”

But Miss Patience didn't intend to let this, perhaps the final opportunity, slip. As she told her brother afterward, she would have made him say it then if they had been “two fathom under water.”

“Will I what, Perez?” she demanded.

The carryall rose on two wheels and begun to turn over, but the Captain did not notice it. The arms of his heart's desire were about his neck, and he was looking into her eyes.

“Will you marry me?” he gasped.

“Yes,” answered Miss Patience, and they went under together.

The Captain staggered to his feet, and dragged his chosen bride to hers. The ice-cold water reached their shoulders. And, like a flash, as they stood there, came a torrent of rain and a wind that drove the fog before it like smoke. Captain Perez saw the shore, with its silhouetted bushes, only a few yards away. Beyond that, in the blackness, was a light, a flickering blaze, that rose and fell and rose and fell again.

The Captain dragged Miss Patience to the beach.

“Run!” he chattered, “run, or we'll turn into icicles. Come on!”

With his arm about her waist Perez guided his dripping companion, as fast as they could run, toward the light. And as they came nearer to it they saw that it flickered about the blackened ruins of a hen-house and a lath fence.

It was Mrs. Mayo's henhouse, and Mrs. Mayo's fence. Their adventurous journey had ended where it began.

“You see, Eri,” said Captain Perez, as he told his friend the story that night, “that clock in the dining room that I looked at hadn't been goin' for a week; the mainspring was broke. 'Twa'n't seven o'clock, 'twas nearer nine when the fire started, and the tide wa'n't goin' out, 'twas comin' in. I drove into the water too soon, missed the crossin', and we jest drifted back home ag'in. The horse had more sense than I did. We found him in the barn waiting for us.”

Abner Mayo had piled against the back of his barn a great heap of damp seaweed that he intended using in the spring as a fertilizer. The fire had burned until it reached this seaweed and then had gone no further. The rain extinguished the last spark.

“Well, by mighty!” exclaimed Captain Perez for at least the tenth time, as he sat in the kitchen, wrapped in an old ulster of Mr. Mayo's, and toasting his feet in the oven, “if I don't feel like a fool. All that scare and wet for nothin'.”

“Oh, not for nothin', Perez,” said Miss Patience, looking tenderly down into his face.

“Well, no, not for nothin' by a good deal! I've got you by it, and that's everything. But say, Pashy!” and the Captain looked awed by the coincidence, “I went through fire and water to git you!”