Captain Cy did not reply to the request for the box. It is doubtful if he even heard it. Mrs. Oliver's astonishing letter had, as he afterwards said, left him “high and dry with no tug in sight.” Mary Thomas was dead, and her daughter, her DAUGHTER! of whose very existence he had been ignorant, had suddenly appeared from nowhere and been dropped at his door, like an out-of-season May basket, accompanied by the modest suggestion that he assume responsibility for her thereafter. No wonder the captain wiped his forehead in utter bewilderment.

“Don't you think you'd better send for the box?” repeated the child, shivering a little under the big coat.

“Hey? What say? Never mind, though. Just keep quiet for a spell, won't you. I want to let this soak in. By the big dipper! Of all the solid brass cheek that ever I run across, this beats the whole cargo! And Betsy Howes never hinted! 'Probably you would be glad to take—' Be GLAD! Why, blast their miserable, stingy—What do they take me for? I'LL show 'em! Indiana ain't so fur that I can't—Hey? Did you say anything, sis?”

The girl had shivered again. “No, sir,” she replied. “It was my teeth, I guess. They kind of rattled.”

“What? You ain't cold, are you? With all that round you and in front of that fire?”

“No, sir, I guess not. Only my back feels sort of funny, as if somebody kept dropping icicles down it. Those bushes and vines were so wet that when I tumbled down 'twas most like being in a pond.”

“Sho! sho! That won't do. Can't have you laid up on my hands. That would be worse than—Humph! Tut, tut! Somethin' ought to be done, and I'm blessed if I know what. And not a woman round the place—not even that Debby. Say, look here, what's your name—er—Emmie, hadn't I better get the doctor?”

The child looked frightened.

“Why?” she cried, her big eyes opening. “I'm not sick, am I?”

“Sick? No, no! Course not, course not. What would you want to be sick for? But you ought to get warm and dry right off, I s'pose, and your duds are all up to the depot. Say, what does—what did your ma used to do when you felt—er—them icicles and things?”

“She changed my clothes and rubbed me. And, if I was VERY wet she put me to bed sometimes.”

“Bed? Sure! why, yes, indeed. Bed's a good place to keep off icicles. There's my bedroom right in there. You could turn in just as well as not. Bunk ain't made yet, but I can shake it up in no time. Say—er—er—you can undress yourself, can't you?”

“Oh, yes, sir! Course I can! I'm most eight.”

“Sure you are! Don't act a mite babyish. All right, you set still till I shake up that bunk.”

He entered the chamber, his own, opening from the sitting room, and proceeded, literally, to “shake up” the bed. It was not a lengthy process and, when it was completed, he returned to find his visitor already divested of the coat and standing before the stove.

“I guess perhaps you'll have to help undo me behind,” observed the young lady. “This is my best dress and I can't reach the buttons in the middle of the back.”

Captain Cy scratched his head. Then he clumsily unbuttoned the wet waist, glancing rather sheepishly at the window to see if anyone was coming.

“So this is your best dress, hey?” he asked, to cover his confusion. It was obviously not very new, for it was neatly mended in one or two places.

“Yes, sir.”

“So. Where'd you buy it—up to Concord?”

“No, sir. Mamma made it, a year ago.”

There was a little choke in the child's voice. The captain was mightily taken back.

“Hum! Yes, yes,” he muttered hurriedly. “Well, there you are. Now you can get along, can't you?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I go in that room?”

“Trot right in. You might—er—maybe you might sing out when you're tucked up. I—I'll want to know if you're got bedclothes enough.”

Emily disappeared in the bedroom. The door closed. Captain Cy, his hands in his pockets, walked up and down the length of the sitting room. The expression on his face was a queer one.

“I haven't got any nightgown,” called a voice from the other room. The captain gasped.

“Good land! so you ain't,” he exclaimed. “What in the world—Humph! I wonder—”

He went to the lower drawer of a tall “highboy” and, from the tumbled mass of apparel therein took one of his own night garments.

“Here's one,” he said, coming back with it in his hand. “I guess you'll have to make this do for now. It'll fit you enough for three times to once, but it's all I've got.”

A small hand reached 'round the edge of the door and the nightshirt disappeared. Captain Cy chuckled and resumed his pacing.

“I'm tucked up,” called Miss Thomas. The captain entered and found her in bed, the patchwork points and diamonds of the “Rising Sun” quilt covering her to the chin and her head denting the uppermost of the two big pillows. Captain Cy liked to “sleep high.”

“Got enough over you?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, thank you.”

“That's good. I'll take your togs out and dry 'em in the kitchen. Don't be scared; I'll be right back.”

In the kitchen he sorted the wet garments and hung them about the cook stove. It was a strange occupation for him and he shook his head whimsically as he completed it. Then he took a flat iron, one of Mrs. Beasley's purchases, from the shelf in the closet and put it in the oven to heat. Soon afterwards he returned to the bedroom, bearing the iron wrapped in a dish towel.

“My ma always used to put a hot flat to my feet when I was a young one and got chilled,” he explained. “I ain't used one for some time, but I guess it's a good receipt. How do you feel now? Any more icicles?”

“No, sir. I'm ever so warm. Isn't this a nice bed?”

“Think so, do you? Glad of it. Well, now, I'm goin' to leave you in it while I step down street and see about havin' your box sent for. I'll be back in a shake. If anybody comes to the door while I'm gone don't you worry; let 'em go away again.”

He put on his hat and left the house, walking rapidly, his head down and his hands in his pockets. At times he would pause in his walk, whistle, shake his head, and go on once more. Josiah Dimick met him, and his answers to Josiah's questions were so vague and irrelevant that Captain Dimick was puzzled, and later expressed the opinion that “Whit's cookin' must be pretty bad; acted to me as if he had dyspepsy of the brain.”

Captain Cy stopped at Mr. Lumley's residence to leave an order for the delivery of the box. Then he drifted into Simmons's and accosted Alpheus Smalley.

“Al,” he said, “what's good for a cold?”

“Why?” asked Mr. Smalley, in true Yankee fashion. “You got one?”

“Hey? Oh, yes! Yes, I've got one.” By way of proof he coughed until the lamp chimneys rattled on the shelf.

“Judas! I should think you had! Well, there's 'Pine Bark Oil' and 'Sassafras Elixir' and two kinds of sass'p'rilla—that's good for most everything—and—Is your throat sore?”

“Hey? Yes, I guess so.”

“Don't you KNOW? If you've got sore throat there ain't nothin' better'n 'Arabian Balsam.' But what in time are you doin' out in this drizzle with a cold and no umbrella? Do you want to—”

“Never mind my umbrella. I left it in the church entry t'other Sunday and somebody got out afore I did. This 'Arabian Balsam'—seems to me I remember my ma's usin' that on me. Wet a rag with it, don't you, and tie it round your neck?”

“Yup. Be sure and use a flannel rag, and red flannel if you've got it; that acts quicker'n the other kinds. Fifteen cent bottle?”

“I guess so. Might's well give me some sass'p'rilla, while you're about it; always handy to have in the house. And—er—say, is that canned soup you've got up on that shelf?”

The astonished clerk admitted that it was.

“Well, give me a can of the chicken kind.”

Mr. Smalley, standing on a chair to reach the shelf where the soup was kept, shook his head.

“Now, that's too bad, Cap'n,” he said, “but we're all out of chicken just now. Fact is, we ain't got nothin' but termatter and beef broth. Yes, and I declare if the termatter ain't all gone.”

“Humph! then I guess I'll take the beef. Needn't mind wrappin' it up. So long.”

He departed bearing his purchases. When Mr. Simmons, proprietor of the store, returned, Alpheus told him that he “cal'lated” Captain Cy Whittaker was preparing to “go into a decline, or somethin'.”

“Anyhow,” said Alpheus, “he bought sass'p'rilla and 'Arabian Balsam,' and I sold him a can of that beef soup you bought three year ago last summer, when Alicia Atkins had the chicken pox.”

The captain entered the house quietly and tiptoed to the door of the bedroom. Emily was asleep, and the sight of the childish head upon the pillow gave him a start as he peeped in at it. It looked so natural, almost as if it belonged there. It had been in a bed like that and in that very room that he had slept when a boy.

Gabe, brimful of curiosity, brought the box a little later. His curiosity was ungratified, Captain Cyrus explaining that it was a package he had been expecting. The captain took the box to the bedroom, and, finding the child still asleep, deposited it on the floor and tiptoed out again. He went to the kitchen, poked up the fire, and set about getting dinner.

He was warming the beef broth in a saucepan on the stove when Emily appeared. She was dressed in dry clothes from the box and seemed to be feeling as good as new.

“Hello!” exclaimed Captain Cy. “You're on deck again, hey? How's icicles?”

“All gone,” was the reply. “Do you do your own work? Can't I help? I can set the table. I used to for Mrs. Oliver.”

The captain protested that he could do it himself just as well, but the girl persisting, he showed her where the dishes were kept. From the corner of his eye he watched her as she unfolded the tablecloth.

“Is this the only one you've got?” she inquired. “It's awful dirty.”

“Hum! Yes, I ain't tended up to my washin' and ironin' the way I'd ought to. I'll lose my job if I don't look out, hey?”

Before they sat down to the meal Captain Cy insisted that his guest take a tablespoonful of the sarsaparilla and decorate her throat with a section of red flannel soaked in the 'Arabian Balsam.' The perfume of the latter was penetrating and might have interfered with a less healthy appetite than that of Miss Thomas.

“Have some soup? Some I bought purpose for you. Best thing goin' for folks with icicles,” remarked the captain, waving the iron spoon he had used to stir the contents of the saucepan.

“Yes, sir, thank you. But don't you ask a blessing?”

“Hey?”

“A blessing, you know. Saying that you're thankful for the food now set before us.”

“Hum! Why, to tell you the truth I've kind of neglected that, I'm afraid. Bein' thankful for the grub I've had lately was most too much of a strain, I shouldn't wonder.”

“I know the one mamma used to say. Shall I ask it for you?”

“Sho! I guess so, if you want to.”

The girl bent her head and repeated a short grace. Captain Cy watched her curiously.

“Now, I'll have some soup, please,” observed Emily. “I'm awful hungry. I had breakfast at five o'clock this morning and we didn't have a chance to eat much.”

A good many times that day the captain caught himself wondering if he wasn't dreaming. The whole affair seemed too ridiculous to be an actual experience. Dinner over, he and Emmie attended to the dishes, he washing and she wiping. And even at this early stage of their acquaintance her disposition to take charge of things was apparent. She found fault with the dish towels; they were almost as bad as the tablecloth, she said. Considering that the same set had been in use since Mrs. Beasley's departure, the criticism was not altogether baseless. But the young lady did not stop there—her companion's skill as a washer was questioned.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but don't you think that plate had better be done over? I guess you didn't see that place in the corner. Perhaps you've forgot your specs. Auntie Oliver couldn't see well without her specs.”

Captain Cy grinned and admitted that a second washing wouldn't hurt the plate.

“I guess your auntie was one of the particular kind,” he said.

“No, sir, 'twas mamma. She couldn't bear dirty things. Auntie used to say that mamma hunted dust with a magnifying glass. She didn't, though; she only liked to be neat. I guess dust doesn't worry men so much as it does women.”

“Why?”

“Oh, 'cause there's so much of it here; don't you think so? I'll help you clean up by and by, if you want to.”

“YOU will?”

“Yes, sir. I used to dust sometimes when mamma was out sewing. And once I swept, but I did it so hard that auntie wouldn't let me any more. She said 'twas like trying to blow out a match with a tornado.”

Later on he found her standing in the sitting room, critically inspecting the mats, the furniture, and the pictures on the walls. He stood watching her for a moment and then asked:

“Well, what are you lookin' for—more dust? 'Twon't be hard to find it. 'Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return.' Every time I go outdoor and come in again I realize how true that is.”

Emily shook her head.

“No, sir,” she said; “I was only looking at things and thinking.”

“Thinkin', hey? What about? or is that a secret?”

“No, sir. I was thinking that this room was different from any I've ever seen.”

“Humph! Yes, I presume likely 'tis. Don't like it very much, do you?”

“Yes, sir, I think I do. It's got a good many things in it that I never saw before, but I guess they're pretty—after you get used to 'em.”

Captain Cy laughed aloud. “After you get used to 'em, hey?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir. That's what mamma said about Auntie Oliver's new bonnet that she made herself. I—I was thinking that you must be peculiar.”

“Peculiar?”

“Yes, sir. I like peculiar people. I'm peculiar myself. Auntie used to say I was the most peculiar child she ever saw. P'raps that's why I came to you. P'raps God meant for peculiar ones to live together. Don't you think maybe that was it?”

And the captain, having no answer ready, said nothing.

That evening when Asaph and Bailey, coming for their usual call, peeped in at the window, they were astounded by the tableau in the Whittaker sitting room. Captain Cy was seated in the rocking chair which had been his grandfather's. At his feet, on the walnut cricket with a haircloth top, sat a little girl turning over the leaves of a tattered magazine, a Godey's Lady's Book. A pile of these magazines was beside her on the floor. The captain was smiling and looking over her shoulder. The cat was curled up in another chair. The room looked more homelike than it had since its owner returned to it.

The friends entered without knocking. Captain Cy looked up, saw them, and appeared embarrassed.

“Hello, boys!” he said. “Glad to see you. Come right in. Clearin' off fine, ain't it?”

Mr. Tidditt replied absently that he wouldn't be surprised if it was. Bailey, his eyes fixed upon the occupant of the cricket, said nothing.

“We—we didn't know you had company, Whit,” said Asaph. “We been up to Simmons's and Alpheus said you was thin and peaked and looked sick. Said you bought sass'p'rilla and all kind of truck. He was afraid you had fever and was out of your head, cruisin round in the rain with no umbrella. The gang weren't talkin' of nothin' else, so me and Bailey thought we'd come right down.”

“That's kind of you, I'm sure. Take your things off and set down. No, I'm sorry to disappoint Smalley and the rest, but I'm able to be up and—er—make my own bed, thank you. So Alpheus thought I looked thin, hey? Well, if I had to live on that soup he sold me, I'd be thinner'n I am now. You tell him that canned hot water is all right if you like it, but it seems a shame to put mud in it. It only changes the color and don't help the taste.”

Mr. Bangs, who was still staring at Emily, now ventured a remark.

“Is that a relation of yours, Cy?” he asked.

“That? Oh! Well, no, not exactly. And yet I don't know but she is. Fellers, this is Emmie Thomas. Can't you shake hands, Emmie?”

The child rose, laid down the magazine, which was open at the colored picture of a group of ladies in crinoline and chignons, and, going across the room, extended a hand to Mr. Tidditt.

“How do you do, sir?” she said.

“Why—er—how d'ye do? I'm pretty smart, thank you. How's yourself?”

“I'm better now. I guess the sass'parilla was good for me.”

“'Twan't the sass'p'rilla,” observed the captain, with conviction. “'Twas the 'Arabian Balsam.' Ma always cured me with it and there's nothin' finer.”

“But what in time—” began Bailey. Captain Cy glanced at the child and then at the clock.

“Don't you think you'd better turn in now, Emmie?” he said hastily, cutting off the remainder of the Bangs query. “It's after eight, and when I was little I was abed afore that.”

Emily obediently turned, gathered up the Lady's Books and replaced them in the closet. Then she went to the dining room and came back with a hand lamp.

“Good night,” she said, addressing the visitors. Then, coming close to the captain, she put her face up for a kiss.

“Good night,” she said to him, adding, “I like it here ever so much. I'm awful glad you let me stay.”

As Bailey told Asaph afterwards, Captain Cy blushed until the ends of the red lapped over at the nape of his neck. However, he bent and kissed the rosy lips and then quickly brushed his own with his hand.

“Yes, yes,” he stammered. “Well—er—good night. Pleasant dreams to you. See you in the mornin'.”

The girl paused at the chamber door. “You won't have to unbutton my waist now,” she said. “This is my other one and it ain't that kind.”

The door closed. The captain, without looking at his friends, led the way to the dining room.

“Come on out here,” he whispered. “We can talk better here.”

Naturally, they wanted to know all about the girl, who she was and where she came from. Captain Cy told as much of the history of the affair as he thought necessary.

“Poor young one,” he concluded, “she landed on to me in the rain, soppin' wet, and ha'f sick. I COULDN'T turn her out then—nobody could. Course it's an everlastin' outrage on me and the cheekiest thing ever I heard of, but what could I do? I was fixed a good deal like an English feller by the name of Gatenby that I used to know in South America. He woke up in the middle of the night and found a boa constrictor curled on the foot of his bed. Next day, when a crowd of us happened in, there was Gatenby, white as a sheet, starin' down at the snake, and it sound asleep. 'I didn't invite him,' he says, 'but he looked so bloomin' comf'table I 'adn't the 'eart to disturb 'im.' Same way with me; the child seemed so comf'table here I ain't had the heart to disturb her—yet.”

“But she said she was goin' to stay,” put in Bailey. “You ain't goin' to KEEP her, are you?”

The captain's indignation was intense.

“Who—me?” he snorted. “What do you think I am? I ain't runnin' an orphan asylum. No, sir! I'll keep the young one a day or so—or maybe a week—and then I'll pack her off to Betsy Howes. I ain't so soft as they think I am. I'LL show 'em!”

Mr. Tidditt looked thoughtful.

“She's a kind of cute little girl, ain't she?” he observed.

Captain Cy's frown vanished and a smile took its place.

“That's so,” he chuckled. “She is, now that's a fact! I don't know's I ever saw a cuter.”