A week isn't a very long time even in Bayport. True, there was once a drummer for a Boston “notion” house who sprained his ankle on the icy sidewalk in front of Simmons's, and was therefore obliged to remain in the front bedroom of the perfect boarding house for seven whole days. He is quoted as saying that next time he hoped he might break his neck.

“Brother,” asked the shocked Rev. Mr. Daniels, who was calling upon the stranger, “are you prepared to face eternity?”

“What?” was the energetic reply. “After a week in this town, and in this bedroom? Look here, Mister, if you want to scare me about the future you just hint that they'll put me on a straw tick in an ice chest. Anything hot and lively 'll only be tempting after this.”

But to us, who live here throughout the year, a week soon passes. And the end of the week following Emily Thomas's arrival at the Cy Whittaker place found the little girl still there and apparently no nearer being shipped to Indiana than when she came. Not so near, if Mr. Tidditt's opinion counts for anything.

“Gone?” he repeated scoffingly in reply to Bailey Bangs's question. “Course she ain't gone! And, what's more, she ain't goin' to go. Whit's got so already that he wouldn't part with her no more'n he'd cut off his hand.”

“But he keeps SAYIN' she's got to go. Only yesterday he was tellin' how Betsy'd feel when the girl landed on her with his letter in her pocket.”

“Sayin' don't count for nothin'. Zoeth Cahoon keeps SAYIN' he's goin' to stop drinkin', but he only stops long enough to catch his breath. Cy's tellin' himself fairy yarns and he hopes he believes 'em. Man alive! can't you SEE? Ain't he gettin' more foolish over the young one every day? Don't she boss him round like the overseer on a cranberry swamp? Don't he look more contented than he has sence he got off the cars? I tell you, Bailey, that child fills a place in Whit's life that's been runnin' to seed and needed weedin'. Nothin' could fill it better—unless 'twas a nice wife.”

“WIFE! Oh, DO be still! I believe you're woman-struck and at an age when it hadn't ought to be catchin' no more'n whoopin' cough.”

Mr. Bangs and the town clerk were the only ones, except Captain Cy, who knew the whole truth concerning the little girl. Not that the child's arrival wasn't noted and vigorously discussed by a large portion of the townspeople. Emily had not been in the Whittaker house two days before Angeline Phinney called, hot on the trail of gossip and sensation. But, persistent as Angeline was, she departed knowing not quite as much as when she came. The interview between Miss Phinney and the captain must have been interesting, judging by the lady's account of it.

“I never see such a man in my born days,” declared Angie disgustedly. “You couldn't get nothin' out of him. Not that he wan't pleasant and sociable; land sakes! he acted as glad to see me as if I was his rich aunt come on a visit. And he was willin' to talk, too. That's the trouble; he done ALL the talkin'. I happened to mention, just as a sort of starter, you know, somethin' about the cranb'ry crop this fall; and after that all he could say was 'cranb'ries, cranb'ries, cranb'ries!' 'Hear you've got comp'ny,' says I. 'Did you?' says he. 'Now ain't it strange how things'll get spread around? Only yesterday I heard that Joe Dimick's swamp was just loaded down with “early blacks.” And yet when I went over to look at it there didn't seem to be so many. There ain't much better cranb'ries anywhere than our early blacks,' he says. 'You take 'em—' And so on, and so on, and so on. I didn't care nothin' about the dratted early blacks, but he didn't seem to care for nothin' else. He talked cranb'ries steady for an hour and a half and I left that house with my mouth all puckered up; it's tasted sour ever sence. I never see such a man!”

When Captain Cy was questioned by Asaph concerning the acid conversation, he grinned.

“I didn't know you was so interested in cranb'ries,” observed Tidditt.

“I ain't,” was the reply; “but I'm more interested in 'em than I am in Angie. I see she was sufferin' from a rush of curiosity to the head and I cured her by homeopath doses. Every time she opened her mouth I dropped an 'early black' into it. It's a good receipt; you tell Bailey to try it on Ketury some time.”

To his chums the captain was emphatic in his orders that secrecy be preserved. No one was to be told who the child was or where she came from. “What they don't know won't hurt 'em any,” declared Captain Cy. And Emily's answer to inquiring souls who would fain have delved into her past was to the effect that “Uncle Cyrus” didn't like to have her talk about herself.

“I don't know's I'm ashamed of anything I've done so far,” said the captain; “but I ain't braggin', either. Time enough to talk when I send her back to Betsy.”

That time, apparently, was not in the near future. The girl stayed on at the Whittaker place and grew to be more and more a part of it. At the end of the second week Captain Cy began calling her “Bos'n.”

“A bos'n's a mighty handy man aboard ship,” he explained, “and you're so handy here that it fits in first rate. And, besides, it sounds so natural. My dad called me 'Bos'n' when I was little.”

Emily accepted the title complacently. She was quite contented to be called almost anything, so long as she was permitted to stay with her new friend. Already the bos'n had taken charge of the deck and the rest of the ship's company; Captain Cy and “Lonesome,” the cat, obeyed her orders.

On the second Sunday morning after her arrival “Bos'n” suggested that she and Captain Cy go to church.

“Mother and I always went at home,” she said. “And Auntie Oliver used to say meeting was a good thing for those that needed it.”

“Think I need it, do you?” asked the captain, who, in shirt sleeves and slippers, had prepared for a quiet forenoon with his pipe and the Boston Transcript.

“I don't know, sir. I heard what you said when Lonesome ate up the steak, and I thought maybe you hadn't been for a long time. I guess churches are different in South America.”

So they went to church and sat in the old Whittaker pew. The captain had been there once before when he first returned to Bayport, but the sermon was more somnolent than edifying, and he hadn't repeated the experiment. The pair attracted much attention. Fragments of a conversation, heard by Captain Cy as they emerged into the vestibule, had momentous consequences.

“Kind of a pretty child, ain't she?” commented Mrs. Eben Salters, patting her false front into place under the eaves of her Sunday bonnet.

“Pretty enough in the face,” sniffed Mrs. “Tad” Simpson, who was wearing her black silk for the first time since its third making-over. “Pretty enough that way, I s'pose. But, my land! look at the way she's rigged. Old dress, darned and patched up and all outgrown! If I had Cy Whittaker's money I'd be ashamed to have a relation of mine come to meetin' that way. Even if her folks was poorer'n Job's off ox I'd spend a little on my own account and trust to getting it back some time. I'd have more care for my own self-respect. Look at Alicia Atkins. See how nice she looks. Them feathers on her hat must have cost somethin', I bet you. Howdy do, 'Licia, dear? When's your pa comin' home?”

The Honorable Heman had left town on a business trip to the South. Alicia was accompanied by the Atkins housekeeper and, as usual, was garbed regardless of expense.

Mrs. Salters smiled sweetly upon the Atkins heir and then added, in a church whisper: “Don't she look sweet? I agree with you, Sarah; it is strange how Captain Whittaker lets his little niece go. And him rich!”

“Niece?” repeated Mrs. Simpson eagerly. “Who said 'twas his niece? I heard 'twas a child he'd adopted out of a home. There's all sorts of queer yarns about. I—Oh, good mornin', Cap'n Cyrus! How DO you do?”

The captain grunted an answer to the effect that he was bearing up pretty well, considering. There was a scowl on his face, and he spoke little as, holding Emily by the hand, he led the way home. That evening he dropped in at the perfect boarding house and begged to know if Mrs. Bangs had any “fashion books” around that she didn't want.

“I mean—er—er—magazines with pictures of women's duds in 'em,” he stammered, in explanation. “Bos'n likes to look at 'em. She's great on fashion books, Bos'n is.”

Keturah got together a half dozen numbers of the Home Dressmaker and other periodicals of a similar nature. The captain took them under his arm and departed, whispering to Mr. Tidditt, as he passed the latter in the hall:

“Come up by and by, Ase. I want to talk to you. Bring Bailey along, if you can do it without startin' divorce proceedings.”

Later, when the trio gathered in the Whittaker sitting room, Captain Cy produced the “fashion books” and spoke concerning them.

“You see,” he said, “I—I've been thinkin' that Bos'n—Emily, that is—wan't rigged exactly the way she ought to be. Have you fellers noticed it?”

His friends seemed surprised. Neither was ready with an immediate answer, so the captain went on.

“Course I don't mean she ain't got canvas enough to cover her spars,” he explained; “but what she has got has seen consider'ble weather, and it seemed to me 'twas pretty nigh time to haul her into dry dock and refit. That's why I borrowed these magazines of Ketury. I've been lookin' them over and there seems to be plenty of riggin' for small craft; the only thing is I don't know what's the right cut for her build. Bailey, you're a married man; you ought to know somethin' about women's clothes. What do you think of this, now?”

He opened one of the magazines and pointed to the picture of a young girl, with a waspy waist and Lilliputian feet, who, arrayed in flounces and furbelows, was toddling gingerly down a flight of marble steps. She carried a parasol in one hand, and the other held the end of a chain to which a long-haired dog was attached.

The town clerk and his companion inspected the young lady with deliberation and interest.

“Well, what do you say?” demanded Captain Cy.

“I don't care much for them kind of dogs,” observed Asaph thoughtfully.

“Good land! you don't s'pose they heave the dog in with the clothes, for good measure, do you? Bailey, what's your opinion?”

Mr. Bangs looked wise.

“I should say—” he said, “yes, sir, I should say that was a real stylish rig-out. Only thing is, that girl is consider'ble less fleshy than Emily. This one looks to me as if she was breakin' in two amidships. Still, I s'pose likely the duds don't come ready made, so they could be let out some, to fit. What's the price of a suit like that, Whit?”

The captain looked at the printed number beneath the fashion plate and then turned to the description in the text.

“'Afternoon gown for miss of sixteen,'” he read. “Humph! that settles that, first crack. Bos'n ain't but half of sixteen.”

“Anyway,” put in Asaph, “you need somethin' she could wear forenoons, if she wanted to. What's this one? She looks young enough.”

The “one” referred to turned out to be a “coat for child of four.” It was therefore scornfully rejected. One after another the different magazines were examined and the pictures discussed. At length a “costume for miss of eight years” was pronounced to be pretty nearly the thing.

“Godfrey scissors!” exclaimed the admiring Mr. Tidditt. “That's mighty swell, ain't it? What's the stuff goes into that, Cy?”

“'Material, batiste, trimmed with embroidered batiste.' What in time is batiste?”

“I don't know. Do you, Bailey?”

“No; never heard of it. Ketury never had nothin' like that, I'm sure. French, I shouldn't wonder. Well, Ketury's down on the French ever sence she read about Napoleon leavin' his fust wife to take up with another woman. Does it say any more?”

“Let's see. 'Makes a beautiful gown for evening or summer wear.' Summer! Why, by the big dipper, we're aground again! Bos'n don't want summer clothes. It's comin' on winter.”

He threw the magazine on the floor, rubbed his forehead, and then burst into a laugh.

“For goodness sake, don't tell anybody about this business, boys!” he said. “I guess I must be havin' an early spring of second childhood. But when I heard those women at the meetin' house goin' on about how pretty 'Licia Atkins was got up and how mean and shabby Bos'n looked, it made me bile. And, by the big dipper, I WILL show 'em somethin' afore I get through, too! Only, dressin' little girls is some off my usual course. Bailey, does Ketury make her own duds?”

“Why, no! Course she helps and stands by for orders, but Effie Taylor comes and takes the wheel while the riggin's goin' on. Effie's a dressmaker and—”

“There! See, Ase? It IS some good to have a married man aboard, after all. A dressmaker's what we want. I'll hunt up Effie to-morrow.”

And hunt her up he did, with the result that Miss Taylor came to the Whittaker place each day during the following week and Emily was, as the captain said, “rigged out fresh from main truck to keelson.” In this “rigging” Captain Cy and his two partners—Josiah Dimick had already christened the pair “The Board of Strategy”—took a marked interest. They were on hand when each new garment was tried on, and they approved or criticised as seemed to them best.

“Ain't that kind of sober lookin' for a young one like Bos'n?” asked the captain, referring to one of the new gowns. “I don't want her to look as if she was dressed cheap.”

“Land sakes!” mumbled Miss Taylor, her mouth full of pins. “There ain't anything cheap about it, and you'll find it out when you get the bill. That's a nice, rich, sensible suit.”

“I know, but it's so everlastin' quiet! Don't you think a little yellow and black or some red strung along the yards would sort of liven it up? Why! you ought to see them Greaser girls down in South America of a Sunday afternoon. Color! and go! Jerushy! they'd pretty nigh knock your eye out.”

The dressmaker sniffed disdain.

“Cap'n Whittaker,” she retorted, “if you want this child to look like an Indian squaw or a barber's pole you'll have to get somebody else to do it. I'm used to dressing Christians, not yeller and black heathen women. Red strung along a skirt like that! I never did!”

“There, there, Effie! Don't get the barometer fallin'. I was only suggestin', you know. What do you think, Bos'n?”

“Why, Uncle Cyrus, I don't believe I should like red very much; nor the other colors, either. I like this just as it is.”

“So? Well, you're the doctor. Maybe you're right. I wouldn't want you to look like a barber's pole. Don't love Tad Simpson enough to want to advertise his business.”

Miss Taylor's coming had other results besides the refitting of “Bos'n.” She found much fault with the captain's housekeeping. It developed that her sister Georgiana, who had been working in a Brockton shoe shop, was now at home and might be engaged to attend to the household duties at the Whittaker establishment, provided she was allowed to “go home nights.” Georgiana was engaged, on trial, and did well. So that problem was solved.

School in Bayport opens the first week in October. Of late there has been a movement, headed by some of the townspeople who think city ways are best, to have the term begin in September. But this idea has little chance of success as long as cranberry picking continues to be our leading industry. So many of the children help out the family means by picking cranberries in the fall that school, until the picking season was over, would be slimly attended.

The last week in September found us all discussing the coming of the new downstairs teacher, Miss Phoebe Dawes. Since it was definitely settled that she was to come, the opposition had died down and was less openly expressed; but it was there, all the same, beneath the surface. Congressman Atkins had accepted the surprising defiance of his wish with calm dignity and the philosophy of the truly great who are not troubled by trifles. His lieutenant, Tad Simpson, quoted him as saying that, of course, the will of the school committee was paramount, and he, as all good citizens should, bowed to their verdict. “Far be it from me,” so the great man proclaimed, “to desire that my opinion should carry more weight than that of the humblest of my friends and neighbors. Speaking as one whose knowledge of the world was, perhaps—er—more extensive than—er—others, I favored the Normal School candidate. But the persons chosen to select thought—or appeared to think—otherwise. I therefore say nothing and await developments.”

This attitude was considered by most of us to reflect credit upon Mr. Atkins. There were a few scoffers, however. When the proclamation was repeated to Captain Cy he smiled.

“Alpheus,” he said to Mr. Smalley, his informant, “you didn't use to know Deacon Zeb Clark, who lived up by the salt works in my granddad's time, hey? No, course you didn't! Well, the deacon was a great believer in his own judgment. One time, it bein' Saturday, his wife wanted him to pump the washtub full and take a bath. He said, no; said the cistern was awful low and 'twould use up all the water. She said no such thing; there was water a-plenty. To prove she was wrong he went and pried the cistern cover off to look, and fell in. Mrs. Clark peeked down and saw him there, standin' up to his neck.

“'Tabby,' says he, 'you would have your way and I'm takin' the bath. But you can see for yourself that we'll have to cart water from now on. However, I ain't responsible; throw me down the soap and towel.'”

“Humph!” grunted Smalley, “I don't see what that's got to do with it. Heman ain't takin' no bath.”

“I don't know's it's got anything to do with it. But he kind of made me think of Zeb, all the same.”

The first day of school was, of course, a Monday. On Sunday afternoon Captain Cy and Bos'n went for a walk. These walks had become a regular part of the Sabbath programme, the weather, of course, permitting. After church the pair came home for dinner. The meal being eaten, the captain would light a cigar—a pipe was now hardly “dressed-up” enough for Sunday—and, taking his small partner by the hand, would lead the way across the fields, through the pines and down by the meadow “short cut” to the cemetery. The cemetery is a favorite Sabbath resort for the natives of Bayport, who usually speak of it as the graveyard. It is a pleasant, shady spot, and to visit it is considered quite respectable and in keeping with the day and a due regard for decorum. The ungodly, meaning the summer boarders and the village no-accounts, seem to prefer the beach and the fish houses, but the cemetery attracts the churchgoers. One may gossip concerning the probable cost of a new tombstone and still remain faithful to the most rigid creed.

Captain Cy was not, strictly speaking, a religious man, according to Bayport standards. Between his attendance to churchly duties and that of the Honorable Heman Atkins there was a great gulf fixed. But he rather liked to visit the graveyard on Sunday afternoons. His mother had been used to stroll there with him, in his boyhood, and it pleased him to follow in her footsteps.

So he and Bos'n walked along the grass-covered paths, between the iron-fenced “lots” of the well-to-do and the humble mounds and simple slabs where the poor were sleeping; past the sumptuous granite shaft of the Atkins lot and the tilted mossy stone which told how “Edwin Simpson, our only son,” had been “accidentally shot in the West Indies”; out through the back gate and up the hill to the pine grove overlooking the bay. Here, on a scented carpet of pine needles, they sat them down to rest and chat.

Emily, her small knees drawn up and encircled by her arms, looked out across the flats, now half covered with the rising tide. It was a mild day, more like August than October, and there was almost no wind. The sun was shining on the shallow water, and the sand beneath it showed yellow, checkered and marbled with dark green streaks and patches where the weed-bordered channels wound tortuously. On the horizon the sand hills of Wellmouth notched the blue sky. The girl drew a long breath.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Isn't this just lovely! I do like the sea an awful lot.”

“That's natural enough,” replied her companion. “There's a big streak of salt water in your blood on your ma's side. It pulls, that kind of a streak does. There's days when I feel uneasy every minute and hanker for a deck underneath me. The settin' room floor stays altogether too quiet on a day like that; I'd like to feel it heavin' over a ground swell.”

“Say, Bos'n,” he said a few minutes later; “I've been thinkin' about you. You've been to school, haven't you?”

“Course I have,” was the rather indignant answer. “I went two years in Concord. Mamma used to help me nights, too. I can read almost all the little words. Don't I help you read your paper 'most every night?”

“Sartin you do! Yes, yes! Well, our school opens to-morrer and I've been thinkin' that maybe you'd better go. There's a new teacher comin', and I hear she's pretty good.”

“Don't you KNOW? Why, Mr. Tidditt said you was the one that got her to come here!”

“Yes; well, Asaph says 'most everything but his prayers. Still, he ain't fur off this time; I cal'late I was some responsible for her bein' voted in. Yet I don't really know anything about her. You see, I—well, never mind. What do you think? Want to go?”

Bos'n looked troubled.

“I'd like to,” she said. “Course I want to learn how to read the big words, too. But I like to stay at home with you more.”

“You do, hey? Sho, sho! Well, I guess I can get along between times. Georgiana's there to keep me straight and she'll see to the dust and the dishes. I guess you'd better go to-morrer mornin' and see how you like it, anyhow.”

The child thought for a moment.

“I think you're awful good,” she said. “I like you next to mamma; even better than Auntie Oliver. I printed a letter to her the other day. I told her you were better than we expected and I had decided to live with you always.”

Captain Cy was startled. Considering that, only the day before, he had repeated to Bailey the declaration that the arrangement was but temporary, and that Betsy Howes was escaping responsibility only for a month or so, he scarcely knew what to say.

“Humph!” he grunted. “You've decided it, have you? Well, we'll see. Now you trot around and have a good time. I'm goin' to have another smoke. I'll be here when you get back.”

Bos'n wandered off in search of late golden rod. The captain smoked and meditated. By and by the puffs were less frequent and the cigar went out. It fell from his fingers. With his back against a pine tree Captain Cy dozed peacefully.

He awoke with a jump. Something had awakened him, but he did not know what. He blinked and gazed about him. Then he heard a faint scream.

“Uncle!” screamed Bos'n. “O—o—o—h! Uncle Cyrus, help me! Come quick!”

The next moment the captain was plunging through the scrub of huckleberry and bayberry bushes, bumping into pines and smashing the branches aside as he ran in the direction of the call.

Back of the pine grove was a big inclosed pasture nearly a quarter of a mile long. Its rear boundary was the iron fence of the cemetery. The other three sides were marked by rail fences and a stone wall. As the captain floundered from the grove and vaulted the rail fence he swore aloud.

“By the big dipper,” he groaned, “it's that cussed heifer! I forgot her. Keep dodgin', Bos'n girl! I'm comin'.”

The pasture was tenanted by a red and white cow belonging to Sylvanus Cahoon. Whether or not the animal had, during her calfhood days, been injured by a woman is not known; possibly her behavior was due merely to innate depravity. At any rate, she cherished a mortal hatred toward human beings of her own sex. With men and boys she was meek enough, but no person wearing skirts, and alone, might venture in that field without being chased by that cow. What would happen if the pursued one was caught could only be surmised, for, so far, no female had permitted herself to be caught. Few would come even so near as the other side of the pasture walls.

Bos'n had forgotten the cow. She had gone from one golden-rod clump to another until she had traversed nearly the length of the field. Then the vicious creature had appeared from behind a knoll in the pasture and, head down and bellowing wickedly, had rushed upon her. When the captain reached the far-off fence, the little girl was dodging from one dwarf pine to the next, with the cow in pursuit. The pines were few and Bos'n was nearly at the end of her defenses.

“Help!” she screamed. “Oh, uncle, where are you? What shall I do?”

Captain Cy roared in answer.

“Keep it up!” he yelled. “I'm a-comin'! Shoot you everlastin' critter! I'll break your back for you!”

The cow didn't understand English it seemed, even such vigorous English as the captain was using. Emily dodged to the last pine. The animal was close upon her. Her rescuer was still far away.

And then the cemetery gate opened and another person entered the pasture. A small person—a woman. She said nothing, but picking up her skirts, ran straight toward the cow, heedless of the latter's reputation and vicious appearance. One hand clutched the gathered skirts. In the other she held a book.

“Don't be scared, dear,” she called reassuringly. Then to the cow: “Stop it! Go away, you wicked thing!”

The animal heard the voice and turned. Seeing that the newcomer was only a woman, she lowered her head and pawed the ground.

“Run for the gate, little girl,” commanded the rescuer. “Run quick!” Bos'n obeyed. She made a desperate dash from her pine across the open space, and in another moment was safe inside the cemetery fence.

“Scat! Go home!” ordered the lady, advancing toward the cow and shaking the book at her, as if the volume was some sort of deadly weapon. “Aren't you ashamed of yourself! Go away! You needn't growl at me! I'm not a bit afraid of you.”

The “growling” was the muttered bellow with which the cow was wont to terrorize her feminine victims. But this victim refused to be terrorized. Instead of screaming and running she continued to advance, brandishing the book and repeating her orders that the creature “go home” at once. The cow did not know what to make of it. Before she could decide whether to charge or retreat, a good-sized stick descended upon her back with a “whack” that settled the question. Captain Cy had reached the scene of battle.

Then the rescuer's courage seemed to desert her, for she ran back to the cemetery even faster than she had run from it. When the indignant captain, having pursued and chastised the cow until the stick was but a splintered remnant, reached the haven behind the iron fence, he found her soothing the frightened Bos'n who was sobbing and hysterical.

Emily saw her “Uncle Cyrus” coming and rushed into his arms. He picked her up and, holding her with a grip which testified to the nerve strain he had been under, stepped forward to meet the stranger, whose coming had been so opportune.

And she WAS a stranger. The captain knew most of Bayport's inhabitants by this time, or thought he did, but he did not know her. She was a small woman, quietly dressed, and her hair, under a neat black and white hat, was brown. The hat was now a trifle to one side and the hair was the least bit disarranged, an effect not at all unbecoming. She was tucking in the stray wisps as the captain, with Bos'n in his arms, came up.

“Well, ma'am!” puffed Captain Cy. “WELL, ma'am! I must say that was the slickest, pluckiest thing ever I saw anywheres. I don't know what would—I—I declare I don't know how to thank you.”

The lady looked at him a moment before replying. Then she began to laugh, a jolly laugh that was pleasant to hear.

“Don't try, please,” she said chokingly. “It wasn't anything. Oh, mercy me! I'm all out of breath. You see, I had been warned about that cow when I started to walk this afternoon. So when I saw her chasing your poor little girl here I knew right away what was the matter. It must have been foolish enough to look at. I'm used to dogs and cats, but I haven't had many pet cows. I told her to 'go home' and to 'scat' and all sorts of things. Wonder I didn't tell her to lie down! And the way I shook that ridiculous book at her was—”

She laughed again and the captain and Bos'n joined in the laugh, in spite of the fright they both had experienced.

“That book was dry enough to frighten almost anything,” continued the lady. “It was one I took from the table before I left the place where I'm staying, and a duller collection of sermons I never saw. Oh, dear! . . . there! Is my hat any more respectable now?”

“Yes'm. It's about on an even keel, I should say. But I must tell you, ma'am, you done simply great and—”

“Seems to me the people who own that cow must be a poor set to let her make such a nuisance of herself. Did your daughter run away from you?”

“Well, you see, ma'am, she ain't really my daughter. Bos'n here—that's my nickname for her, ma'am—she and I was out walkin'. I set down in the pines and I guess I must have dozed off. Anyhow, when I woke up she was gone, and the first thing I knew of this scrape was hearin' her hail.”

The little woman's manner changed. Her gray eyes flashed indignantly.

“You dozed off?” she repeated. “With a little girl in your charge, and in the very next lot to that cow? Didn't you know the creature chased women and girls?”

“Why, yes; I'd heard of it, but—”

“It wasn't Uncle Cyrus's fault,” put in Bos'n eagerly. “It was mine. I went away by myself.”

Beyond shifting her gaze to the child the lady paid no attention to this remark.

“What do you think her mother 'll say when she sees that dress?” she asked.

It was Emily's best gown, the finest of the new “rig out” prepared by Miss Taylor. The girl and Captain Cy gazed ruefully at the rents and pitch stains made by the vines and pine trees.

“Well, you see,” replied the abashed captain, “the fact is, she ain't got any mother.”

“Oh! I beg your pardon. And hers, too, poor dear. Well, if I were you I shouldn't go to sleep next time I took her walking. Good afternoon.”

She turned and calmly walked down the path. At the bend she spoke again.

“I should be gentle with her, if I were you,” she said. “Her nerves are pretty well upset. Besides, if you'll excuse my saying so, I don't think she is the one that needs scolding.”

They thought she had gone, but she turned once more to add a final suggestion.

“I think that dress could be fixed,” she said, “if you took it to some one who knew about such things.”

She disappeared amidst the graveyard shrubbery. Captain Cy and Bos'n slowly followed her. From the pasture the red and white cow sent after them a broken-spirited “Moo!”

Bos'n was highly indignant. During the homeward walk she sputtered like a damp firecracker.

“The idea of her talking so to you, Uncle Cyrus!” she exclaimed. “It wasn't your fault at all.”

The captain smiled one-sidedly.

“I don't know about that, shipmate,” he said. “I wouldn't wonder if she was more than half right. But say! she was all business and no frills, wasn't she! Ha, ha! How she did spunk up to that heifer! Who in the dickens do you cal'late she is?”