If Kenelm noticed that George Washington seemed unusually tired that morning, or that the old carryall behind the barn had some new scratches on its sides and wheels, and leaves and pine needles on its cushions and floor, he did not mention what he saw. For a day or two both Mr. Hammond and Miss Parker were anxious and fearful, but as nothing was said and no questions were asked, they began to feel certain that no one save themselves knew of the elopement which had turned out to be no elopement at all. For a week Hannah's manner toward her brother was sweetness itself. She cooked the dishes he liked and permitted him to do as he pleased without once protesting or “nagging.” She had done comparatively little of the latter since the announcement of the “engagement,” but now she was more considerate and self-sacrificing than ever. If Kenelm was aware of the change he made no comment upon it, perhaps thinking it good policy to let well enough alone. Gradually the eloping couple began to feel that their secret was secure and to cease worrying about it. But Caleb called no more at the Parker cottage and when he and Hannah met they bowed, but did not stop to converse.

Miss Timpson's sudden departure from the High Cliff House caused less talk than Thankful had feared. It happened that the “cousin Sarah” to whose home Miss Abigail had fled, was seized with an attack of grippe and this illness was accepted as the cause of the schoolmistress's move. And Miss Timpson herself kept her word; she told no one of the “warning” she had received. So Thankful was spared the gossip and questioning concerning the snoring ghost in the back bedroom. For so much she was grateful, but she missed the weekly room rent and the weekly board money. The financial situation was becoming more and more serious for her, and as yet Solomon Cobb had not made known his decision in the matter of the mortgage.

During the week following Miss Timpson's departure Thankful spent several nights in the rooms the former had vacated, lying awake and listening for sounds from the back bedroom. She heard none. No ghost snored for her benefit. Then other happenings, happenings of this world, claimed her attention and she dropped psychical research for the time.

The first of these happenings was the most surprising. One forenoon Kenelm returned from an errand to the village bringing the morning's mail with him. There were two letters for Mrs. Barnes. One was from Emily and, as this happened to be on top, Thankful opened it first.

There was good news in the letter, good news for Georgie and also for Mrs. Barnes herself. Georgie had been enjoying himself hugely during his stay in East Wellmouth. He spent every moment of pleasant weather out of doors and his energetic exuberance kept the livestock as well as the humans on the “Cap'n Abner place” awake and lively. He fed the hens, he collected the eggs, he pumped and carried water for George Washington; and the feeding of Patrick Henry was his especial care. That pig, now a plump and somnolent porker, was Georgie's especial favorite. It was past “hog-killing time” in East Wellmouth, but Thankful had given up the idea of turning Patrick Henry into spare ribs and lard, at least until her lively young relative's visit was at an end. That end was what Georgie feared. He did not want to go home. Certainly Thankful did not want him to go, and she and Captain Obed—the latter's fondness for his “second mate” stronger than ever—wrote to Miss Howes, begging her to use her influence with the family to the end that Georgie's visit might be prolonged until after Christmas, at any rate.

And in Emily's reply, the letter which Kenelm brought from the postoffice that morning, the permission was granted. Georgie might stay until New Year's Day.

Then [wrote Emily], he must come back with me. Yes, with me; for, you see, I am going to keep my word. I am coming to spend my Christmas vacation with you, just as I said I should if it were possible. There! aren't you glad? I know you are, for you must be so lonely, although one not knowing you as well as I do would never guess it from your letters. You always write that all is well, but I know. By the way, are there any developments in the matter of the loan from Mr. Cobb? I am very glad the renewal of the mortgage is to be all right, but I think he should do more than that. And have you been troubled in the other affair, that of your neighbor? You have not mentioned it—but have you?

Thankful had not been troubled in the “other affair.” That is to say, she had not been troubled by E. Holliday Kendrick or his attorney. No move had been made, at least so far as anyone could learn, in the project of forcing her to sell out, and Heman Daniels declared that none would be made. “It is one thing to boast,” said Mr. Daniels, “and another to make good. My—ahem—er—professional rival is beginning to realize, I think, that he has in this case bitten off more than he can—er—so to speak, chew. That young man has succeeded in ruining himself in this community and that is all he has succeeded in.”

John said nothing. At his new boarding-place, Darius Holt's, he answered no questions concerning his plans, and was silent and non-communicative. He kept to himself and made no effort to regain his lost popularity or to excuse his action. Thankful saw him but seldom and even Captain Obed no longer mentioned John's name unless it was mentioned to him. Then he discussed the subject with a scornful sniff and the stubborn declaration that there was a mistake somewhere which would some day be explained. But his confidence was shaken, that was plain, and his optimism assumed. He and Mrs. Barnes avoided discussion of John Kendrick and his affairs.

Thankful read and reread the letter from Emily Howes. The news it contained was so good that she forgot entirely the fact that there was another envelope in the mail. Only when, as she sprang to her feet to rush out into the yard and tell Georgie that his plea for an extension of his visit was granted, was her attention called to this second letter. It fell from her lap to the floor and she stooped and picked it up.

The first thing she noticed was that the envelope was in a remarkably crumpled and dirty condition. It looked as if it had been carried in a pocket—and a not too clean pocket—for many days. Then she noticed the postmark—“Omaha.” The address was the last item to claim her attention and, as she stared at the crumpled and crooked hand-writing, she gasped and turned pale.

Slowly she sank back into her chair and tore open the envelope. The inclosure was a dingy sheet of cheap notepaper covered with a penciled scrawl. With trembling fingers she unfolded the paper and read what was written there. Then she leaned back in the chair and put her hand to her forehead.

She was sitting thus when the door of the dining-room opened and a voice hailed: “Ahoy there! Anybody on deck?”

She turned to see Captain Obed Bangs' cheery face peering in at her.

“Hello!” cried the captain, entering the room and tossing his cap on the table. “You're here, are you? I was lookin' for you and Imogene said she cal'lated you was aboard ship somewheres, but she wa'n't sartin where. I've come to get that second mate of mine. I'm goin' off with a gang to take up the last of my fish weirs and I thought maybe the little shaver'd like to go along. I need help in bossin' the fo'mast hands, you see, and he's some consider'ble of a driver, that second mate is. Yes sir-ee! You ought to hear him order 'em to get up anchor. Ho! ho! I—Hey? Why—why, what's the matter?”

Thankful's face was still pale and she was trembling.

“Nothin', nothin', Cap'n Bangs,” she said. “I've had a—a surprise, that's all.”

“A surprise! Yes, you look as if you had.” Then, noticing the letter in her lap, he added. “You ain't had bad news, have you?”

“No. No, not exactly. It's good news. Yes, in a way it's good news, but—but I didn't expect it and—and it has shook me up a good deal. . . . And—and I don't know what to do. Oh, I don't know WHAT I'd ought to do!”

The distress in her tone was so real that the captain was greatly disturbed. He made a move as if to come to her side and then, hesitating, remained where he was.

“I—I'd like to help you, Thank—er—Mrs. Barnes,” he faltered, earnestly. “I like to fust-rate, if—if I could. Ain't there—is there anything I could do to help? Course you understand I ain't nosin' in on your affairs, but, if you feel like tellin' me, maybe I—Look here, 'tain't nothin' to do with that cussed Holliday Kendrick or his meanness, is it?”

Thankful shook her head. “No,” she said, “it isn't that. I've been expectin' that and I'd have been ready for anything he might do—or try to do. But I wasn't expectin' THIS. How COULD anybody expect it? I thought he was dead. I thought sure he must be dead. Why, it's six year since he—and now he's alive, and he wants—What SHALL I do?”

Captain Obed took a step forward.

“Now, Mrs. Barnes,” he begged, “I wish you would—that is, you know if you feel like it I—well, here I am. Can't I do SOMETHIN'?”

Thankful turned and looked at him. She was torn between an intense desire to make a confidant of someone and her habitual tendency to keep her personal affairs to herself. The desire overcame the habit.

“Cap'n Bangs,” she said, suddenly, “I will tell you I've just got to tell somebody. If he was just writin' to say he was all right and alive, I shouldn't. I'd just be grateful and glad and say nothin'. But the poor thing is poverty-struck and friendless, or he says he is, and he wants money. And—and I haven't got any money just now.”

“I have,” promptly. “Or, if I ain't got enough with me I can get more. How much? Just you say how much you think he'll need and I'll have it for you inside of a couple of hours. If money's all you want—why, that's nothin'.”

Thankful heard little, apparently, of this prodigal offer. She took up the letter.

“Cap'n Bangs,” said she, “you remember I told you, one time when we were talkin' together, that I had a brother—Jedediah, his name was—who used to live with me after my husband was drowned?”

“Yes. I remember. You said he'd run off to go gold-diggin' in the Klondike or somewheres. You said he was dead.”

“I thought he must be. I gave him up long ago, because I was sartin sure if he wasn't dead he'd have written me, askin' me to let him come back. I knew he'd never be able to get along all by himself. But he isn't dead. He's alive and he's written me now. Here's his letter. Read it, please.”

The captain took the letter and slowly read it through. It was a rambling, incoherent epistle, full of smudges where words had been scratched out and rewritten, but a pitiful appeal nevertheless. Jedediah Cahoon had evidently had a hard time since the day when, after declaring his intention never to return until “loaded down with money,” he had closed the door of his sister's house at South Middleboro and gone out into the snowstorm and the world. His letter contained few particulars. He had wandered far, even as far as his professed destination, the Klondike, but, wherever he had been, ill luck was there to meet him. He had earned a little money and lost it, earned a little more and lost that; had been in Nome and Vancouver and Portland and Seattle; had driven a street car in Tacoma.

I wrote you from Tacoma, Thankful [the letter said], after I lost that job, but you never answered. Now I am in 'Frisco and I am down and out. I ain't got any good job and I don't know where I will get one. I want to come home. Can't I come? I am sorry I cleared out and left you the way I done, and if you will let me come back home again I will try to be a good brother to you. I will; honest. I won't complain no more and I will split the kindling and everything. Please say I can come. Do PLEASE.

Then came the appeal for money, money for the fare east. It was to be sent to an address in San Francisco, in care of a person named Michael Kelly.

I am staying with this Kelly man [concluded Jedediah]. He keeps a kind of hotel like and I am doing chores for him. If you send the money right off I will get it I guess before he fires me. Send it QUICK for the Lord sakes.

Captain Obed finished the letter.

“Whew!” he whistled. “He's in hard luck, ain't he?”

Thankful wrung her hands. “Yes,” she answered, “and I must help him somehow. But how I'm goin' to do it just now I don't see. But I must, of course. He's my brother and I MUST.”

“Sartin you must. We—er—that is, that can be fixed all right. Humph! He sent this to you at South Middleboro, didn't he, and 'twas forwarded. Let's see when he wrote it. . . . Eh? Why, 'twas written two months ago! Where in the world has it been all this time?”

“I don't know. I can't think. And he says he is in San Francisco, and the postmark on that envelope is Omaha, Nebraska.”

“Land of love, so 'tis. And the postmark date is only four days back. Why did he hang on to the thing for two months afore he mailed it? And how did it get to Omaha?”

“I don't know. All I can think of is that he gave the letter to somebody else to mail and that somebody forgot it. That's all I can think of. I can't really think of anything after a shock like this. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! The poor, helpless, incompetent thing! He's probably starved to death by this time and it's all my fault. I NEVER should have let him go. What SHALL I do? Wasn't there enough without this?”

For the first time Thankful's troubles overcame her courage and self-restraint. She put her handkerchief to her eyes.

The captain was greatly upset. He jammed his hands into his pockets, took them out again, reached for his own handkerchief, blew his nose violently, and began pacing up and down the room. Suddenly he seemed to have made up his mind.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he said, “I—I—”

Thankful's face was still buried in her handkerchief.

“I—I—” continued Captain Obed. “Now, now, don't do that. Don't DO it!”

Mrs. Barnes wiped her eyes.

“I won't,” she said, stoutly. “I won't. I know I'm silly and childish.”

“You ain't neither. You're the pluckiest and best woman ever was. You're the finest—er—er—Oh, consarn it, Thankful, don't cry any more. Can't you,” desperately, “can't you see I can't stand it to have you?”

“All right, Cap'n Bangs, I won't. Don't you bother about me or my worries. I guess likely you've got enough of your own; most people have.”

“I ain't. I ain't got enough. Do me good if I had more. Thankful, see here; what's the use of your fightin' all these things alone? I've watched you ever since you made port here in South Wellmouth and it's been nothin' but fight and worry all the time. What's the use of it? You're too good a woman to waste your life this way. Give it up.”

“Give it up?”

“Yes, give it up. Give up this wearin' yourself out keepin' boarders and runnin' this big house. Why don't you stop takin' care of other folks and take care of yourself for a spell?”

“But I can't. I can't take care of myself. All I have is invested in this place and if I give it up I lose everything.”

“Yes, yes, I know what you mean. But what I mean is—is—”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—I mean why don't you let somebody take care of you? That's what I mean.”

Thankful turned to stare at him.

“Somebody—else—take care of me?” she repeated.

“Yes—yes. Don't look at me like that. If you do I can't say it. I'm—I'm havin' a—a hard enough time sayin' it as 'tis. Thankful Barnes, why—don't LOOK at me, I tell you!”

But she still looked at him, and, if a look ever conveyed a meaning, hers did just then.

“I ain't crazy,” declared Captain Obed. “I can see you think I am, but I ain't. Thankful, I—Oh, thunderation! What is the matter with me? Thankful, let ME take care of you, will you?”

Thankful rose to her feet. “Obed Bangs!” she exclaimed.

“I mean it. I've been meanin' it more and more ever since I first met you, but I ain't had the spunk to say it. Now I'm goin' to say it if I keel over on the last word. Thankful, why don't you marry me?”

Thankful was speechless. The captain plunged desperately on.

“Will you, Thankful?” he begged. “I know I'm an old codger, but I ain't in my second childhood, not yet. I—I'd try mighty hard to make you happy. I haven't got anybody of my own in the world. Neither have you—except this brother of yours, and, judgin' from his letter and what you say, HE won't take any care; he'll BE a care, that's all. I ain't rich, but I've got money enough to help you—and him—and me afloat and comf'table. Thankful, will you?”

Thankful was still looking at him. He would have spoken again, but she raised her hand and motioned him to silence.

“Obed,” she asked, after a moment, “what made you say this to me?”

“What made me say it? What kept me still so long, you ought to ask. Haven't I come to think more and more of you ever since I knew you? Haven't I been more and more sorry for you? And pitied you? I—”

She raised her hand again. “I see,” she said, slowly. “I see. Thank you, Obed. You're so kind and self-sacrificin' you'd do anything or say anything to help a—friend, wouldn't you? But of course you can't do this.”

“Can't? Why can't I? Self-sacrifice be hanged! Thankful, can't you see—”

“Yes. Oh yes. I can see. . . . Now let's talk about Jedediah. Do you think—”

“Jedediah be keelhauled! Will you marry me, Thankful Barnes?”

“Why no, Obed; of course I won't.”

“You won't? Why not?”

“Because—well, because I—I can't. There, there, Obed! Please don't ask me again. Please don't!”

Captain Obed did not ask. He did not speak again for what, to Mrs. Barnes, seemed a long, long time. At length she could bear it no longer.

“PLEASE, Obed,” she begged.

The captain slowly shook his head. Then he laughed a short, mirthless laugh.

“What an old fool I am!” he muttered. “What an old fool!”

“Obed, don't talk so! Don't! Do you want to make this—everything—harder for me?”

He straightened and squared his shoulders.

“Thank you, Thankful,” he said, earnestly. “Thank you for sayin' that. That's the way to talk to me. I know I'm an old fool, but I won't be any more, if I can help it. Make it harder for you? I guess not!”

“Obed, I'm so sorry.”

“Sho! sho! You needn't be. . . . I'm all right. I've been dreamin' foolish dreams, like a young feller after a church picnic dinner, but I'm awake now. Yes'm, I'm awake. Now just you forget that I talked in my sleep. Forget the whole of it and let's get back to—to that brother of yours. We've got to locate him, that's the first thing to be done. I'll send a telegram right off to that Kelly man out in 'Frisco askin' if what's-his-name—Jedediah—is there yet.”

“Obed, you won't—you won't feel hard towards me? You won't let—this—interfere with our friendship?”

“Sho! Hush, hush, Thankful! You make me more ashamed of myself than ever, and that ain't necessary. Now the first thing is to send that telegram. If we locate your brother then we'll send him a ticket to Boston and some money. Don't you worry, Thankful; we'll get him here. And don't you fret about the money neither. I'll 'tend to that and you can pay me afterwards.”

“No, no; of course I shan't let—”

“Yes, you will. There's some things you can't stop and that's one of 'em. You talked about our friendship, didn't you? Well, unless you want me to believe I ain't your friend, you'll let me run my own course this time. So long, Thankful; I'm off to Chris Badger's to send that telegram.”

He snatched up his cap and was on his way to the door. She followed him.

“Obed,” she faltered, “I—I—What CAN I say to you? You are SO good!”

“Tut! tut! Me good? Don't let Heman Daniels hear you say that. He's a church deacon and knows what goodness is. So long, Thankful. Soon's I hear from Kelly, I'll report.”

He hurried from the house. Thankful watched him striding down the path. Not once did he hesitate or look back. She turned from the door and, returning to her chair by the center table, sat down. For a moment she sat there and then, leaning her head upon her arms on the table, wept tears of absolute loneliness and despair.

The telegram to Michael Kelly of San Francisco brought an answer, but a most unsatisfactory one. Jedediah Cahoon had not been in the Kelly employ for more than six weeks. Kelly did not know where he had gone and, apparently, did not care. Captain Obed then wired and wrote the San Francisco police officials, urging them to trace the lost one. This they promised to do, but nothing came of it. The weeks passed and no word from them or from Jedediah himself was received. His letter had come to prove that, at the time it was written, he was alive; whether or not he was still alive, or where he might be if living, was as great a mystery as ever. Day after day Thankful watched and waited and hoped, but her waiting was unrewarded, and, though she still hoped, her hope grew steadily fainter; and the self-reproach and the worry greater in proportion.

She and Georgie and Imogene spent Thanksgiving Day alone. Heman Daniels and Mr. Hammond were invited out and Captain Obed, who had meant to eat his Thanksgiving dinner at the High Cliff House, was called to Boston on business connected with his fish selling, and could not return in time.

Early in December Thankful once more drove to Trumet to call upon Solomon Cobb. The question of the renewal of the mortgage she felt must remain a question no longer. But she obtained little satisfaction from her talk with the money-lender. Mr. Cobb's first remark concerned the Holliday Kendrick offer to buy the “Cap'n Abner place.”

“Did he mean it, do you think?” he demanded. “Is he really so sot on buyin' as folks say he is?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Huh! And he's hired his lawyer—that young cousin of his—Bailey Kendrick's son—to make you sell out to him?”

“Yes.”

“What's the young feller done about it; anything?”

“No; nothin' that I know of.”

“Humph! Sure of that, be ye? I hear he's been spendin' consider'ble time over to Ostable lately, hangin' round the courthouse, and the probate clerk's office. Know what he's doin' that for?”

“No, I didn't know he had. How did you know it?”

“I knew. Ain't much goin' on that I don't know; I make it my business to know. Why don't you sell out to old Holliday?”

“I don't want to sell. My boardin'-house has just got a good start and why should I give it up? I won't sell.”

“Oh, you won't! Pretty independent for anybody with a mortgage hangin' over 'em, ain't ye?”

“Solomon, are you goin' to renew that mortgage when it comes due?”

Mr. Cobb pulled his whiskers. “I don't know's I am and I don't know's I ain't,” he said. “This Kendrick business kind of mixes things up. Might be a good idea for me to foreclose that mortgage and sell the place to him at my own price. Eh? What do you think of that?”

“You wouldn't do it! You couldn't be so—”

“So what? Business is business and if he's goin' to put you out anyhow, I don't see why I shouldn't get my share of the pickin's.”

“But he ain't goin' to put me out.”

“He says he is. Now—now—clear out and don't bother me. When that mortgage falls due I'll let you know what I intend doin' with it. If you pester me now I won't renew anyhow. Go along home and quit your frettin'. Long's you're there, you BE there. What more do you want?”

There was a good deal more of this sort of thing, but it was all quite as unsatisfactory. Thankful gave it up at last.

“I shan't come here again,” she declared desperately. “If you want to see me you can come to my place.”

“Humph!”

“Well, you will, or not see me. Why haven't you been there? Time and time again you have promised to come, but you never have. I shall begin to believe there is some reason why you don't want to go into that house.”

She was on her way to the door, but Solomon called after her.

“Here!” he shouted. “Hold on! What do you mean by that? Why shouldn't I go into that house if I want to? Why shouldn't I?”

“I don't know; all I know is that you don't seem to want to. I can't say why you don't want to, but—”

“But what?”

“But, maybe, if someone that's dead and gone was here—he could.”

“He—he—who? What? Hi! Where you goin'?”

“I'm goin' home.”

“No, you ain't—not until you tell me what you mean by—by somebody that's dead and gone. What kind of talk is that? What do you mean?”

“Maybe I don't know what I mean, Solomon; but I think you do. If you don't then your looks belie you, that's all.”

She went out of the “henhouse.” As she drove away she saw Mr. Cobb peering at her through the window. He was “weeding” with both hands and he looked agitated and—yes, frightened. Thankful was more than ever certain that his mysterious behavior was in some way connected with his past dealings with her Uncle Abner, but, not knowing what those dealings might have been, the certainty was not likely to help her. And he had not said that he would renew the mortgage.

Georgie was the first to meet her when she drove into the yard. He had been spending the day with Captain Obed and had coaxed the latter into telling him stories of Santa Claus. Georgie's mind was now filled with anticipations of Christmas and Christmas presents, and his faith in Santa, which had been somewhat shaken during his year at kindergarten in South Middleboro, was reviving again. The captain and Imogene and Mrs. Barnes all helped in the revival. “Christmas loses three-quarters of its fun when old Santa's took out of it,” declared Captain Obed. “I know, 'count of havin' been a young one myself a thousand year ago or such matter. This'll probably be the second mate's last Santa Claus Christmas, so let's keep this one the real thing for the boy.”

So he and Imogene and Thankful—yes, even Kenelm—discussed Santa for Georgie's benefit and Georgie believed, although his belief was not as absolute and unquestioning as it had once been. He asked a great many questions, some of which his elders found hard to answer. His dearest wish was for an air-gun, but somehow Mrs. Barnes did not seem to think the wish would be gratified. She had a strong presentiment that the combination of Georgie and an air-gun and the chickens might not be a desirable one, especially for the chickens.

“But why won't he bring it, Auntie?” demanded Georgie. “You say he brings good boys what they want. I've been a good boy, ain't I?”

“'Deed you have. I wouldn't ask for a better one.”

“Then why won't Santa bring me the gun?”

“Perhaps he'll think a gun isn't nice for such a little boy to have.”

“But it is nice. It's nicer'n anything. If I'm good and I want it I don't see why I can't have it. I think Santa's mean if he don't bring it.”

“Oh no, he isn't mean. Just think how good he is! He comes to every boy and girl—”

“No, he don't.”

“Why yes, he does. To every good little boy and girl.”

“He never came to Patsy Leary that lived up on the lots in Middleboro. Patsy said he didn't; he said there wasn't any Santa Claus, Patsy did.”

“Hum! Perhaps Patsy wasn't good.”

“Gee! Yes, he was. He can play baseball better'n any boy I know. And he can lick any kid his size; he told me he could.”

This crushing proof of young Leary's goodness was a staggerer for Thankful. Before she could think of a reply Georgie asked another question.

“You say he'll come down the chimney?” he queried.

“Yes.”

“The livin'-room chimney?”

“Yes, probably.”

“No, he won't.”

“Georgie!”

“How can he? He's so fat; he's ever so fat in the pictures. How can he get through the stovepipe?”

Mrs. Barnes' answer was evasive and Georgie noticed the evasion. However, his trust in his Aunt Thankful was absolute and if she said a fat man could get through a stovepipe he probably could. But the performance promised to be an interesting one. Georgie wished he might see it. He thought a great deal about it and, little by little, a plan began forming in his mind.

Three days before Christmas Emily Howes arrived at the High Cliff House. She was received with rejoicings. The young lady looked thinner than when she went away and seemed more grave and careworn. But when Thankful commented upon her appearance Emily only laughed and declared herself quite well and perfectly happy. She and her cousin discussed all topics of common interest except one, that one was John Kendrick. Once or twice Thankful mentioned the young man's name, but invariably Emily changed the subject. It was evident that she did not wish to speak of John; also it was, to Mrs. Barnes, just as evident that she thought of him. Thankful believed that those thoughts were responsible for the change in her relative's look and manner.

Christmas was to be, as Thanksgiving had been, a day free from boarders at the High Cliff House. Caleb was again “asked out,” and Mr. Daniels, so he said, “called away.” He had spent little time in East Wellmouth of late, though no one seemed to know exactly where he had been or why.

The day before Christmas was cold and threatening. Late in the afternoon it began to rain and the wind to blow. By supper time a fairly able storm had developed and promised to develop still more. Captain Obed, his arms filled with packages, all carefully wrapped and all mysterious and not to be opened till the next day, came in just after supper.

“Where's that second mate of mine?” whispered the captain, anxiously. When told that Georgie was in the kitchen with Imogene he sighed in relief.

“Good!” he said. “Hide those things as quick as ever you can, afore he lays eyes on 'em. He's sharper'n a sail needle, that young one is, and if he can't see through brown paper he can GUESS through it, I bet you. Take em away and put 'em out of sight—quick.”

Emily hurried upstairs with the packages. Captain Obed turned to Thankful.

“How is she these days?” he asked, with a jerk of the head in the direction taken by Miss Howes.

“She's pretty well, or she says she is. I ain't so sure myself. I'm afraid she thinks about—about HIM more than she makes believe. I'm afraid matters between them two had gone farther'n we guessed.”

Captain Obed nodded. “Shouldn't wonder,” he said. “John looks pretty peaked, too. I saw him just now.”

“You did? John Kendrick? He's been out of town for a week or two, so I heard. Where did you see him?”

“At the Centre depot. I was up to the Centre—er—buyin' a few things and he got off the noon train.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Yes, or he spoke to me. He and I ain't said much to each other—what little we've seen of each other lately—but that's been his fault more'n 'twas mine. He sung out to me this time, though, and I went over to the platform. Say,” after a moment's hesitation, “there's another thing I want to ask you. How's Heman Daniels actin' since Emily come? Seems more'n extry happy, does he?”

“Why—why, no. He's been away, too, a good deal; on business, he said.”

“Humph! He and—er—Emily haven't been extra thick, then?”

“No. Come to think of it they've hardly seen each other. Emily has acted sort of—sort of queer about him, too. She didn't seem to want to talk about him more'n she has about John.”

“Humph! That's funny. I can't make it out. You see Heman got on that same train John got off. He was comin' along the depot platform just as I got to it. And the depot-master sung out to him.”

“The depot-master? Eben Foster, you mean?”

“Yup. He sung out, 'Congratulations, Heman,' says he.”

“'What you congratulatin' him for?' says I.

“'Ain't you heard?' says he. 'He's engaged to be married'.”

Thankful uttered an exclamation.

“Engaged!” she repeated. “Mr. Daniels engaged—to be married?”

“So Eben said. I wanted to ask a million questions, of course, but John Kendrick was right alongside me and I couldn't. John must have heard it, too, and it did seem to me that he looked pretty well shook up, but he wa'n't any more shook than I was. I thought—Well, you see, I thought—”

Thankful knew what he had thought. She also was “shaken up.”

“I don't believe it,” she cried. “If—if—it can't he HER. Why, she would have told me, I'm sure. Obed, you don't think—”

“I don't know what to think. Heman's been writin' her pretty reg'lar, I know that, 'cause Chris Badger told me so a week after she'd gone. I don't know, Thankful; one thing's sartin, Heman's kept his engagement mighty quiet. How Eben learned of it I don't know, but nobody in East Wellmouth knows, for I've been soundin' ever since I struck here.”

Thankful was greatly troubled. “I HOPE it ain't true,” she cried. “I suppose he's all right, but—but I didn't want Emily to marry him.”

“Neither did I. Perhaps she ain't goin' to. Perhaps it's just a round-the-stove lie, like a shipload of others that's set afloat every day. But, from somethin' John Kendrick said to me on that platform I knew he heard what Eben said.”

“How do you know?”

“'Cause he as much as told me so. 'Is it true?' says he.

“'I don't know,' says I. 'First I'd heard of it, if 'tis.'

“He just nodded his head and seemed to be thinkin'. When he did speak 'twas more to himself than to me. 'Well,' says he, 'then that settles it. I can do it now with a clear conscience.'

“'Do what?' I asked him.

“'Oh, nothin',' he says. 'Cap'n Obed, are you goin' to be busy all day tomorrow? I know it's Christmas, of course; but are you?'

“'Not so busy it'll wreck my nerves keepin' up with my dates,' says I. 'Why?'

“'Can you spare a half-hour or so to come 'round to my office at—well, say two tomorrow afternoon? I've got a little business of my own and I'd like to have you there. Will you come?'

“'Sartin,' I told him.

“'Of course, if you're afraid of the moral leprosy—'

“'I ain't.'

“'Then I'll look for you,' says he, and off he went. I ain't seen him since. He come down along of Winnie S. and I had one of Chris Badger's teams. Now WHAT do you cal'late it all means?”

“I don't know. I don't know. But I can't think Emily—Hush! she's comin'.”

Emily entered the room and Captain Obed began philosophically concerning the storm, which he declared was “liable to be a hooter.”

He went away soon after. At the door, when he and Mrs. Barnes were alone, he whispered, “Ain't changed your mind, have you, Thankful? About—about what I said to you that day?”

“Obed, please! You said you wouldn't.”

“All right, all right. Well, good night. I'll be around tomorrow to wish you and Emily and the second mate a merry Christmas. Good night, Thankful.”

After he had gone Thankful and Emily assisted Georgie in hanging up his stocking and preparing for bed. The boy seemed willing to retire, a most unusual willingness for him. His only worry appeared to be concerning Santa Claus, whom he feared might be delayed in his rounds by the storm.

“He'll be soaked, soppin' wet, won't he?” he asked anxiously.

“Oh, he won't mind. Santa Claus don't mind this kind of weather. He lives up at the North Pole, so folks say.”

“Yes. Won't the chimney soot all stick to him when he's wet? He'll be a sight, won't he?”

“Perhaps so, but he won't mind that, either. Now, you go to bed, Georgie, like a good boy.”

“I'm a-goin'. Say, Aunt Thankful, will the soot come all off on my presents?”

They got him into bed at last and descended to the living-room. The storm was worse than ever. The wind howled and the rain beat. Emily shivered.

“Mercy! What a night!” she exclaimed. “It reminds me of our first night in this house, Auntie.”

“Does; that's a fact. Well, I hope there's nobody prowlin' around lookin' for a place to put their head in, the way we were then. I—what's that?”

“What? What, Auntie? I didn't hear anything.”

“I thought I did. Sounded as if somebody was—and they are! Listen!”

Emily listened. From without, above the noise of the wind and rain and surf, came a shout.

“Hi!” screamed a high-pitched voice. “Hi! Let me in. I—I'm drownin'.”

Thankful rushed to the door and, exerting all her strength, pushed it open against the raging storm.

“There's nobody here,” she faltered.

“But—but there is, Auntie. I heard someone. I—”

She stopped, for, out of the drenched darkness staggered a figure, the figure of a man. He plunged across the threshold, tripped over the mat and fell in a heap upon the floor.

Emily shrieked. Mrs. Barnes pulled the door shut and ran to the prostrate figure.

“Who is it?” she asked. “Who IS it? Are you hurt?”

The figure raised its head.

“Hurt!” it panted. “It's a wonder I ain't dead. What's the matter with ye? Didn't you hear me yellin' for you to open that door?”

Thankful drew a long breath.

“For mercy sakes!” she cried. “Solomon Cobb! WHAT are you doin' over here a night like this?”