"No, I ain't forgot," said the older man, slowly; "nor like to forget."

He laid his brush down carefully after a critical glance at "Old Sir's" buttons.

"I guess mebbe I'll let them buttons dry a spell before I put on the last co't," he said. "No, I ain't forgot, Seth; but it takes a kind of a h'ist to get back into things that seems so long ago you kinder think they must have happened to somebodys else beside yourself.

"Wal, little gal, these two figgers is figgerheads, you see: kem off two ships I sailed in long before your two bright eyes opened on to this world of sin and—"

"Deestruction!" said Seth Weaver. "Chirk up a mite, Salem! This ain't a funeral, is it?"

"I dono but 'tis, kind of," said Salem Rock, soberly. "It's amazin' how many folks is dead and buried nowadays. Howsoever, them was two good ships, the Merchant Cap'n and the White Lady. Old Sir here, he come off the Cap'n; they made her over into a barge, and I begged for him, and they let me have him. The builder meant him for a kind of compliment to Cap'n Tree; sing'lar compliment, I used to think. Cap'n Tree was a pictur' of a man, if ever I sot eyes on one, and Old Sir always resembled a wooden image, and no special reason why he shouldn't.

"Wal, I took my fust voyage in the Merchant Cap'n; I was cabin-boy, and Mis' Tree was along; it was the last voyage but one they took together, him and her, and I was along on both. Wal, sir, I tell you 'twas a sight to see them two sail a ship together. He'd taught her navigation, and she took to it like them bees to that rocket yonder. She was as good a navigator as ever I see. We was tradin' round Borneo ways, and had laid in a cargo of spices and truck, and started on the homeward voyage. Come up a hurricane, and blowed us clear'n out of our course; went on blowin', and kep' us hitherin' and thitherin' for three days, till we didn't know where we was, nor hardly whether we was in this world at all, or that part of the next that we wasn't anyways particklar about bein' in. The third night of it was the wust, and, gorry! I tell ye 'twas awful! and then all of a suddin, like takin' off your hat, it fell dead calm. When mornin' broke, 'twas wuss yet, for there was land dead ahead, and the Merchant Cap'n driftin' on to it as fast as tide could take her. Wal, Mis' Tree had jest come up-stairs, and I tumbled up behind her, cur'us as a monkey, same as all boys be. She looks at the land, and then up at Cap'n, that quick way she had, like a bird. 'What is it?' she says; and Cap'n says, 'Solomon Islands!'

"I hadn't no notion what that meant; I thought from the sound it might be some extry fine place, like the Bible, ye know, cedars of Lebanon, and Queens of Sheby, and like that; but Cap'n's voice had a queer sound to it, and I looked at him, and he was the color of her there!" he nodded toward the white image.

"Little Mis' Tree, she never turned a hair, though she knew what I didn't, that them islands was cannibal, the wust sort, and no white man had ever come off 'em inside his own skin. She never turned a hair, only slid her mite of a hand into his, and said, quiet-like: 'We're both here, Ethan!' Cap'n give a kind of groan. 'I'd give my soul, Marshy,' he says, 'if you was safe to home!' She stood up straight—Jerusalem! I can see her now; 'twas like a flame risin', near as I can put it—and looks him in the face. 'I be to home!' she says; that was every word she said.

"Wal, word got round what land it was,—some of the crew had been that way before,—and I tell ye we was a pooty sick-lookin' crew. There warn't a breath o' wind, nor the shadow of a breath; and we kep' on a-driftin', till pooty soon we could see the shore plain, and black savages runnin' up and down, hollerin', and wavin' their arms. They see us, and were all ready for us; and pooty soon we could make out that they was pilin' up logs o' wood, makin' fires—Seth, what in time made you start me in on this yarn? 'Tain't no kind o' thing for this gal to hear."

Annie Lizzie's eyes were like brown stars, her cheeks like Old Sir's carmine stock. "Oh, Mr. Rock!" she cried, "if Mis' Tree could bear it, I guess I can. Please go on! I have to hear the rest. And besides," she added, naÏvely, "of course I know you wasn't all—"

She paused.

"No, we wasn't eat," said Salem Rock; "but I tell ye, little gal, we was as near it as a person is anyways desirous to come. We was that near, we see them critters grinnin' their white teeth at us, and heard their devils' screechin' and chatterin'. When it got to that, Cap'n called the crew aft, and told 'em, quiet and easy, how things was.

"'If the wind comes up within ten minutes,' he says, 'we are safe; if not, then we've had our time in this world,' he says, 'and behoves us be ready for another. I see no reason, and Mis' Tree sees no reason, why we should go in that beastly fashion yonder,' he says, pointin' to the yellin' savages; 'and therefore I have give my orders, and before we touch that shore the doctor will serve an extry grog, that will take you through sleep to the presence of your Maker, and may He have mercy on your souls and mine!'

"'Amen!' says Mis' Tree, clear and crisp; and I see she had a little bottle in her hand, holdin' it tight, and the other hand in Cap'n's. Jerusalem! she had grit!

"Wal, there was no words said. 'Twas a good crew, 'most all of 'em Quahaug men; your father was one of 'em, Seth."

Seth nodded gravely.

"But we got together forrard, and watched the shore, and Cap'n and Mis' Tree stood aft and kep' their eye on the wind.

"That shore come nearer; it come nearer than was anyways comfortable. I warn't nothin' but a boy, and I can remember wonderin' whether the folks to home would ever know, and whether Cap'n would write the story and put it in a bottle, same as in books I'd read; and what'd become of the ship, and the little monkey I was tamin' for my sister. And then—then somebody sung out somethin', and I turned round; and there stood Cap'n Tree, with the tears runnin' over his face, and his arm up, p'intin' at the pennon on the masthead.

"'Bout ship!' he says; and that same moment come a puff o' wind from the shore; and then pooty soon another; and then the land-breeze set in good and steady.

"The helmsman put her about, and she come round with a dip and a sweep like a dancin' lady, and went curtseyin' off over the waves—you never see a sight like that, little gal, nor never will see.

"'Let us give thanks to Almighty God!' says Cap'n Tree; and we give 'em, kneelin' on the deck."

Salem Rock drew a long breath, and took up his brush again.

"There!" he said. "You've had your story, Annie Lizzie. I dono as it's a very pooty one, but truth ain't allers pooty, I've noticed."

"Oh, it's a wonderful story, Mr. Rock!" cried little Annie Lizzie. "I thank you a thousand times for tellin' me. But ain't you goin' to tell the other one, too, about the lady? Please, Mr. Rock!"

"I guess not!" said Salem. "I guess I'm jaw-weary for this time."

"No, you ain't," said Seth Weaver. "Take more'n that to jaw-weary you, Sale, with the practice you have," and he cast a cautious glance at the house. "Let the little gal hev the other story if she wants it. Fust thing we know you and me'll be to Kingdom Come, and who's to tell the stories then? The young folks ought to know 'em, too; this one special. Bile in, old hoss!"

Salem Rock drew another long breath. "You tell her about the spar yonder," he said, "while I third-co't these buttons; I've got to give my mind to 'em. I ain't the only man ever was to sea, Annie Lizzie: you sick him on to spin you that yarn, and then we'll see."

"Sho!" said Seth. "Ain't no story to that. All about it, Sale and me was both shipwrecked one time,—'twas after Cap'n Tree was dead,—and us two and that spar was all that come ashore. Now go 'long, and let her hear about the White Lady, and let the buttons go to Tinkham and see the sights."

Salem Rock cast a glance of affectionate comprehension at his companion. It was little less than heroic for Seth Weaver, the best story-teller in Quahaug, thus to break and knot up his favorite yarn, the proper spinning of which took a good half-hour; but it was very rarely that Salem Rock could be brought to tell these two sea tales, and Seth was a good friend and a good listener.

So, when he repeated "Go 'long!" Salem nodded, and laid down his brush again.

"It's easy to see you're doin' this job by the day," he said. "I dono as Mis' Weight'll ever get them stairs done at this rate. Wal, if I've gotter, I've gotter, I s'pose. Up anchor and square away, hey? Wal, her there," he nodded toward the White Lady, "was figgerhead and likeness, fur as I know, to the White Lady of Avenel, full-rigged ship, seven hundred and fifty tons, Ethan Tree master and owner. She was a clipper, the White Lady was, if ever such sailed the seas. Old Marm here is a fine-appearin' woman, fur as she goes,"—he indicated by a wave of his hand the incompleteness which marred the perfect symmetry of the figure,—"but she ain't to be named within a week of the vessel herself. Mis' Tree named her out of a book she'd ben readin',—she was a great reader,—and had her all painted white, not a dark spot on her; I tell ye, she was a sightly vessel. So we sailed for Singapore, and I was second mate then, and prouder than ary peacock ever strutted, because I was young for the berth, ye see, and Cap'n promoted me for efficiency, so he said. Had a good voyage, and discharged our cargo, and loaded up again with coffee and raw silk, and off for home. Wal, sir, all went as it should the fust few weeks, though I was none too well pleased with the make-up of the crew. That is to say, most of 'em was all right, or would have ben if they'd ben let alone; but two of 'em was strangers, picked up at Singapore, where two of our men died of jungle fever; and the fust mate broke his leg, ridin' a fool four-legged hoss, and had to be left in hospital; so we was both short-handed and left-handed, as you might say.

"Still we got on, and mebbe we might have come through all right, but then Cap'n took sick. I think he got some kind o' malaria p'ison ashore, and Mis' Tree thought so, too: anyway, he was terrible sick, and she nussed him, and run the ship, her and me together. She was allers good to me, ever sence she bought my mud pie when I was no more'n a baby; and we had good weather, and so things went from day to day after a fashion.

"But them two strangers, they was ugly, grumble-groan kind of fellers, lookin' for trouble. You mind me, Annie Lizzie; a man that's lookin' for trouble will find it, if he has to break the eggs from under a settin' hen to get at it. The minute these two fellers heard Cap'n was sick, they see their chance, and they commenced workin' on the men, talkin' of 'em round, and makin' 'em think they was abused. You mind this, too, little gal; you tell a man often enough that he's got a crick in his back, and he'll come to think it's broke, and go hollerin' to raise the roof for a plaster to mend it. Same way with our men: some of 'em, that is. There was others that was all right, and stayed all right, but yet, you know how 'tis: when there's two-three bad ones in a crew, it makes trouble all through, someways."

Seth nodded sympathetically. "Same as a drop o' paint'll rile a hull pail o' water; or take it t'other way round, a spoonful o' water'll spile a hull can o' paint."

"That's so!" said Salem Rock, gravely. "Ile and water, good and evil; the Lord can mix 'em so they'll make a good wearin' color, but the hand of man cannot so do. Wal, come one day, Cap'n was so bad, Mis' Tree didn't leave his side all the mornin'; and I was busy with the log, and one thing and another, and, all about it, these fellers thought they see their chance to hatch up a mutiny. There was a big feller in the crew, Bob Moon his name was; a good seaman, but he warn't more'n half there in his upper story. He'd had a block drop on his head, and it kind o' mixed his idees so they never got straight. He was sort o' gormin' and gappin' most of the time, and he'd go anyways any person had a mind to head him, and go hard, for he had the stren'th of a bull and the mule-headedness of a—of a mule. Wal, these fellers—Faulkner and Higgins their names was—they got holt of Bob and two-three others, and give 'em to understand now was their time. Cap'n sick, and her tendin' of him, and me nothin' but second mate; and they allowed they'd ruther stop at the Azores and drop us three there, and go off with the vessel, tradin' on their own account. See? quite a pooty plot they hatched up; might ha' ben a story-book. But they got holt of the wrong stick when they tackled Ben Gray, the ship's carpenter. Ben was a straight stick of white pine timber as ever I see. He give 'em a smooth answer; said he'd think it over, and let 'em know, and he shouldn't be surprised if there was considerable in what they said, and like that; and then he come hotfoot and told me every word, and what should we do? I took him straight down to the cabin, and called Mis' Tree to the door and told her. She looked us right through, as if she was countin' the j'ints in our back-bones. 'Are most of the men straight?' she says. So we told her how 'twas, most of 'em was all right at bottom, but yet they'd got sorter warpled through these fellers workin' on 'em, and we was feared there might be trouble. She studied a bit, still sarchin' us with them black eyes of her'n—gorry! seemed as though I could feel my soul rustlin' round uneasy inside me. Then she give us our orders, quick and quiet, and not too many of 'em; and we went off, and l'itered up on deck separate, and I sot down behind one of the bo'ts, nigh hand to the companion, and coiled rope. It was Bob Moon's watch on deck, and he was hunchin' round, mutterin' and growlin', and I could see he was workin' himself up to somethin'. 'Twarn't a gre't while before up comes Ben Gray, and with him Faulkner, one of the two grumble-groans, talkin' mighty earnest. 'Here!' says Ben. 'Here's Bob Moon this minute. He's safe, ain't he?'

"'Bet yer life,' says Faulkner. 'He's all pie for us!' he says; 'ain't yer, Bob?' and Bob hunches himself and rubs his big hands, and allows he'll fix things to beat creation once he gits started.

"'You tell him, then,' says Ben, 'what you've jest told me, and mebbe we can run it off to-night,' he says.

"Moon was sittin' on the hatchway, with his back to the stairs, and Faulkner squats down beside him and commences dealin' out to him what he proposed; and Gray stood back a leetle mite, and I peeked round the eend of the bo't.

"Then—we never heerd a sound; but, all in a minute, there was Mis' Tree standin' behind them two, close up. They was both men that had hair, Bob with a curl on him like a mattress, and t'other a kind o' thick tousle like a yeller dog's. That little woman never spoke, but she took those two by the hair—twisted her little hands in and got a good holt—and brought their two heads together with a crack—Jerusalem! 'twas like a pistol-shot! Every man on board jumped, and come runnin' to see what was up; but them two never stirred, jest sot there: their wits was clean jarred out of 'em. Then Mis' Tree spoke up, clear and crisp; she never hollered, she no need, her voice carried like a trumpet.

"'Mr. Rock,' she says, 'put this man in irons, and George Higgins the same. Bob Moon, you come with me; I want you to nurse Cap'n for me. The rest go to your quarters.'

"She took holt of Bob's collar—he was nearer seven foot than six, and had the brea'th of an ox—and give a little h'ist, and he come up like he was a rag dolly. 'Come along, Bob,' she says, 'Cap'n wants you,' and she marched him off like Mary had a little lamb, and he nussed Cap'n like his own mother from that hour. Further and moreover, he got his wits back likewise from that hour. Yes, sir, he did so. 'Peared as if one blow had shook his brains one way, and the next shook 'em back the other; I expect there wasn't enough of 'em to fill his head solid, so they wouldn't travel. And that man nussed Cap'n, and follered Mis' Tree like a span'el dog the rest of the voyage."

"But what become of those two mean men, Mr. Rock?" asked Annie Lizzie, who had followed the story with breathless interest. "Did they make any more trouble?"

"Not a mite!" said Salem Rock. "They was put in irons, and so remained till we come to the Azores, and there we left 'em, though not so agreeable to their wishes as the way they had planned. It seemed they belonged there, and was wanted for various causes; so we left 'em in the calaboose and come away. But for Cap'n's bein' so poorly, I'd never ask for a better voyage. The men was like pie, every man Jack of 'em, and if Mis' Tree wanted to wipe her shoes, there warn't ary one but would have ben proud to be her door-mat. Yes, sir; that was a great voyage—till it come to the eend."

He was silent; and Annie Lizzie, thinking the tale was over, made a motion to rise, but Seth checked her with a silent gesture.

"Go on, Sale," he said, quietly. "Finish up, now you're about it."

"There ain't but a little more," said the old sailor, speaking half to himself. "It behoved to be a good voyage, for it was the last. Cap'n fit hard, and she fit for him, but 'twas not so to be. The p'ison, or whatever 'twas, had got too strong a holt on him; he couldn't shake it. But yet for awhile, when we was nearin' home, he seemed to gain up a mite, and would come up on deck, and set and see her take the observation, and pass the time of day with the boys. Looked like his shadow, he did, and white as his shirt under the tan; but his courage was good, and he was allers sayin' he'd get well so soon as he was to home.

"'Home, Marshy!' he'd say. 'We'll be there soon, little woman!'

"And she'd nod and smile, and say they would so, sure enough; and Bob Moon'd go off and cry behind a bo't. I punched his head good every time I co't him at it, fear they'd notice, but I don't think they did, they was wropped up in each other.

"Wal, at last and finally, sure enough we sighted Quahaug P'int. It was a fine day, I ric'llect, south by west, clear and warm; pretty a day as ever I see. Cap'n was on deck, and he was mighty weak that day. His voice was no more'n a whisper, but yet cheerful, you understand, and he had a word for every one that come by, and we all made out to come by, one errant or another. She was sittin' beside him, fannin' him, and talkin' away easy and pleasant, tellin' how that they'd be in soon now, and Lucy—that was Mis' Blyth, their daughter, Arthur's mother—would be comin' from the West to visit 'em, and all; and Cap'n listened, and seemed real pleased, and put in a word now and again.

"I was standin' close by, makin' believe tinker somethin',—I was allers nigh hand them days, case o' need,—when the lookout says, 'Quahaug P'int in sight, Cap'n! 'and we looked, and there it was, sure enough, and the sun goin' down behind it, and the water all the likeness of gold in between. Cap'n raised his head, and begun to talk sudden and quick. 'Marshy,' he says, 'I couldn't find a pineapple this mornin',' he says; 'but here's custard-apples and turtles' eggs; we'll manage to make out a breakfast,' he says. I looked up at him, and his eyes were bright as lamps, and his cheeks like fire. Mis' Tree put her hand on his arm, quiet like. 'That's just as good, Ethan,' she says. 'Them's beautiful,' she says; 'I was gettin' kinder tired of pineapples.' Then he goes on, sort o' like talkin' to himself. 'True blue, little Marshy!' he says. 'True blue, little wife! we'll get home yet; safe home, safe home!'

"Then all of a suddent he riz up to his feet, stood up every inch of him,—he was a tall man,—and stands lookin' out forrard. 'Sail ho!' he says, 'sail ho! we'll see home again, home!' and he dropped back in her arms, and his sperit passed."