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Thankful's Inheritance by Joseph C. Lincoln

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by his cussin' instead of a stove. 'Most always cussin', he was--
cussin' and groanin'."

Thankful was silent. Emily said: "Groaning? You mean he groaned
when he was ill?"

"Yes, and when he was well, too. A habit of his, groanin' was. I
don't know why he done it--see himself in the lookin'-glass, maybe;
that was enough to make anybody groan. He'd groan in his sleep--or
snore--or both. He was the noisiest sleeper ever I set up with.
Shall we go upstairs?"

The narrow front stairs creaked as loudly in the daytime as they
had on the previous night, but the long hall on the upper floor was
neither dark nor terrifying. Nevertheless it was with just a
suspicion of dread that Mrs. Barnes approached the large room at
the end of the hall and the small one adjoining it. Her common-
sense had returned and she was naturally brave, but an experience
such as hers had been is not forgotten in a few hours. However,
she was determined that no one should know her feelings; therefore
she was the first to enter the little room.

"Here's where Laban bunked," said the captain. "You'd think with
all the big comf'table bedrooms to choose from he wouldn't pick out
this two-by-four, would you? But he did, probably because nobody
else would. He was a contrary old rooster, and odd as Dick's hat-

Thankful was listening, although not to their guide's remarks. She
was listening for sounds such as she had heard--or thought she had
heard--on the occasion of her previous visit to that room. But
there were no such sounds. There was the bed, the patchwork
comforter, the chair and the pictures on the walls, but when she
approached that bed there came no disturbing groans. And, by day,
the memory of her fright seemed absolutely ridiculous. For at
least the tenth time she solemnly resolved that no one should ever
know how foolish she had been.

Emily uttered an exclamation and pointed.

"Why, Auntie!" she cried. "Isn't that--where did that lantern come

Captain Obed looked where she was pointing. He stepped forward and
picked up the overturned lantern.

"That's Darius Holt's lantern, I do believe," he declared. "The
one Winnie S. was makin' such a fuss about last night. How in the
nation did it get up here?"

Thankful laughed. "I brought it up," she said. "I come on a
little explorin' cruise when Emily dropped asleep on that sittin'-
room lounge, but I hadn't much more'n got in here when the pesky
thing went out. You ought to have seen me hurryin' along that hall
to get down before you woke up, Emily. No, come to think of it,
you couldn't have seen me--'twas too dark to see anything. . . .
Well," she added, quickly, in order to head off troublesome
questioning, "we've looked around here pretty well. What else is
there to see?"

They visited the garret and the cellar; both were spacious and not
too clean.

"If I ever come here to live," declared Thankful, with decision,
"there'll be some dustin' and sweepin' done, I know that."

Emily looked at her in surprise.

"Come here to live!" she repeated. "Why, Auntie, are you thinking
of coming here to live?"

Her cousin's answer was not very satisfactory. "I've been thinkin'
a good many things lately," she said. "Some of 'em was even more
crazy than that sounds."

The inside of the house having been thus thoroughly inspected they
explored the yard and the outbuildings. The barn was a large one,
with stalls for two horses and a cow and a carriage-room with the
remnants of an old-fashioned carryall in it.

"This is about the way it used to be in Cap'n Abner's day," said
Captain Obed. "That carryall belonged to your uncle, the cap'n,
Mrs. Barnes. The boys have had it out for two or three Fourth of
July Antiques and Horribles' parades; 'twon't last for many more by
the looks of it."

"And what," asked Thankful, "is that? It looks like a pigsty."

They were standing at the rear of the house, which was built upon a
slope. Under the washshed, which adjoined the kitchen, was a
rickety door. Beside that door was a boarded enclosure which
extended both into the yard and beneath the washshed.

Captain Bangs laughed. "You've guessed it, first crack," he said.
"It is a pigpen. Some of Laban's doin's, that is. He used to keep
a pig and 'twas too much trouble to travel way out back of the barn
to feed it, so Labe rigged up this contraption. That door leads
into the potato cellar. Labe fenced off half the cellar to make a
stateroom for the pig. He thought as much of that hog as if 'twas
his own brother, and there WAS a sort of family likeness."

Thankful snorted. "A pigsty under the house!" she said. "Well,
that's all I want to know about THAT man!"

As they were returning along the foot-path by the bluff Captain
Obed, who had been looking over his shoulder, suddenly stopped.

"That's kind of funny," he said.

"What?" asked Emily.

"Oh, nothin', I guess. I thought I caught a sight of somebody
peekin' around the back of that henhouse. If 'twas somebody he
dodged back so quick I couldn't be sure. Humph! I guess I was
mistaken, or 'twas just one of Solon Taylor's young ones. Solon's
a sort of--sort of stevedore at the Colfax place. Lives there and
takes care of it while the owners are away. No-o; no, I don't see
nobody now."

Thankful was silent during the homeward walk. When she and Miss
Howes were alone in their room, she said:

"Emily, are you real set on gettin' back to South Middleboro

"No, Auntie. Why?"

"Well, if you ain't I think I'd like to stay over another day.
I've got an idea in my head and, such a thing bein' kind of
unusual, I'd like to keep company with it for a spell. I'll tell
you about it by and by; probably 'twon't come to anything, anyway."

"But do you think we ought to stay here, as Miss Parker's guests?
Wouldn't it be--"

"Of course it would. We'll go over to that hotel, the one we
started for in the first place. Judgin' from what I hear of that
tavern it'll be wuth experiencin'; and--and somethin' may come of
that, too."

She would not explain further, and Emily, knowing her well, did not
press the point.

Hannah Parker protested volubly when her "company" declared its
intention of going to the East Wellmouth Hotel.

"Of course you shan't do no such thing," she declared. "The idea!
It's no trouble at all to have you, and that hotel really ain't fit
for such folks as you to stay at. Mrs. Bacon, from Boston, stayed
there one night in November and she pretty nigh famished with the
cold, to say nothin' of havin' to eat huckleberry preserves for
supper two nights runnin'. Course they had plenty of other things
in the closet, but they'd opened a jar of huckleberries, so they
had to be et up afore they spiled. That's the way they run THAT
hotel. And Mrs. Bacon is eastern Massachusetts delegate from the
State Grange. She's Grand Excited Matron. Just think of treatin'
her that way! Well, where've you been all the forenoon?"

The question was addressed to her brother, who entered the house by
the side door at that moment. Kenelm seemed a trifle confused.

"I--I been lookin' for that umbrella, Hannah," he explained. "I
knew I must have left it somewheres 'cause--'cause, you see I--I
took it out with me last night and--and--"

"And come home without it. It wouldn't take a King Solomon to know
that. Did you find it?"

Kenelm's embarrassment appeared to increase.

"Well," he stammered, "I ain't exactly found it--but--"

"But what?"

"I--I'm cal'latin' to find it, Hannah."

"Yes, I know. You're cal'latin' to get to Heaven some time or
other, I s'pose, but if the path is as narrow and crooked as they
say 'tis I should he scared if I was you. You'll find a way to
lose it, if there is one. Oh, dear me!" with a sudden change to a
tone almost pleading. "Be you goin' to smoke again?"

Kenelm's reply was strange for him. He scratched a match and lit
his pipe with calm deliberation.

"I'm cal'latin' to," he said, cheerfully. And his sister, to the
surprise of Mrs. Barnes and Emily, did not utter another word of

Captain Obed volunteered to accompany them to the hotel and to the
store of Mr. Badger. On the way Thankful mentioned Mr. Parker's
amazing independence in the matter of the pipe.

The captain chuckled. "Yes," he said, "Kenelm smokes when he wants
to, and sometimes when he don't, I guess, just to keep his self-
respect. Smokin' is one p'int where he beat out Hannah. It's
quite a yarn, the way he done it is. Some time I'll tell it to
you, maybe."

The hotel--it was kept by Darius Holt, father of Winnie S.--was no
more inviting than Miss Parker's and Captain Bangs' hints had led
them to expect. But Thankful insisted on engaging a room for the
night and on returning there for dinner, supper and breakfast the
following day.

"After that, we'll see," she said. "Now let's go and make a call
on that rent collector of mine."

Mr. Badger was surprised to meet the owner of the Barnes house,
surprised and a bit taken aback, so it seemed to Mrs. Barnes and
her cousin. He was very polite, almost obsequiously so, and his
explanations concerning the repairs which he had found it necessary
to make and the painting which he had had done were lengthy if not

As they left him, smiling and bowing in the doorway of his store,
Thankful shook her head. When they were out of earshot she said:

"Hum! The paint he says he put on that precious property of mine
don't show as much as you'd expect, but he used enough butter and
whitewash this morning to make up. He's a slick party, that Mr.
Badger is, or I miss my guess. His business arithmetic don't go
much further than addition. Everything in creation added to one
makes one and he's the one. Mr. Chris Badger's got jobs enough,
accordin' to his sign. He won't starve if he don't collect rents
for me any more."

The hotel dinner was neither bountiful nor particularly well
cooked. The Holts joined them at table and Winnie S. talked a good
deal. He expressed much joy at the recovery of his lantern.

"But when I see you folks in that house last night," he said, "I
thought to myself, 'Judas priest!' thinks I. 'Them women has got
more spunk than I've got.' Gettin' into a house like that all
alone in the dark--Whew! Judas priest! I wouldn't do it!"

"Why not?" asked Emily.

"Oh, just 'cause I wouldn't, I suppose. Now I don't believe in
such things, of course, but old Laban he did die there. I never
heard nothin', but they tell me--"

"Rubbish!" broke in Mr. Holt, Senior. "'Tain't nothin' but fool
yarns, the whole of it. Take an old house, a hundred year old same
as that is, and shut her up and 'tain't long afore folks do get to
pretendin' they hear things. I never heard nothin'. Have some
more pie, Miss Howes? Huh! There AIN'T no more, is there!"

After dinner Emily retired to her room for a nap. She did so under
protest, declaring that she was not tired, but Thankful insisted.

"If you ain't tired now you will be when the excitement's over,"
she said. "My conscience is plaguin' me enough about fetchin' you
on this cruise, as it is. Just take it as easy as you can, Emily.
Lie down and rest, and please me."

So Emily obeyed orders and Mrs. Barnes, after drawing the curtains
and asking over and over again if her cousin was sure she was
comfortable, went out. It was late in the afternoon when she

"I've been talkin' until my face aches," she declared. "And my
mind is about made up to do--to do what may turn out to be the
craziest thing I ever DID do. I'll tell you the whole thing after
supper, Emily. Let's let my tongue have a vacation till then."

And, after supper, which, by the way, was no better than the
dinner, she fulfilled her promise. They retired to the bedroom and
Thankful, having carefully closed the windows and door and hung a
towel over the keyhole, told of her half-formed plan.

"Emily," she began, "I presume likely you'll feel that you'd ought
to go back home tomorrow? Yes, I knew you'd feel that way. Well,
I ain't goin' with you. I've made up my mind to stay here for a
few days longer. Now I'll tell you why.

"You see, Emily," she went on, "my comin' down here to East
Wellmouth wa'n't altogether for the fun of lookin' at the heirloom
Uncle Abner left me. The first thing I wanted to do was see it,
but when I had seen it, and if it turned out to be what I hoped it
might be, there was somethin' else. Emily, Mrs. Pearson's dyin'
leaves me without a job. Oh, of course I know I could 'most likely
get another chance at nursin' or keepin' house for somebody, but,
to tell you the truth, I'm gettin' kind of tired of that sort of
thing. Other folks' houses are like other folks' ailments; they
don't interest you as much as your own do. I'm sick of askin'
somebody else what they want for dinner; I'd like to get my own
dinner, or, at least, if somebody else is to eat with me, I want to
decide myself what they'll have to eat. I want to run my own house
once more afore I die. And it seems--yes, it seems to me as if
here was the chance; nothin' but a chance, and a risky one, but a
chance just the same. Emily, I'm thinkin' of fixin' up Uncle
Abner's old rattletrap and openin' a boardin'-house for summer
folks in it.

"Yes, yes; I know," she continued, noticing the expression on her
companion's face. "There's as much objection to the plan as there
is slack managin' in this hotel, and that's some consider'ble.
Fust off, it'll cost money. Well; I've saved a little money and
those cranberry bog shares Mrs. Pearson left me will sell for two
thousand at least. That would be enough, maybe, if I wanted to
risk it all, but I don't. I've got another scheme. This property
of mine down here is free and clear, but, on account of its
location and the view, Cap'n Bangs tells me it's worth consider'ble
more than I thought it was. I believe--yes, I do believe I could
put a mortgage on it for enough to pay for the fixin' over, maybe

Emily interrupted.

"But, Auntie," she said, "a mortgage is a debt, isn't it? A debt
that must be paid. And if you borrow from a stranger--"

"Just a minute, Emily. Course a mortgage is a debt, but it's a
debt on the house and land and, if worse comes to worst, the house
and land can go to pay for it. And I don't mean to borrow from a
stranger, if I can help it. I've got a relation down here on the
Cape, although he's a pretty fur-off, round-the-corner relation,
third cousin, or somethin' like that. His name's Solomon Cobb and
he lives over to Trumet, about nine mile from here, so Cap'n Bangs
says. And he and Uncle Abner used to sail together for years. He
was mate aboard the schooner when Uncle Abner died on a v'yage from
Charleston home. This Cobb man is a tight-fisted old bachelor,
they say, but his milk of human kindness may not be all skimmed.
And, anyhow, he does take mortgages; that's the heft of his
business--I got that from the cap'n without tellin' him what I
wanted to know for."

Miss Howes smiled.

"You and Captain Bangs have been putting your heads together, I
see," she said.

"Um--hm. And his head ain't all mush and seeds like a pumpkin, if
I'm any judge. The cap'n tells me that east Wellmouth needs a good
summer boardin'-house. This--this contraption we're in now is the
nighest thing there is to it, and that's as far off as dirt is from
soap; you can see that yourself. 'Cordin' to Cap'n Bangs, lots and
lots of city people would come here summers if there was a
respectable, decent place to go to. Now, Emily, why can't I give
'em such a place? Seems to me I can. Anyhow, if I can mortgage
the place to Cousin Sol Cobb I think--yes, I'm pretty sure I shall
try. Now what do you think? Is your Aunt Thankful Barnes losin'
her sense--always providin' she's ever had any to lose--or is she
gettin' to be a real business woman at last?"

Emily's reply was at first rather doubtful. She raised one
objection after the other, but Mrs. Barnes was always ready with an
answer. It was plain that she had looked at her plan from every
angle. And, at last, Miss Howes, too, became almost enthusiastic.

"I do believe," she said, "it may turn out to be a splendid thing
for you, Auntie. At least, I'm sure you will succeed if anyone
can. Oh dear!" wistfully. "I only wish it were possible for me to
stay here and help with it all. But I can't--I can't. Mother and
the children need the money and I must go back to my school."

Thankful nodded. "Yes," she admitted, "I suppose likely you must,
for the present. But--but if it SHOULD be a go and I SHOULD see
plainer sailin' ahead, then I'd need somebody to help manage,
somebody younger and more up-to-date than I am. And I know mighty
well who I shall send for."

They talked for a long time, but at last, after they were in bed
and the lamp was extinguished, Emily said:

"I hate to go back and leave you here, Auntie; indeed I do. I
shall be so interested and excited I shall scarcely be able to wait
for your letters. You will write just as soon as you have seen
this Mr. Cobb, won't you?"

"Yes, sartin sure I will. I know it's goin' to be hard for you to
go and leave me, Emily, but I shan't be havin' a Sunday-school
picnic, exactly, myself. From what I used to hear about Cousin
Solomon, unless he's changed a whole lot since, gettin' a dollar
from him won't be as easy as pullin' a spoon out of a kittle of
soft-soap. I'll have to do some persuadin', I guess. Wish my
tongue was as soothin'-syrupy as that Mr. Badger's is. But I'm
goin' to do my best. And if talkin' won't do it I'll--I swear I
don't know as I shan't give him ether. Maybe he'd take THAT if he
could get it for nothin'. Good night."


"Well," said Thankful, with a sigh, "she's gone, anyhow. I feel
almost as if I'd cut my anchor rope and was driftin' out of sight
of land. It's queer, ain't it, how you can make up your mind to do
a thing, and then, when you've really started to do it, almost wish
you hadn't. Last night--yes, and this mornin'--I was as set on
carryin' through this plan of mine as a body could be, but just
now, when I saw Emily get aboard those cars, it was all I could do
to keep from goin' along with her."

Captain Obed nodded. "Sartin," he agreed. "That's natural enough.
When I was a youngster I was forever teasin' to go to sea. I
thought my dad was meaner than a spiled herrin' to keep on sayin'
no when I said yes. But when he did say yes and I climbed aboard
the stagecoach to start for Boston, where my ship was, I never was
more homesick in my life. I was later on, though--homesick and
other kinds."

They were standing on the station platform at Wellmouth Centre, and
the train which was taking Emily back to South Middleboro was a
rapidly moving, smoking blur in the distance. The captain, who
seemed to have taken a decided fancy to his prospective neighbor
and her young relative, had come with them to the station.
Thankful had hired a horse and "open wagon" at the livery stable in
East Wellmouth and had intended engaging a driver as well, but
Captain Bangs had volunteered to act in that capacity.

"I haven't got much to do this mornin'," he said. "Fact is, I
generally do have more time on my hands than anything else this
season of the year. Later on, when I put out my fish weirs, I'm
pretty busy, but now I'm a sort of 'longshore loafer. You're
figurin' to go to Trumet after you've seen Miss Emily leave the
dock, you said, didn't you? Well, I've got an errand of my own in
Trumet that might as well be done now as any time. I'll drive you
over and back if you're willin' to trust the vessel in my hands. I
don't set up to be head of the Pilots' Association when it comes to
steerin' a horse, but I cal'late I can handle any four-legged craft
you're liable to charter in East Wellmouth."

His offer was accepted and so far he had proved a competent and
able helmsman. Now, Miss Howes having been started on her homeward
way, the next port of call was to be the office of Mr. Solomon Cobb
at Trumet.

During the first part of the drive Thankful was silent and answered
only when spoken to. The parting with Emily and the sense of heavy
responsibility entailed by the project she had in mind made her
rather solemn and downcast. Captain Obed, noticing this, and
suspecting the cause, chatted and laughed, and after a time his
passenger seemed to forget her troubles and to enjoy the trip.

They jogged up the main street of Trumet until they reached the
little three-cornered "square" which is the business center of the
village. Next beyond the barbershop, which is two doors beyond the
general store and postoffice, was a little one-story building,
weather-beaten and badly in need of paint. The captain steered his
"craft" up to the sidewalk before this building and pulled up.

"Whoa!" he ordered, addressing the horse. Then, turning to
Thankful, he said:

"Here you are, ma'am. This is Sol Cobb's place."

Mrs. Barnes looked at the little building. Its exterior certainly
was not inviting. The windows looked as if they had not been
washed for weeks, the window shades were yellow and crooked, and
one of the panes of glass in the front door was cracked across.
Thankful had not seen her "Cousin Solomon" for years, not since she
was a young woman, but she had heard stories of his numerous
investments and business prosperity, and she could scarcely believe
this dingy establishment was his.

"Are you sure, Cap'n Bangs?" she faltered. "This can't be the
Solomon Cobb I mean. He's well off and it don't seem as if he
would be in an office like this--if 'tis an office," she added.
"It looks more like a henhouse to me. And there's no signs

The captain laughed. "Signs cost money," he said. "It takes paint
to make a sign, same as it does to keep a henhouse lookin'
respectable. This is the only Sol Cobb in Trumet, fur's I ever
heard, and he's well off, sartin. He ought to be; I never heard of
him lettin' go of anything he got hold of. Maybe you think I'm
talkin' pretty free about your relation, Mrs. Barnes," he added,
apologetically. "I hadn't ought to, I suppose, but I've had one or
two little dealin's with Sol, one time or 'nother, and I--well,
maybe I'm prejudiced. Excuse me, won't you? He may be altogether
different with his own folks."

Thankful was still staring at the dubious and forbidding front

"It doesn't seem as if it could be," she said. "But if you say so
of course 'tis."

"Yes, ma'am, I guess 'tis. That's Sol Cobb's henhouse and the old
rooster is in, judgin' by the signs. Those are his rubbers on the
step. Wearin' rubbers winter or summer is a habit of his. Humph!
I'm talkin' too much again. You're goin' in, I suppose, ma'am?"

Thankful threw aside the carriage robe and prepared to clamber from
the wagon.

"I surely am," she declared. "That's what I came way over here

The captain sprang to the ground and helped her to alight.

"I'll be right across the road at the store there," he said. "I'll
be on the watch when you came out. I--I--"

He hesitated. Evidently there was something else he wished to say,
but he found the saying difficult. Thankful noticed the hesitation.

"Yes, what was it, Cap'n Bangs?" she asked.

Captain Obed fidgeted with the reins.

"Why, nothin', I guess," he faltered. "Only--only--well, I tell
you, Mrs. Barnes, if--if you was figgerin' on doin' any business
with Mr. Cobb, any money business, I mean, and--and you'd rather go
anywheres else I--I--well, I'm pretty well acquainted round here on
the Cape amongst the bank folks and such and I'd be real glad to--"

Thankful interrupted. She had, after much misgiving and reluctance,
made up her mind to approach her distant relative with the mortgage
proposition, but to discuss that proposition with strangers was, to
her mind, very different. She had mentioned the proposed mortgage
to Emily, but she had told no one else, not even the captain
himself. And she did not mean to tell. The boarding house plan
must stand or fall according to Mr. Cobb's reception of it.

"No, no," she said, hastily. "It ain't anything important--that
is, very important."

"Well, all right. You see--I only meant--excuse me, Mrs. Barnes.
I hope you don't think I meant to be nosey or interferin' in your

"Of course I don't. You've gone to a lot of trouble on my account
as 'tis, and you've been real kind."

The captain hurriedly muttered that he hadn't been kind at all and
watched her as she walked up the short path to Mr. Cobb's front
door. Then, with a solemn shake of the head, he clinched again at
the wagon seat and drove across the road to the hitching-posts
before the store. Thankful opened the door of the "henhouse" and

The interior of the little building was no mare inviting than its
outside. One room, dark, with a bare floor, and with cracked
plastered walls upon which a few calendars and an ancient map were
hanging. There was a worn wooden settee and two wooden armchairs
at the front, near the stove, and at the rear an old-fashioned
walnut desk.

At this desk in a shabby, leather-cushioned armchair, sat a little
old man with scant gray hair and a fringe of gray throat whiskers.
He wore steel-rimmed spectacles and over these he peered at his

"Good mornin'," said Thankful. It seemed to her high time that
someone said something, and the little man had not opened his lips.
He did not open them even now.

"Um," he grunted, and that was all.

"Are you Mr. Solomon Cobb?" she asked. She knew now that he was;
he had changed a great deal since she had last seen him, but his
eyes had not changed, and he still had the habit she remembered,
that of pulling at his whiskers in little, short tugs as if trying
to pull them out. "Like a man hauling wild carrots out of a turnip
patch," she wrote Emily when describing the interview.

He did not answer the question. Instead, after another long look,
he said:

"If you're sellin' books, I don't want none. Don't use 'em."

This was so entirely unexpected that Mrs. Barnes was, for the
moment, confused and taken aback.

"Books!" she repeated, wonderingly. "I didn't say anything about
books. I asked you if you was Mr. Cobb."

Another look. "If you're sellin' or peddlin' or agentin' or
anything I don't want none," said the little man. "I'm tellin' you
now so's you can save your breath and mine. I've got all I want."

Thankful looked at him and his surroundings. This ungracious and
unlooked for reception began to have its effect upon her temper; as
she wrote Emily in the letter, her "back fin began to rise." It
was on the tip of her tongue to say that, judging by appearances,
he should want a good many things, politeness among others. But
she did not say it.

"I ain't a peddler or a book agent," she declared, crisply. "When
I ask you to buy, seems to me 'twould be time enough to say no. If
you're Solomon Cobb, and I know you are, I've come to see you on

The word "business" had an effect. Mr. Cobb swung about in his
chair and regarded her fixedly. There was a slight change in his

"Business, hey?" he repeated. "Well, I'm a business man, ma'am.
What sort of business is it you've got?"

Thankful did not answer the question immediately. Instead she
walked nearer to the desk.

"Yes," she said, slowly, "you're Solomon Cobb. I should know you
anywhere now. And I ain't seen you for twenty year. I presume
likely you don't know me."

The man of business stared harder than ever. He took off his
spectacles, rubbed them with his handkerchief, put them on and
stared again.

"No, ma'am, I don't," he said. "You don't live in Trumet, I know
that. You ain't seen me for twenty year, eh? Twenty year is quite
a spell. And yet there's somethin' sort of--sort of familiar about
you, now that I look closer. Who be you?"

"My name is Thankful Barnes--now. It didn't used to be. When you
knew me 'twas Thankful Cahoon. My grandmother, on my father's
side, was your mother's own cousin. Her name was Matilda Myrick.
That makes you and me sort of distant relations, Mr. Cobb."

If she expected this statement to have the effect of making the
little man more cordial she was disappointed. In fact, if it had
any effect at all, it was the opposite, judging by his manner and
expression. His only comments on the disclosure of kinship were a
"Humph!" and a brief "Want to know!" He stared at Thankful and she
at him. Then he said:


Mrs. Barnes was astonished.

"Well?" she repeated. "What's well? What do you mean by that?"

"Nothin's I know of. You said you came to see me about some
business or other. What sort of business?"

"I came to see you about gettin' some money. I need some money
just now and--"

Solomon interrupted her.

"Humph!" he grunted. "I cal'lated as much."

"You cal'lated it! For the land sakes--why?"

"Because you begun by sayin' you was a relation of mine. I've got
a good many relations floatin' around loose and there ain't nary
one of 'em ever come to see me unless 'twas to get money. If I
give money to all my relations that asked for it I'd be a dum sight
poorer'n I be now."

Thankful was by this time thoroughly angry.

"Look here," she snapped. "If I'd come to you expectin' you to
GIVE me any money I'd be an idiot as well as a relation. Far's
that last part goes I ain't any prouder of it than you are."

This pointed remark had no more effect than the statement of
relationship. Mr. Cobb was quite unruffled.

"You came to see me," he said, "and you ain't come afore for twenty
year--you said so. Now, when you do come, you want money, you said
that, too."

"Well, what of it?"

"Nothin' of it, 'special. Only when a party comes to me and
commences by sayin' he or she's a relation I know what's comin'
next. Relations! Humph! My relations never done much for me."

Thankful's fingers twitched. "'Cordin' to all accounts you never
done much for them, either," she declared. "You don't even ask 'em
to sit down. Well, you needn't worry so far's I'm concerned.

She was on her way out of the office, but he called her back.

"Hi, hold on!" he called. "You ain't told me what that business
was yet. Come back! You--you can set down, if you want to."

Thankful hesitated. She was strongly tempted to go and never
return. And yet, if she did, she must go elsewhere to obtain the
mortgage she wished. And to whom should she go? Reluctantly she
retraced her steps.

"Set down," said Mr. Cobb, pulling forward a chair. "Now what is
it you want?"

Mrs. Barnes sat down. "I'll tell you what I don't want," she said
with emphasis. "I don't want you to give me any money or to lend
me any, either--without it's bein' a plain business deal. I ain't
askin' charity of you or anybody else, Solomon Cobb. And you'd
better understand that if you and I are goin' to talk any more."

Mr. Cobb tugged at his whiskers.

"You've got a temper, ain't you," he declared. "Temper's a good
thing to play with, maybe, if you can afford it. I ain't rich
enough, myself. I've saved a good many dollars by keepin' mine.
If you don't want me to give you nor lend you money, what do you

"I want you to take a mortgage on some property I own. You do take
mortgages, don't you?"

More whisker pulling. Solomon nodded.

"I do sometimes," he admitted; "when I cal'late they're safe to
take. Where is this property of yours?"

"Over in East Wellmouth. It's the old Abner Barnes place. Cap'n
Abner willed it to me. He was my uncle."

And at last Mr. Cobb showed marked interest. Slowly he leaned back
in his chair. His spectacles fell from his nose into his lap and
lay there unheeded.

"What? What's that you say?" he asked, sharply. "Abner Barnes was
your uncle? I--I thought you said your name was Cahoon."

"I said it used to be afore I was married, when I knew you.
Afterwards I married Eben Barnes, Cap'n Abner's nephew. That made
the captain my uncle by marriage."

Solomon's fingers groped for his spectacles. He picked them up and
took his handkerchief from his pocket. But it was his forehead he
rubbed with his handkerchief, not the glasses.

"You're--you're Abner Barnes' niece!" he said slowly.

"Yes--niece by marriage."

"The one he used to talk so much about? What was her name--

"Thankful--that's my name. I presume likely Uncle Abner did use to
talk about me. He always declared he thought as much of me as if I
was his own child."

There was an interval of silence. Mr. Cobb replaced his spectacles
and stared through them at his visitor. His manner was peculiar--
markedly so.

"I went mate for Cap'n Abner a good many v'yages," he said, after a

"Yes, I know you did."

"He--he told you so, I suppose."


"What else did he tell you; about--about me, I mean?"

"Why, nothin' 'special that I know of. Why? What was there to

"Nothin'. Nothin' much, I guess. Abner and me was sort of--sort
of chums and I didn't know but he might have said--might have told
you considerable about me. He didn't, hey?"

"No. He told me you was his mate, that's all."

It may have been Thankful's imagination, but it did seem as if her
relative was a trifle relieved. But even yet he did not seem quite
satisfied. He pulled at his whiskers and asked another question.

"What made you come here to me?" he asked.

"Mercy on us! I've told you that, haven't I? I came to see about
gettin' a mortgage on his old place over to East Wellmouth. I knew
you took mortgages--at least folks said you did--and bein' as you
was a relation I thought--"

A wave of the hand interrupted her.

"Yes, yes," broke in Solomon, hastily. "I know that. Was that the
only reason?"

"I presume likely 'twas. I did think it was a natural one and
reason enough, but I guess THAT was a mistake. It looks as if

She made a move to rise, but he leaned forward and detained her.

"There! there!" he said. "Set still, set still. So you're Abner
Barnes' niece?"

"My soul! I've told you so three times."

"Abner's niece! I want to know!"

"Well, I should think you might know by this time. Now about that

"Hey? Oh, yes--yes! You want a mortgage on Abner's place over to
East Wellmouth. Um! Well, I know the property and about what it's
wuth--which ain't much. What are you cal'latin' to do--live

"Yes, if I can carry out the plan I've got in my head. I'm
thinkin' of fixin' up that old place and livin' in it. I'm
figgerin' to run it as a boardin'-house. It'll cost money to put
it in shape and a mortgage is the simplest way of raisin' that
money, I suppose. That's the long and short of it."

The dealer in mortgages appeared to hear and there was no reason
why he should not have understood. But he seemed still
unsatisfied, even suspicious. The whiskers received another series
of pulls and he regarded Thankful with the same questioning stare.

"And you say," he drawled, "that you come to me just because--"

"Mercy on us! If you don't know why I come by this time, then--"

"All right, all right. I--I'm talkin' to myself, I guess. Course
you told me why you come. So you're cal'latin' to start a
boardin'-house, eh? Risky things, boardin'-houses are. There's a
couple of hundred launched every year and not more'n ten ever make
a payin' v'yage. Let's hear what your plan is, the whole of it."

Fighting down her impatience Thankful went into details concerning
her plan. She explained why she had thought of it and her growing
belief that it might be successful. Mr. Cobb listened.

"Humph!" he grunted, when she had finished. "So Obed Bangs advised
you to try it, hey? That don't make me think no better of it, as I
know of. I know Bangs pretty well."

"Yes," dryly; "I supposed likely you did. Anyhow, he said he knew

"He did, hey? Told you some things about me, hey?"

"No, he didn't tell me anything except that you and he had had some
dealin's. Now, Mr. Cobb, we've talked a whole lot and it don't
seem to me we got anywheres. If you don't want to take a mortgage
on that place--"

"Sshh! Who said I didn't want to take it? How do I know what I
want to do yet? Lord! How you women do go on! Suppose I should
take a mortgage on that place--mind, I don't say I will, but
suppose I should--how would I know that the mortgage would be paid,
or the interest, or anything?"

"If it ain't paid you can foreclose when the time comes, I presume
likely. As for the interest--well, I'm fairly honest, or I try to
be, and that'll be paid reg'lar if I live."

"Ya'as. Well, fur's honesty goes, I could run a seine through
Ostable County any day in the week and load a schooner with honest
folks; and there wouldn't nary one of 'em have cash enough to pay
for the wear and tear on the net. Honesty's good policy, maybe,
but it takes hard money to pay bills."

Thankful stood up.

"All right," she said, decidedly, "then I'll go where they play the
honest game. And you needn't set there and weed your face any more
on my account."

Mr. Cobb rose also. "There! there!" he protested. "Don't get het
up. I don't say I won't take your mortgage, do I?"

"You've said a good deal. If you say any more of the same kind you
can say it to yourself. I tell you, honest, I don't like the way
you say it."

The owner of the "hen-house" looked as if he wished very much to
retort in kind. The glare he gave his visitor prophesied direful
things. But he did not retort; nor, to her surprise, did he raise
his voice or order her off the premises. Instead his tone, when he
spoke again, was quiet, even conciliatory.

"I--I'm sorry if I've said anything I shouldn't," he stammered.
"I'm gettin' old and--and sort of short in my talk, maybe. I--I--
there's a good many folks round here that don't like me, 'count of
my doin' business in a business way, 'stead of doin' it like the
average poor fool. I suppose they've been talkin' to you and
you've got sort of prejudiced. Well, I don't know's I blame you
for that. I shan't hold no grudge. How much of a mortgage do you
cal'late to want on Abner's place?"

"Two thousand dollars."

"Two thousand! . . . There, there! Hold on, hold on! Two
thousand dollars is a whole lot of money. It don't grow on every

"I know that as well as you do. If I did I'd have picked it afore

"Um--hm. How long a time do you want?"

"I don't know. Three years, perhaps."

Solomon shook his head.

"Too long," he said. "I couldn't give as long a mortgage as that
to anybody. No, I couldn't do it. . . . Tell you what I will do,"
he added. "I--I don't want to act mean to a relation. I think as
much of relations as anybody does. I'd like to favor you and I
will if I can. You give me a week to think this over in and then
I'll let you know what I'll do. That's fair, ain't it?"

Mrs. Barnes declined the offer.

"It may be fair to you," she said, "but I can't wait so long. I
want to settle this afore I go back to South Middleboro. And I
shall go back tomorrow, or the day after at the latest."

Another session of "weeding." Then said Mr. Cobb: "Well, all
right, all right. I'll think it over and then I'll drive across to
East Wellmouth, have another look at the property, and let you
know. I'll see you day after tomorrow forenoon. Where you
stoppin' over there?"

Thankful told him. He walked as far as the door with her.

"Hope you ain't put out with me, ma'am," he said. "I have to be
kind of sharp and straight up and down in my dealin's; they'd get
the weather gauge on me a dozen times a day if I wa'n't. But I'm
real kind inside--to them I take a notion to. I'll--I'll treat you
right--er--er--Cousin Thankful; you see if I don't. I'm real glad
you come to me. Good day."

Thankful went down the path. As she reached the sidewalk she
turned and looked back. The gentleman with the kind interior was
standing peering at her through the cracked glass of the door. He
was still tugging at his whiskers and if, as he had intimated, he
had "taken a notion" to her, his expression concealed the fact

Captain Obed, who had evidently been on the lookout for his
passenger, appeared on the platform of the store on the other side
of the road. After asking if she had any other "port of call" in
that neighborhood, he assisted her into the carriage and they
started on their homeward trip. The captain must have filled with
curiosity concerning the widow's interview with Mr. Cobb, but
beyond asking if she had seen the latter, he did not question.
Thankful appreciated his reticence; the average dweller in
Wellmouth--Winnie S., for instance--would have started in on a
vigorous cross-examination. Her conviction that Captain Bangs was
much above the average was strengthened.

"Yes," she said, "he was there. I saw him. He's a--a kind of
queer person, I should say. Do you know him real well, Cap'n

The captain nodded. "Yes," he said, "I know him about as well as
anybody outside of Trumet does. I ain't sure that anybody really
knows him all the way through. Queer!" he chuckled. "Well, yes--
you might say Sol Cobb was queer and you wouldn't be strainin' the
truth enough to start a plank. He's all that and then consider'ble."

"What sort of a man is he?"

"Sol? Hum! Well, he's smart; anybody that beats Sol Cobb in a
trade has got to get up a long ways ahead of breakfast time. Might
stay up all night and then not have more leeway than he'd be liable
to need."

"Yes, Yes, I'm sure he's smart in business. But is he--is he a
GOOD man?'

The captain hesitated before replying.

"Git dap!" he ordered, addressing the horse. "Good? Is Sol good?
Well, I cal'late that depends some on what dictionary you hunt up
the word in. He's pious, sartin. There ain't many that report on
deck at the meetin'-house more reg'lar than he does. He don't
cal'late to miss a prayer-meetin' and when there's a revival goin'
on he's right up front with the mourners. Folks do say that his
favorite hymn is 'I'm Glad Salvation's Free' and they heave out
consider'ble many hints that if 'twa'n't free he wouldn't have got
it; but then, that's an old joke and I've heard 'em say the same
thing about other people."

"But do you think he's honest?"

"I never heard of his doin' anything against the law. He'll skin
honesty as close as he can, there ain't much hide left when he gets
through; but I cal'late he thinks he's honest. And maybe he is--
maybe he is. It all depends on the definition, same as I said.
Sol's pious all right. I cal'late he'd sue anybody that had a
doubt as to how many days Josiah went cabin passenger aboard the
whale. His notion of Heaven may be a little mite hazy, although
he'd probably lay consider'ble stress on the golden streets, but
he's sot and definite about t'other place. Yes, siree!" he added,
reflectively, "Sol is sartin there's a mighty uncomf'table Tophet,
and that folks who don't believe just as he does are bound there.
And he don't mean to go himself, if 'tendin' up to meetin' 'll keep
him clear.

"It's kind of queer to me," he went on, slowly, "to see the number
of folks that make up their minds to be good--or what they call
good--because they're scared to be bad. Doin' right because right
IS right, and lettin' the Almighty credit 'em with that, because
He's generally supposed to know it's right full well as they do--
that ain't enough for their kind. They have to keep hollerin' out
loud how good they are so He'll hear and won't make any mistake in
bookin' their own particular passage. Sort of takin' out a
religious insurance policy, you might say 'twas. . . . Humph!" he
added, coming out of his reverie and looking doubtfully at his
companion, "I--I hope I ain't shocked you, ma'am. I don't mean to
be irreverent, you understand. I've thought consider'ble about
such things and I have funny ideas maybe."

Thankful declared that she was not shocked. She had heard but
little of her driver's long dissertation. She was thinking of her
interview with Mr. Cobb and the probability of his accepting her
proposal and taking a mortgage on her East Wellmouth property. If
he refused, what should she do then? And if he accepted and she
went on to carry her plan into execution, what would be the
outcome? The responsibility was heavy. She would be risking all
she had in the world. If she succeeded, well and good. If she
failed she would be obliged to begin all over again, to try for
another position as housekeeper, perhaps to "go out nursing" once
more. She was growing older; soon she would be beyond middle life
and entering upon the first stages of old age. And what a lonely
old age hers was likely to be! Her husband was dead; her only near
relative, brother Jedediah, was--well, he might be dead also, poor
helpless, dreamy incompetent. He might have died in the Klondike,
providing he ever reached that far-off country, which was unlikely.
He would have been but an additional burden upon her had he lived
and remained at home, but he would have been company for her at
least. Emily was a comfort, but she had little hope of Emily's
being able to leave her school or the family which her salary as
teacher helped to support. No, she must carry her project through
alone, all alone.

She spoke but seldom and Captain Obed, noticing the change in her
manner and possibly suspecting the cause, did his best to divert
her thoughts and cheer her. He chatted continuously, like, as he
declared afterwards, "a poll parrot with its bill greased." He
changed the topic from Mr. Cobb and his piety to the prospects of
good fishing in the spring, from that to the failure of the
previous fall's cranberry crop, and from that again to Kenelm
Parker and his sister Hannah. And, after a time, Thankful realized
that he was telling a story.


"Takin' other folks' advice about your own affairs," began Cap'n
Obed, "is like a feller readin' patent medicine circulars to find
somethin' to cure a cold. Afore he gets through his symptoms have
developed into bronchitis and pneumony, with gallopin' consumption
dead ahead. You never can tell what'll happen.

"You noticed how Hannah Parker sort of riz up when Kenelm started
smokin' yesterday? Yes, I know you did, 'cause you spoke of it.
And you notice, too, how meek and lowly she laid down and give in
when he kept right on doin' it. That ain't her usual way with
Kenelm by a consider'ble sight. I told you there was quite a yarn
hitched to that smokin' business. So there is.

"Kenelm's an old bach, you know. One time he used to work, or
pretend to, because he needed the money; but his Aunt Phoebe up to
Brockton died and left him four or five thousand dollars and he
ain't worked of any account since. He's a gentleman now, livin' on
his income--and his sister.

"Hannah ain't got but precious little money of her own, but she
knows how to take care of it, which her brother don't. She was
housekeepin' for some folks at Wapatomac, but when the inheritances
landed she headed straight for East Wellmouth, rented that little
house they're in now, and took charge of Kenelm. He wa'n't
overanxious to have her do it, but that didn't make any difference.
One of her pet bugaboos was that, now her brother was well-off--
'cordin' to her idea of well-offness--some designin' woman or other
would marry him for his money. Down she come, first train, and
she's been all hands and the cook, yes, and paymaster--with Kenelm
a sort of steerage passenger, ever since. She keeps watch over him
same as the sewin' circle does over the minister's wife, and it's
'No Anchorage for Females' around that house, I can tell you.

"Another of her special despisin's--next to old maids and young
widows--used to be tobacco smoke. We had a revival preacher in
East Wellmouth that first winter and he stirred up things like a
stick in a mudhole. He was young and kind of good-lookin', with a
voice like the Skakit foghorn, and he took the sins of the world in
his mouth, one after the other, as you might say, and shook 'em
same's a pup would a Sunday bunnit. He laid into rum and rum
sellin', and folks fairly got in line to sign the pledge. 'Twas
'Come early and avoid the rush.' Got so that Chris Badger hardly
dast to use alcohol in his cigar-lighter.

"Then, havin' dried us up, that revival feller begun to smoke us
out. He preached six sermons on the evils of tobacco, and every
one was hotter'n the last. Accordin' to him, if you smoked now
you'd burn later on. Lots of the men folks threw their pipes away,
and took to chewin' slipp'ry ellum.

"Now, Kenelm smoked like a peat fire. He lit up after breakfast
and puffed steadily until bedtime, only puttin' his pipe down to
eat, or to rummage in his pocket for more tobacco. Hannah got him
to go to one of the anti-tobacco meetin's. He set through the
whole of it, interested as could be. Then, when 'twas over, he
stopped in the church entry to load up his pipe, and walked home
with his sister, blowin' rings and scratchin' matches and talkin'
loud about how fine the sermon was. He talked all next day about
that sermon; said he'd go every night if they'd let you smoke in

"So Hannah was set back a couple of rows, but she wa'n't
discouraged--not by a forty fathom. She got after her brother
mornin', noon and night about the smokin' habit. The most provokin'
part of it, so she said, was that he always agreed with her.

"'It's ruinin' your health,' she'd say.

"'Yes,' says Kenelm, lookin' solemn, 'I cal'late that's so. I've
been feelin' poorly for over a year now. Worries me consider'ble.
Pass me that plug on the top of the clock, won't you, Hannah?'

"Now what can you do with a feller like that?

"She couldn't start him with fussin' about HIS health, so she swung
over on a new tack and tried her own. She said so much smoke in
the house was drivin' her into consumption, and she worked up a
cough that was a reg'lar graveyard quickstep. I heard her
practicin' it once, and, I swan, there was harps and halos all
through it!

"That cough made Kenelm set up and take notice; and no wonder. He
listened to a hundred or so of Hannah's earthquakes, and then he
got up and pranced out of the house. When he came back the doctor
was with him.

"Now, this wa'n't exactly what his sister was lookin' for. She
didn't want to see the doctor. But Kenelm said she'd got to have
her lungs sounded right off, and he guessed they'd have to use a
deep-sea lead, 'cause that cough seemed to come from the
foundations. He waylaid the doctor after the examination was over
and asked all kinds of questions. The doctor tried to keep a
straight face, but I guess Kenelm smelt a rat.

"Anyway, Hannah coughed for a day or two more, and then her brother
come totin' in a big bottle of med'cine.

"'There!' he says. 'That'll fix you!'

"'Where'd you get it?' says she.

"'Down to Henry Tubman's,' he says.

"'Henry Tubman! What on earth! Why, Henry Tubman's a horse

"'I know he is,' says Kenelm, solemn as a roostin' pullet, 'but
we've been fishin' with the wrong bait. 'Tain't consumption that's
ailin' you, Hannah; you've got the heaves.'

"So Hannah didn't cough much more, 'cause, when she did, Kenelm
would trot out the bottle of horse med'cine, and chuck overboard a
couple of barrels of sarcasm. She tried openin' all the windows,
sayin' she needed fresh air, but he locked himself up in the
kitchen and filled that so full of smoke that you had to navigate
it by dead reckonin'--couldn't see to steer. So she was about
ready to give up; somethin' that anybody but a stubborn critter
like her would have done long afore.

"But one afternoon she was down to the sewin' circle, and the women
folks there, havin' finished pickin' to pieces the characters of
the members not on hand, started in to go on about the revivals and
how much good they was doin'. 'Most everybody had some relation,
if 'twa'n't nothin' more'n a husband, that had stopped smokin' and
chewin'. Everybody had some brand from the burnin' to brag about--
everybody but Hannah; she could only set there and say she'd done
her best, but that Kenelm still herded with the goats.

"They was all sorry for her, but the only one that had any advice
to give was Abbie Larkin, she that was Abbie Dillin'ham 'fore she
married old man Larkin. Larkin had one foot in the grave when she
married him, and she managed to crowd the other one in inside of a
couple of years afterward. Abbie is a widow, of course, and she is
middlin' good-lookin' and dresses pretty gay. Larkin left her a
little money, but I guess she's run through most of it by this
time. The circle folks was dyin' to talk about her, but she was
always on hand so early that they hardly ever got a chance.

"Well, after supper was over, Abbie gets Hannah over in a corner,
and says she:

"'Miss Parker,' says she, 'here's an advertisement I cut out of the
paper and saved a-purpose for you. I want you to look at it, but
you mustn't tell anybody I gave it to you.'

"So Hannah unfurls the piece of newspaper, and 'twas an
advertisement of 'Kill-Smudge,' the sure cure for the tobacco
habit. You could give it to the suff'rer unbeknownst to him, in
his tea or soup or somethin', and in a couple of shakes he'd no
more smoke than he'd lend money to his brother-in-law, or do any
other ridic'lous thing. There was testimonials from half a dozen
women that had tried it, and everyone showed a clean bill.

"Hannah read the advertisement through twice. 'Well, I never!'
says she.

"'Yes,' says Abbie, and smiles.

"'Of course,' says Hannah, lookin' scornful, 'I wouldn't think of
tryin' the stuff, but I'll just take this home and read it over.
It's so curious,' she says.

"'Ain't it?' says Abbie, and smiles some more.

"So that night, when Kenelm sat by the stove, turnin' the air blue,
his sister set at the other side of the table with that
advertisement hid behind the Wellmouth Advocate readin' and
thinkin'. She wrote a letter afore she went to bed and bought a
dollar's worth of stamps at the postoffice next day. And for a
week she watched the mails the way one of these city girls does
when the summer's 'most over and eight or nine of her fellers have
finished their vacations and gone back to work.

"About ten days after that Kenelm begins to feel kind of off his
feed, so's to speak. Somethin' seemed to ail him and he couldn't
make out what 'twas. They'd had a good many cranberries on their
bog that year and Hannah'd been cookin' 'em up fast so's they
wouldn't spile. But one night she brings on a cranberry pie, and
Kenelm turned up his nose at it.

"'More of that everlastin' sour stuff!' he snorts. 'I've et
cranb'ries till my stomach's puckered up as if it worked with a
gath'rin' string. Take it away! I don't want it!'

"'But, Kenelm, you're always so fond of cranb'ry pie.'

"'Me? It makes me shrivel just to look at it. Pass that sugar
bowl, so's I can sweeten ship.'

"Next day 'twas salt fish and potatoes that wa'n't good. He'd been
teasin' for a salt-fish dinner for ever so long, so Hannah'd fixed
up this one just to please him, but he swallered two or three
knifefuls and then looked at her kind of sad and mournful.

"'To think,' says he, 'that I've lived all these years to be
p'isoned fin'lly! And by my own sister, too! Well, that's what
comes of bein' wuth money. Give me my pipe and let me forget my

"'Course this kind of talk made Hannah mad, but she argued that
'twas the Kill-Smudge gettin' in its work, so she put a double dose
into his teacup that night, and trusted in Providence.

"And the next day she noticed that he swallered hard between every
pull at his pipe, and when, at last, he jumped out of his chair,
let out a swear word and hove his pipe at the cat, she felt
consider'ble encouraged. She thought 'twas her duty, however, to
warn him against profane language, but the answer she got was so
much more prayerful than his first remarks, that she come about and
headed for the sittin'-room quick.

"Well, to make a long yarn short, the Kill-Smudge done the
bus'ness. Kenelm stuck to smokin' till he couldn't read a cigar
sign without his ballast shiftin', and then he give it up. And--as
you might expect from that kind of a man--he was more down on
tobacco than the Come-Outer parson himself. He even got up in
revival meetin' and laid into it hammer and tongs. He was the best
'horrible example' they had, and Hannah was so proud of him that
she couldn't sleep nights. She still stuck to the Kill-Smudge,
though--layin' in a fresh stock every once in a while--and she
dosed the tea about every other day, so's her brother wouldn't run
no danger of relapse. I'm 'fraid Kenelm didn't get any too much
joy out of his meals.

"And so everything was all right--'cordin' to Hannah's reckonin'--
and it might have stayed all right if she hadn't took that trip to
Washington. Etta Ellis was goin' on a three weeks' cut-rate
excursion, and she talked so much about it, that Hannah got
reckless and fin'lly said she'd go, too.

"The only thing that worried her was leavin' Kenelm. She hated to
do it dreadful, but he seemed tame enough and promised to change
his flannels if it got cold, and to feed the cat reg'lar, and to
stay to home, and one thing and another, so she thought 'twas safe
to chance it. She cooked up a lot of pie and frosted cake, and
wrote out a kind of time-table for him to eat and sleep by, and
then cried and kissed him good-by.

"The first three days after she was gone Kenelm stayed 'round the
house and turned in early. He was feelin' fine, but 'twas awful
lonesome. The fourth day, after breakfast, he had a cravin' to
smoke. Told me afterward it seemed to him as if he MUST smoke or
die of the fidgets. At last he couldn't stand it no longer, but
turned Hannah's time-table to the wall and went out for a walk. He
walked and walked and walked. It got 'most dinner time and he had
an appetite that he hadn't had afore for months.

"Just as he was turnin' into the road by the schoolhouse who should
come out on the piazza of the house on the corner but Abbie Larkin.
She'd left the door open, and the smell of dinner that blew through
it was tantalizin'. Abbie was dressed in her Sunday togs and her
hair was frizzed till she couldn't wrinkle her forehead. If the
truth was known, I cal'late she'd seen Kenelm go past her house on
the way downtown and was layin' for him when he come back, but she
acted dreadful surprised.

"'Why, Mr. Parker!' says she. 'how DO you do? Seems's if I hadn't
seen you for an age! Ain't it dreadful lonesome at your house now
your sister's away?'

"Kenelm colored up some--he always h'isted danger signals when
women heave in sight--and agreed that 'twas kind of poky bein' all
alone. Then they talked about the weather, and about the price of
coal, and about the new plush coat Cap'n Jabez Bailey's wife had
just got, and how folks didn't see how she could afford it with
Jabez out of work, and so on. And all the time the smell of things
cookin' drifted through the doorway. Fin'lly Abbie says, says she:

"'Was you goin' home, Mr. Parker?'

"'Yes, ma'am,' says Kenelm. 'I was cal'latin' to go home and cook
somethin' for dinner.'

"'Well, there, now!' says Abbie. 'I wonder why I didn't think of
it afore! Why don't you come right in and have dinner with me?
It's ALL ready and there's plenty for two. DO come, Mr. Parker, to
please ME!'

"'Course Kenelm said he couldn't, and, likewise, of course, he did.
'Twas a smashin' dinner--chicken and mashed potatoes and mince pie,
and the land knows what. He ate till he was full clear to the
hatches, and it seemed to him that nothin' ever tasted quite so
good. The widow smiled and purred and colored up and said it
seemed SO good to have a man at the table; seemed like the old days
when Dan'l--meanin' the late lamented--was on deck, and so forth.

"Then, when the eatin' was over, she says, 'I was expectin' my
cousin Benjamin down for a week or so, but he can't come. He's a
great smoker, and I bought these cigars for him. You might as well
use them afore they dry up.'

"Afore Kenelm could stop her she rummaged a handful of cigars out
of the table drawer in the settin'-room.

"'There!' she says. 'Light right up and be comfortable. It'll
seem just like old times. Dan'l was such a 'smoker! Oh, my!' and
she gave a little squeal; 'I forgot you've stopped smokin'.'

"Well, there was the cigars, lookin' as temptin' as a squid to a
codfish; and there was Kenelm hankerin' for 'em so his fingers
twitched; and there was Abbie lookin' dreadful disapp'inted, but
tryin' to make believe she wasn't. You don't need a spyglass to
see what happened.

"'I'd like to,' says Kenelm, pickin' up one of the cigars. 'I'd
like to mighty well, but'--here he bites off the end--''twouldn't
hardly do, now would it? You see--'

"'I see,' says Abbie, scratchin' a match; 'but WE'LL never tell.
We'll have it for our secret; won't we, Mr. Parker?'

"So that's how Kenelm took his first tumble from grace. He told me
all about it one day a good while afterward. He smoked three of
the cigars afore he went home, and promised to come to supper the
next afternoon.

"'You DO look so comfortable, Mr. Parker,' purrs Abbie, as sweet
and syrupy as a molasses stopper. 'It must be SUCH a comfort to a
man to smoke. I don't care WHAT the minister says, you can smoke
here just as much as you want to! It must be pretty hard to live
in a house where you can't enjoy yourself. I shouldn't think it
would seem like home. A man like you NEEDS a good home. Why, how
I do run on!'

"Oh, there ain't really nothin' the matter with the Widow Larkin--
so fur's smartness is concerned, there ain't.

"And for five days more Kenelm ate his meals at Abbie's and smoked
and was happy, happier'n he'd been for months.

"Meantime, Hannah and Etta was visitin' the President--that is to
say, they was lookin' over the White House fence and sayin' 'My
stars!' and 'Ain't it elegant!' Nights, when the sightseein' was
over, what they did mostly was to gloat over how mean and jealous
they'd make the untraveled common tribe at sewin' circle feel when
they got back home. They could just see themselves workin' on the
log-cabin quilt for the next sale, and slingin' out little
reminders like, 'Land sakes! What we're talkin' about reminds me
of what Etta and me saw when we was in the Congressional Libr'ry.
YOU remember that, Etta?' And that would be Etta's hint to look
cute and giggle and say, 'Well! I should say I DID!' And all the
rest of the circlers would smile kind of unhealthy smiles and try
to look as if trips to Washington wa'n't nothin'; THEY wouldn't go
if you hired 'em to. You know the game if you've ever been to
sewin' circle.

"But all this plannin' was knocked in the head by a letter that
Hannah got on an afternoon about a week after she left home. It
was short but there was meat in it. It said: 'If you want to keep
your brother from marryin' Abbie Larkin you had better come home
quick!' 'Twas signed 'A Friend.'

"Did Hannah come home? Well, didn't she! She landed at Orham the
next night. And she done some thinkin' on the way, too. She kept
out of the way of everybody and went straight up to the house.
'Twas dark and shut up, but the back door key was under the mat, as
usual, so she got in all right. The plants hadn't been watered for
two days, at least; the clock had stopped; the cat's saucer was
licked dry as a contribution box, and the critter itself was
underfoot every second, whoopin' for somethin' to eat. The whole
thing pretty nigh broke Hannah's heart, but she wa'n't the kind to
give up while there was a shot in the locker.

"She went to the closet and found that Kenelm's Sunday hat and coat
was gone. Then she locked the back door again and cut acrost the
lots down to Abbie's. She crept round the back way and peeked
under the curtain at the settin'-room window. There set Abbie,
lookin' sweet and sugary. Likewise, there was Kenelm, lookin'
mighty comfortable, with a big cigar in his mouth and more on the
table side of him. Hannah gritted her teeth, but she kept quiet.

"About ten minutes after that Chris Badger was consider'ble
surprised to hear a knock at the back door of his store and to find
that 'twas Hannah that had knocked.

"'Mr. Badger,' says Hannah, polite and smilin', 'I want to buy a
box of the best cigars you've got.'

"'Ma'am!' says Chris, thinkin' 'twas about time to send for the
constable or the doctor--one or t'other.

"'Yes,' says Hannah; 'if you please. Oh! and, Mr. Badger, please
don't tell anyone I bought 'em. PLEASE don't, to oblige me.'

"So Chris trotted out the cigars--ten cents straight, they was--and
said nothin' to nobody, which is a faculty he has when it pays to
have it.

"When Kenelm came home that night he was knocked pretty nigh off
his pins to find his sister waitin' for him. He commenced a long
rigmarole about where he'd been, but Hannah didn't ask no
questions. She said that Washington was mighty fine, but home and
Kenelm was good enough for her. Said the thoughts of him alone had
been with her every minute, and she just HAD to cut the trip short.
Kenelm wa'n't any too enthusiastic to hear it.

"Breakfast next mornin' was a dream. Hannah had been up since five
o'clock gettin' it ready. There was everything on that table that
Kenelm liked 'special. And it all tasted fine, and he ate enough
for four. When 'twas over Hannah went to the closet and brought
out a bundle.

"'Kenelm,' she says, 'here's somethin' I brought you that'll
surprise you. I've noticed since I've been away that about
everybody smokes--senators and judges, and even Smithsonian
Institute folks. And when I see how much comfort they get out of
it, my conscience hurt me to think that I'd deprived my brother of
what he got such a sight of pleasure from. Kenelm, you can begin
smokin' again right off. Here's a box of cigars I bought on
purpose for you; they're the kind the President smokes.'

"Which wa'n't a bad yarn for a church member that hadn't had any
more practice than Hannah had.

"Well, Kenelm was paralyzed, but he lit up one of the cigars and
found 'twas better than Abbie's brand. He asked Hannah what she
thought the church folks would say, but she said she didn't care
what they said; her travels had broadened her mind and she couldn't
cramp herself to the ideas of a little narrow place like East

"Dinner that day was a bigger meal than breakfast, and two of the
cigars went fine after it. Kenelm hemmed and hawed and fin'lly
said that he wouldn't be home to supper; said he'd got to go
downtown and would get a bite at the Trav'lers' Rest or somewheres.
It surprised him to find that Hannah didn't raise objections, but
she didn't, not a one. Just smiled and said, 'All right,' and told
him to have a good time. And Abbie's supper didn't seem so good to
him that night, and her cigars--bein' five centers--wa'n't in it
with that Washington box.

"Hannah didn't have dinner the next day until two o'clock, but
'twas worth waitin' for. Turkey was twenty-three cents a pound,
but she had one, and plum puddin', too. She kept pressin' Kenelm
to have a little more, so 'twas after three when they got up from
the table.

"'Twas a rainy, drizzly afternoon and the stove felt mighty homey
and cozy. So did the big rocker that Hannah transplanted from the
parlor to the settin'-room. That chair had been a kind of sacred
throne afore, and to set in it had been sort of sacrilegious, but
there 'twas, and Kenelm didn't object. And those President cigars
certainly filled the bill.

"About half-past five Kenelm got up and looked out of the window.
The rain come spattin' against the pane and the wind whined and
sounded mean. Kenelm went back to the chair again. Then he got up
and took another observation. At last he goes back to the chair,
stretches himself out, puts his feet against the stove, pulls at
the cigar, and says he:

"'I was cal'latin' to go downtown on a bus'ness trip, same's I did
last night. But I guess,' he says--'I guess I won't. It's too
comfort'ble here,' says he.

"And I cal'late," said Captain Obed, in conclusion, "that afore
Hannah turned in that night she gave herself three cheers. She'd
gained a tack on Abbie Larkin that had put Abbie out of the race,
for that time, anyhow."

"But who sent the 'friend' letter?" asked Thankful, whose thoughts
had been diverted from her own troubles by hearing those of Miss

The captain laughed.

"That's a mystery, even yet," he said. "I'm pretty sure Hannah
thinks 'twas Elvira Paine. Elvira lives acrost the road from Abbie
Larkin and, bein' a single woman with mighty little hopes of
recovery, naturally might be expected to enjoy upsettin' anybody
else's chance. But, at any rate, Mrs. Barnes, the whole thing
bears out what I said at the beginnin': takin' other folks' advice
about your own affairs is mighty risky. I hope, if you do go ahead
with your boardin'-house plan, it won't be because I called it a
good one."

Thankful smiled and then sighed. "No," she said, "if I go ahead
with it it'll be because I've made up my mind to, not on account of
anybody else's advice. I've steered my own course for quite a long
spell and I sha'n't signal for a pilot now. Well, here we are home
again--or at East Wellmouth anyhow."

"So we be. Better come right to Hannah's along with me, hadn't
you? You must have had enough of the Holt Waldorf-Astory by this

But Thankful insisted upon going to the hotel and there her new
friend--for she had begun to think of him as that--left her. She
informed him of her intention to remain in East Wellmouth for
another day and a half and he announced his intention of seeing her
again before she left.

"Just want to keep an eye on you," he said. "With all of Mrs.
Holt's temptin' meals set afore you you may get gout or somethin'
from overeatin'. Either that or Winnie S.'ll talk you deef. I
feel a kind of responsibility, bein' as I'm liable to be your next-
door neighbor if that boardin'-house does start up, and I want you
to set sail with a clean bill of health. If you sight a
suspicious-lookin' craft, kind of antique in build, broad in the
beam and makin' heavy weather up the hills--if you sight that kind
of craft beatin' down in this direction tomorrow you'll know it's
me. Good day."

Thankful lay awake for hours that night, thinking, planning and
replanning. More than once she decided that she had been too
hasty, that her scheme involved too great a risk and that, after
all, she had better abandon it. But each time she changed her mind
and at last fell asleep determining not to think any more about it,
but to wait until Mr. Cobb came to accept or decline the mortgage.
Then she would make a final decision.

The next day passed somehow, though it seemed to her as if it never
would, and early the following forenoon came Solomon himself. The
man of business was driving an elderly horse which bore a faint
resemblance to its owner, being small and thin and badly in need of
a hairdresser's services. If the animal had possessed whiskers and
could have tugged at them Thankful was sure it would have done it.

Solomon tugged at his own whiskers almost constantly during that
forenoon. He and Mrs. Barnes visited the "Captain Abner place" and
Solomon inspected every inch of its exterior. For some reason or
other he absolutely refused to go inside. His conversation during
the inspection was, for the most part, sniffs and grunts, and it
was not until it was ended and they stood together at the gate,
that he spoke to the point, and then only because his companion

"Well!" said Thankful.

Mr. Cobb "weeded."

"Eh?" he said.

"That's what I say--eh? What are you goin' to do about that
mortgage, Mr. Cobb?"

More weeding. Then: "Waal, I--I don't cal'late to want to be
unreasonable nor nothin', but I ain't real keen about takin' no
mortgage on that property; not myself, I ain't."

"Well, it is yourself I'm askin' to take it. So you won't, hey?
All right; that's all I wanted to know."

"Now--now--now, hold on! Hold on! I ain't sayin' I WON'T take it.
I--I'd like to be accommodatin', 'specially to a relation. But--"

"Never mind the relation business. I found out what you think of
relations afore you found out I was one. And I ain't askin'
accommodation. This is just plain business, seems to me. Will you
let me have two thousand dollars on a mortgage on this place?"

Mr. Cobb fidgeted. "I couldn't let you have that much," he said.
"I couldn't. I--I--" he wrenched the next sentence loose after
what seemed a violent effort, "I might let you have half of it--a
thousand, say."

But Thankful refused to say a thousand. That was ridiculous, she
declared. By degrees, and a hundred at a time, Solomon raised his
offer to fifteen hundred. This being the sum Mrs. Barnes had
considered in the first place--and having asked for the two thousand
merely because of her judgment of human nature--she announced that
she would think over the offer. Then came the question of time.
Here Mr. Cobb was firm. Three years--two years-- he would not
consider. At last he announced that he would take a one-year
mortgage on the Barnes property for fifteen hundred dollars; and
that was all he would do.

"And I wouldn't do that for nobody else," he declared. "You bein'
my relation I don't know's it ain't my duty as a perfessin'
Christian to--to help you out. I hadn't ought to afford it, but
I'm willin' to go so far."

Thankful shook her head. "I'm glad you said, 'PROFESSIN'
Christian.'" she observed. "Well," drawing a long breath, "then I
suppose I've got to say yes or no. . . . And I'll say yes," she
added firmly. "And we'll call it settled."

They parted before the hotel. She was to return to South
Middleboro that afternoon. Mr. Cobb was to prepare the papers and
forward them for her signature, after which, upon receipt of them
duly signed, he would send her the fifteen hundred dollar check.

Solomon climbed into the buggy. "Well, good-by,' he said. "I hope
you'll do fust-rate. The interest'll be paid regular, of course.
I'm real pleased to meet you--er--Cousin Thankful. Be sure you
sign them papers in the right place. Good-by. Oh--er--er--
sometimes I'll be droppin' in to see you after you get your
boardin'-house goin'. I come to East Wellmouth once in a while.
Yes--yes--I'll come and see you. You can tell me more about
Captain Abner, you know. I'd--I'd like to hear what he said to you
about me. Good-by."

That afternoon, once more in the depot-wagon, which had been
refitted with its fourth wheel, Thankful, on her way to the
Wellmouth railway station, passed her "property." The old house,
its weather-beaten shingles a cold gray in the half-light of the
mist-shrouded, sinking sun, looked lonely and deserted. A chill
wind came from the sea and the surf at the foot of the bluff moaned
and splashed and sighed.

Thankful sighed also.

"What's the matter?" asked Winnie S.

"Oh, nothin' much. I wish I was a prophet, that's all. I'd like
to be able to look ahead a year."

Winnie S. whistled. "Judas priest!" he said. "So'd I. But if I'd
see myself drivin' this everlastin' rig-out I'd wished I hadn't
looked. I don't know's I'd want to see ahead as fur's that, after

Thankful sighed again. "I don't know as I do, either," she


March, so to speak, blew itself out; April came and went; May was
here. And on the seventeenth of May the repairs on the "Cap'n
Abner place" were completed. The last carpenter had gone, leaving
his shavings and chips behind him. The last painter had spilled
his last splash of paint on the sprouting grass beneath the
spotless white window sills. The last paper-hanger had departed.
Winnie S. was loading into what he called a "truck wagon" the
excelsior and bagging in which the final consignment of new
furniture had been wrapped during its journey from Boston. About
the front yard Kenelm Parker was moving, rake in hand. In the
kitchen Imogene, the girl from the Orphans' Home in Boston, who had
been engaged to act as "hired help," was arranging the new pots and
pans on the closet shelf and singing "Showers of Blessings"
cheerfully if not tunefully.

Yes, the old "Cap'n Abner place" was rejuvenated and transformed
and on the following Monday it would be the "Cap'n Abner place" no
longer: it would then become the "High Cliff House" and open its
doors to hoped-for boarders, either of the "summer" or "all-the-
year" variety.

The name had been Emily Howes' choice. She and Mrs. Barnes had
carried on a lengthy and voluminous correspondence and the
selection of a name had been left to Emily. To her also had been
intrusted the selection of wallpapers, furniture and the few
pictures which Thankful had felt able to afford. These were but
few, for the cost of repairing and refitting had been much larger
than the original estimate. The fifteen hundred dollars raised on
the mortgage had gone and of the money obtained by the sale of the
cranberry bog shares--Mrs. Pearson's legacy--nearly half had gone
also. Estimates are one thing and actual expenditures are another,
a fact known to everyone who has either built a house or rebuilt
one, and more than once during the repairing and furnishing process
Thankful had repented of her venture and wished she had not risked
the plunge. But, having risked it, backing out was impossible.
Neither was it possible to stop half-way. As she said to Captain
Obed, "There's enough half-way decent boardin'-houses and hotels in
this neighborhood now. There's about as much need of another of
that kind as there is of an icehouse at the North Pole. Either
this boardin'-house of mine must be the very best there can be,
price considered, or it mustn't be at all. That's the way I look
at it."

The captain had, of course, agreed with her. His advice had been
invaluable. He had helped in choosing carpenters and painters and
it was owing to his suggestion that Mrs. Barnes had refrained from
engaging an East Wellmouth young woman to help in the kitchen.

"You could find one, of course," said the captain. "There's two or
three I could think of right off now who would probably take the
job, but two out of the three wouldn't be much account anyhow, and
the only one that would is Sarah Mullet and she's engaged to a
Trumet feller. Now let alone the prospect of Sarah's gettin'
married and leavin' you 'most any time, there's another reason for
not hirin' her. She's the everlastin'est gossip in Ostable County,
and that's sayin' somethin'. What Sarah don't know about
everybody's private affairs she guesses and she always guesses out
loud. Inside of a fortnight she'd have all you ever done and a
whole lot you never thought of doin' advertised from Race P'int to
Sagamore. She's a reg'lar talkin' foghorn, if there was such a
thing--only a foghorn shuts down in clear weather and SHE don't
shut down, day or night. Talks in her sleep, I shouldn't wonder.
If I was you, Mrs. Barnes, I wouldn't bother with any help from
'round here. I'd hire a girl from Boston, or somewheres; then you
could be skipper of your own ship."

Thankful, after thinking the matter over, decided that the advice
was good. The difficulty, of course, was in determining the
"somewhere" from which the right sort of servant, one willing to
work for a small wage, might be obtained. At length she wrote to a
Miss Coffin, once a nurse in Middleboro but now matron of an
orphans' home in Boston. Miss Coffin's reply was to the effect
that she had, in her institution, a girl who might in time prove to
be just the sort which her friend desired.

Of course [she wrote], she isn't at all a competent servant now,
but she is bright and anxious to learn. And she is a good girl,
although something of a character. Her Christian name is
Marguerite, at least she says it is. What her other name is
goodness only knows. She has been with us now for nearly seven
years. Before that she lived with and took care of a drunken old
woman who said she was the girl's aunt, though I doubt if she was.
Suppose I send her to you on trial; you can send her back to us if
she doesn't suit. It would be a real act of charity to give her a
chance, and I think you will like her in spite of her funny ways.

This doubtful recommendation caused Thankful to shake her head.
She had great confidence in Miss Coffin's judgment, but she was far
from certain that "Marguerite" would suit. However, guarded
inquiries in Wellmouth and Trumet strengthened her conviction that
Captain Obed knew what he was talking about, and, the time
approaching when she must have some sort of servant, she, at last,
in desperation wrote her friend to send "the Marguerite one" along
for a month's trial.

The new girl arrived two days later. Winnie S. brought her down in
the depot-wagon, in company with her baggage, a battered old valise
and an ancient umbrella. She clung to each of these articles with
a death grip, evidently fearful that someone might try to steal
them. She appeared to be of an age ranging from late sixteen to
early twenty, and had a turned-up nose and reddish hair drawn
smoothly back from her forehead and fastened with a round comb.
Her smile was of the "won't come off" variety.

Thankful met her at the back door and ushered her into the kitchen,
the room most free from workmen at the moment.

"How do you do?" said the lady. "I'm real glad to see you. Hope
you had a nice trip down in the cars."

"Lordy, yes'm!" was the emphatic answer, accompanied by a brilliant
smile. "I never had such a long ride in my life. 'Twas just like
bein' rich. I made believe I WAS rich most all the way, except
when a man set down in the seat alongside of me and wanted to talk.
Then I didn't make believe none, I bet you!"

"A man?" grinned Thankful. "What sort of a man?"

"I don't know. One of the railroad men I guess 'twas; anyhow he
was a fresh young guy, with some sort of uniform hat on. He asked
me if I didn't want him to put my bag up in the rack. He said you
couldn't be too careful of a bag like that. I told him never mind
my bag; it was where it belonged and it stayed shut up, which was
more'n you could say of some folks in this world. I guess he
understood; anyhow he beat it. Lordy!" with another smile. "I
knew how to treat HIS kind. Miss Coffin's told me enough times to
look out for strange men. Is this where I'm goin' to live, ma'am?"

"Why--why, yes; if you're a good girl and try hard to please and to
learn. Now--er--Marguerite--that's your name, isn't it?"

"No, ma'am, my name's Imogene."

"Imo--which? Why! I thought you was Marguerite. Miss Coffin
hasn't sent another girl, has she?"

"No, ma'am. I'm the one. My name used to be Marguerite, but it's
goin' to be Imogene now. I've wanted to change for a long while,
but up there to the Home they'd got kind of used to Marguerite, so
'twas easier to let it go at that. I like Imogene lots better; I
got it out of a book."

"But--but you can't change your name like that. Isn't Marguerite
your real name?"

"No'm. Anyhow I guess 'tain't. I got that out of a book, too.
Lordy," with a burst of enthusiasm, "I've had more names in my
time! My Aunt Bridget she called me 'Mag' when she didn't make it
somethin' worse. And when I first came to the Home the kids called
me 'Fire Alarm,' 'cause my hair was red. And the cook they had
then called me 'Lonesome,' 'cause I guess I looked that way. And
the matron--not Miss Coffin, but the other one--called me 'Maggie.'
I didn't like that, so when Miss Coffin showed up I told her I was
Marguerite. But I'd rather be Imogene now, if you ain't
particular, ma'am."

"Why--um--well, I don't know's I am; only seems to me I'd settle on
one or t'other and stay put. What's your last name?"

"I ain't decided. Montgomery's a kind of nice name and so's St.
John, or Wolcott--there used to be a Governor Wolcott, you know.
I s'pose, now I'm out workin' for myself, I ought to have a last
name. Maybe you can pick one out for me, ma'am."

"Humph! Maybe I can. I've helped pick out first names for babies
in my time, but pickin' out a last name for anybody would be
somethin' new, I will give in. But I'll try, if you want me to.
And you must try to do what I want and to please me. Will you
promise me that?"

"Lordy, yes'm!"

"Um! Well, you might begin by tryin' not to say 'Lordy' quite so
many times. That would please me, for a start."

"All right'm. I got in the habit of sayin' it, I guess. When I
first come to the Home I used to say, 'God sakes,' but the matron
didn't like that."

"Mercy on us! I don't wonder. Well--er--Imogene, now I'll show
you the house and your room and all. I hope you like 'em."

There was no doubt of the liking. Imogene was delighted with
everything. When she was shown the sunny attic bedroom which was
to be hers she clapped her hands.

"It's elegant, ma'am," she cried. "Just grand! OH! it's too
splendid to believe and yet there ain't any make-believe in it.
Lordy! Excuse me, ma'am, I forgot. I won't say it again. I'll
wait and see what you say and then I'll say that. And now,"
briskly, "I guess you think it's time I was gettin' to work. All
right, I can work if I ain't got no other accomplishments. I'm all
ready to begin."

As a worker she was a distinct success. There was not a lazy bone
in her energetic body. She was up and stirring each morning at
five o'clock and she evinced an eager willingness to learn that
pleased Mrs. Barnes greatly. Her knowledge of cookery was limited,
and deadly, but as Thankful had planned to do most of the cooking
herself, for the first season at least, this made little
difference. Altogether the proprietress of the High Cliff House
was growing more and more sure that her female "hired help" was
destined to prove a treasure.

"I am real glad you like it here so well, Imogene," she said, at
the end of a fortnight. "I was afraid you might be lonesome, down
here so far from the city."

Imogene laughed. "Who? Me?" she exclaimed. "I guess not, ma'am.
Don't catch me bein' lonesome while there's folks around I care
about. I was lonesome enough when I first came to the Home and the
kids used to make fun of me. But I ain't lonesome now, with you so
kind and nice. No indeedy! I ain't lonesome and I ain't goin' to
be. You watch!"

Captain Obed heartily approved of Imogene. Of Kenelm Parker as
man-of-all-work his approval was much less enthusiastic. He had
been away attending to his fish weirs, when Kenelm was hired, and
the bargain was made before he returned. It was Hannah Parker who
had recommended her brother for the position. She had coaxed and
pleaded and, at last, Thankful had consented to Kenelm's taking the
place on trial.

"You'll need a nice, trustworthy man to do chores," said Hannah.
"Now Kenelm's honest; there ain't a more honest, conscientious man
in East Wellmouth than my brother, if I do say it. Take him in the
matter of that umbrella he lost the night you first came, Mrs.
Barnes. Take that, for instance. He'd left it or lost it
somewheres, he knew that, and the ordinary person would have been
satisfied; but not Kenelm. No sir-ee! He hunted and hunted till
he found that umbrella and come fetchin' of it home. 'Twas a week
afore he did that, but when he did I says, 'Well,' I says, 'you
have got more stick-to-it than I thought you had. You--'"

"Where did he find it?" interrupted Thankful.

"Land knows! He didn't seem to know himself--just found it, he
said. He acts so sort of upsot and shameful about that umbrella
that he and I don't talk about it any more. But it did show that
he had a sense of responsibleness, and a good one. Anybody that'll
stick to and persecute a hunt for a lost thing the way he done will
stick to a job the same way. Don't you think so yourself, Mrs.

Thankful was not convinced, but she yielded. When she told Captain
Bangs he laughed and observed: "Yup, well, maybe so. Judgin' by
other jobs Kenelm's had he'll stick to this one same as he does to
his bed of a Sunday mornin'--lay down on it and go to sleep.
However, I presume likely he ought to have the chance. Of course
Hannah's idea is plain enough. Long's he's at work over here, she
can keep an eye on him. And it's a nice, satisfactory distance
from the widow Larkin, too."

So Kenelm came daily to work and did work--some. When he did not
he always had a plausible excuse. As a self-excuser he was a
shining light.

Thankful had, during the repairs on the house, waited more or less
anxiously for developments concerning the mystery of the little
back bedroom. Painters and paperhangers had worked in that room as
in others, but no reports of strange sounds, or groans, or voices,
had come from there. During the week preceding the day of formal
opening Thankful herself had spent her nights in that room, but had
not heard nor seen anything unusual. She was now pretty thoroughly
convinced that the storm had been responsible for the groans and
that the rest had been due to her imagination. However, she
determined to let that room and the larger one adjoining last of
all; she would take no chances with the lodgers, she couldn't
afford it.

Among the equipment of the High Cliff House or its outbuildings
were a horse, a pig, and a dozen hens and two roosters. Captain
Obed bought the horse at Mrs. Barnes' request, a docile animal of a
sedate age. A second-hand buggy and a second-hand "open wagon" he
also bought. The pig and hens Thankful bought herself in Trumet.
She positively would not consent to the pig's occupying the sty
beneath the woodshed and adjoining the potato cellar, so a new pen
was built in the hollow at the rear of the house. Imogene was
tremendously interested in the live-stock. She begged the
privilege of naming each animal and fowl. Mrs. Barnes had been
encouraging the girl to read literature more substantial than the
"Fireside Companion" tales in which she had hitherto delighted, and
had, as a beginning, lent her a volume of United States history,
one of several discarded schoolbooks which Emily Howes sent at her
cousin's request. Imogene was immensely interested in the history.
She had just finished the Revolution and the effect of her reading
was evident when she announced the names she had selected.

The horse, being the most important of all the livestock, she
christened George Washington. The pig was named Patrick Henry.
The largest hen was Martha Washington. "As to them two roosters,"
she explained, "I did think I'd name the big handsome one John
Hancock and the littlest one George Three. They didn't like each
other, ma'am, that was plain at the start, so I thought they'd
ought to be on different sides. But the very first fight they had
George pretty near licked the stuffin' out of John, so I've decided
to change the names around. That ought to fix it; don't you think
so, ma'am?"

On the seventeenth the High Cliff House was formally opened. It
was much too early to expect "summer" boarders, but there were
three of the permanent variety who had already engaged rooms. Of
these the first was Caleb Hammond, an elderly widower, and retired
cranberry grower, whose wife had died fifteen years before and who
had been "boarding around" in Wellmouth Centre and Trumet ever
since. Caleb was fairly well-to-do and although he had the
reputation of being somewhat "close" in many matters and "sot" in
his ways, he was a respected member of society. He selected a room
on the second floor--not a front room, but one on the side looking
toward the Colfax estate. The room on the other side, across the
hall, was taken by Miss Rebecca Timpson, who had taught the
"upstairs" classes in the Wellmouth school ever since she was
nineteen, a considerable period of time.

The large front rooms, those overlooking the bluff and the sea,
Thankful had intended reserving for guests from the city, but when
Mr. Heman Daniels expressed a wish to engage and occupy one of them,
that on the left of the hall, she reconsidered and Mr. Daniels
obtained his desire. It was hard to refuse a personage like Mr.
Daniels anything. He was not an elderly man; neither was he,
strictly speaking, a young one. His age was, perhaps, somewhere in
the late thirties or early forties and he was East Wellmouth's
leading lawyer, in fact its only one.

Heman was a bachelor and rather good-looking. That his bachelorhood
was a matter of choice and not necessity was a point upon which all
of East Wellmouth agreed. He was a favorite with the ladies, most
of them, and, according to common report, there was a rich widow in
Bayport who would marry him at a minute's notice if he gave the
notice. So far, apparently, he had not given it. He was a "smart"
lawyer, everyone said that, and it is probable that he himself would
have been the last to deny the accusation. He was dignified and
suave and gracious, also persuasive when he chose to be.

He had been boarding with the Holts, but, like the majority of the
hotel lodgers and "mealers," was very willing to change. The
location of the High Cliff House was, so he informed Thankful, the
sole drawback to its availability as a home for him.

"If a bachelor may be said to have a home, Mrs. Barnes," he added,

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