Full Text Archive logoFull Text Archive — Free Classic E-books

Thankful's Inheritance by Joseph C. Lincoln

Part 5 out of 7

Adobe PDF icon
Download this document as a .pdf
File size: 0.8 MB
What's this? light bulb idea Many people prefer to read off-line or to print out text and read from the real printed page. Others want to carry documents around with them on their mobile phones and read while they are on the move. We have created .pdf files of all out documents to accommodate all these groups of people. We recommend that you download .pdfs onto your mobile phone when it is connected to a WiFi connection for reading off-line.

attempt. It was quite evident that Emily meant to go and equally
certain, in her cousin's mind, that the reason for the sudden
departure was the scene with John Kendrick. Emily refused to
discuss the latter's conduct or to permit the mention of his name.
She seemed reluctant even to speak of the Holliday Kendrick matter,
although all of East Wellmouth was now talking of little else.
When Mrs. Barnes, driven to desperation, begged her to say what
should be done, she shook her head.

"I wish I could tell you, Auntie," she said, "but I can't. Perhaps
you don't need to do anything yet. Mr. Daniels says the idea that
that man can force you into selling is ridiculous."

"I know he does. But I'm a woman, Emily, and what I don't know
about law would fill a bigger library than there is in this town by
a consider'ble sight. It's always the woman, particularly a widow
woman, that gets the worst of it in this kind of thing. I'd feel
better if I knew somebody was lookin' out for me. Oh dear, if only
Mr. John Kendrick hadn't--"

"Auntie, please."

"Yes, I know. But it don't seem as if he could act so to me. It
don't seem--"

"Hush! It is quite evident he can. Don't say any more."

"Well, I won't. But what shall I do? Shall I put it all in Mr.
Daniels' hands? He says he'll be glad to help; in fact about
everybody thinks he is helpin', I guess. Hannah Parker told me--"

"Don't, Auntie, don't. Put it in Mr. Daniels' hands, if you think
best. I suppose it is all you can do. Yes, let Mr. Daniels handle
it for you."

"All right. I'll tell him you and I have agreed--"

"No. Tell him nothing of the sort. Don't bring my name into the

"But, Emily, you don't think I ought to sell--"

"No! No! Of course I don't think so. If I were you I should
fight to the last ditch. I would never give in--never! Oh,
Auntie, I feel wicked and mean to leave you now, with all this new
trouble; but I must--I must. I can't stay here--I--"

"There, there, Emily, dear! I understand, I guess. I know how
hard it is for you. And I thought so much of him, too. I thought
he was such a fine young--"

"Aunt Thankful, are you daring to hint that I--I--care in the least
for that--him? How dare you insinuate such a thing to me? I--I
despise him!"

"Yes, yes," hastily. "Course you do, course you do. Well, we
won't worry about that, any of it. Mr. Daniels says there's
nothin' to worry about anyhow, and I'll tell him he can do what he
thinks ought to be done when it's necessary. Now let's finish up
that packin' of yours, dearie."

Thankful did not trust herself to accompany her cousin to Wellmouth
Centre. She was finding it hard enough to face the coming
separation with outward cheerfulness, and the long ride to the
railway station she found to be too great a strain. So she made
the lameness of George Washington's off fore leg an excuse for
keeping that personage in the stable, and it was in Winnie S.'s
depot-wagon that Emily journeyed to the Centre.

They said good-by at the front gate. Emily, too, was trying to
appear cheerful, and the parting was hurried.

"Good-by, Auntie," she said. "Take care of yourself. Write often
and I will answer, I promise you. I know you'll be lonely after
I've gone, but I have a plan--a secret. If I can carry it through
you won't be SO lonely, I'm pretty sure. And don't worry, will
you? The mortgage is all right and as for the other thing--well,
that will be all right, too. You won't worry, will you?"

"No, no; I'll be too busy to worry. And you'll come down for the
Christmas vacation? You will, won't you?"

"I'll try . . . I mean I will if I can arrange it. Good-by, dear."

The depot-wagon rattled out of the yard. Winnie S. pulled up at
the gate to shout a bit of news.

"Say, Mrs. Barnes," he yelled, "we got one of your boarders over to
our place now. John Kendrick's come there to live. Lots of folks
are down on him 'count of his heavin' you over and takin' up along
with Mr. Holliday; but Dad says he don't care about that so long's
he pays his board reg'lar. Git dap, Old Hundred!"

A last wave of Thankful's hand, the answering wave of a handkerchief
from the rear seat of the depot-wagon, and the parting was over.
Thankful went into the house. Lonely! She had never been more
lonely in her life, except when the news of her husband's death was
brought to her. The pang of loneliness which followed her brother
Jedediah's departure for the Klondike was as nothing to this. She
had promised not to worry, and she must keep that promise, but there
was certainly plenty to cause worry. The mortgage which Emily had
so comfortably declared "all right" was far from that. Solomon Cobb
had not been near her since their interview. He had not yet said
that he would renew the mortgage when it fell due. Mrs. Barnes
began to fear that he did not intend to renew it.

Heman Daniels, when he came in for supper, seemed disturbed to find
that Miss Howes had gone. Somehow or other he had gained the
impression that she was to leave the next morning.

"Did she--did Miss Howes leave no message for me?" he inquired,
with a carelessness which, to Thankful, seemed more assumed than

"No," answered the latter, "no, unless you call it a message about
takin' the responsibility of Holliday Kendrick and his schemes off
my hands. That is," remembering Emily's desire not to have her
name mentioned in the matter, "she didn't leave that. But I guess
you can take charge of that mess, if you want to."

Mr. Daniels smiled a superior smile. "I intended doing so," he
said, "as a matter of friendship, Mrs. Barnes. You may rest easy.
I have taken pains to let the town-folks know that your interests
are mine and I think our--er--late--er--friend is learning what our
best citizens think of his attitude."

There was truth in this statement. John Kendrick had foreseen the
effect upon his popularity which his espousal of his wealthy
relative's cause might have and his prophecy concerning "moral
leprosy" was in process of fulfillment. Opinion in the village was
divided, of course. There were some who, like Darius Holt,
announced that they did not blame the young yellow. E. Holliday
had money and influence and, as a business man, his attorney would
be a fool not to stick by the cash-box. But there were others, and
these leading citizens and hitherto good friends, who openly
expressed disgust both with the rich man and his lawyer. Several
of these citizens called upon Thankful to tell her of their
sympathy and of their wish to help her in any way.

"Not that you're liable to need help," said one caller. "This
property's yours and even John D. himself couldn't get it from you
unless you were willin'. But it's a dirty trick just the same and
young Kendrick, that all hands thought was so straight and honest,
takin' part in it is the dirtiest thing in it. Well, he's hurt
himself more'n he has anybody else."

Captain Obed Bangs was a gloomy man that fall. He had always liked
John and the liking had grown to an ardent admiration and
affection. He made several attempts to speak with the young man on
the subject, but the latter would not discuss it. He was always
glad to see the captain and quite willing to talk of anything but
Mrs. Barnes' property and of Emily Howes. These topics were taboo
and Captain Obed soon ceased to mention them. Also he no longer
made daily calls at the ex-barber-shop and, in spite of himself,
could not help showing, when he did call, the resentment he felt.
John noticed this and there was a growing coldness between the two.

"But," declared the captain, stoutly, when he and Thankful were
together, "I still say 'tain't so. I give in that it looks as if
'twas, but I tell you there's a nigger in the woodpile somewheres.
Some day he'll be dug out and then there's a heap of tattle-tales
and character naggers in this town that'll find they've took the
wrong channel. They'll be good and seasick, that's what they'll

Mr. E. Holliday Kendrick, if he knew that his own popularity had
suffered a shock, did not appear to care. He went on with his
plans for enlarging his estate and, when he left East Wellmouth for
New York, which he did early in October, told those who asked him
that he had left the purchase of the "boarding-house nuisance" in
the hands of his attorney. "I shall have that property," he
announced, emphatically. "I may not get it for some time, but I
shall get it. I make it a point to get what I go after."

Emily, in her letters, those written soon after her arrival in
South Middleboro, said nothing concerning her plan, the "secret"
which was to cheer Mrs. Barnes' loneliness. Thankful could not
help wondering what the secret might be, but in her own letters she
asked no questions. And, one day in mid-October, that secret was

Thankful, busy in the kitchen with Imogene, preparing dinner, heard
the sound of wheels and horse's hoofs in the yard. Going to the
door, she was surprised to see Captain Obed Bangs climbing from a
buggy. The buggy was her own and the horse to which it was attached
was her own George Washington. Upon the seat of the buggy was a
small boy. Thankful merely glanced at the boy; her interest just
then centered upon the fact that the captain was, or apparently had
been, using her horse and buggy without her knowledge or consent.
She certainly had no objection to his so using it, but it was most
unlike him to do so.

"Good mornin', ma'am," he hailed, cheerfully. His eyes were
twinkling and he appeared to be in high good humor.

"Why, good mornin', Cap'n," said Thankful. "I--you--you're goin'
somewhere, I should judge."

The captain shook his head. "No," he replied, "I've been. Had an
errand up to the Centre. I knew somethin' was comin' on the
mornin' train so I drove up to fetch it. Thought you wouldn't mind
my usin' your horse and buggy. Imogene knew I was usin' it."

Thankful was surprised. "She did?" she repeated. "That's funny.
She didn't say a word to me."

"No, I told her not to. You see, the--the somethin' I was
expectin' was for you, so I thought we'd make it a little surprise.
Emily--Miss Howes, she sent it."

"Emily--sent somethin' to me?"


"For the land sakes! Well," after a moment, "did it come? Where
is it?"

"Oh, yes, it came. It's right there in the buggy. Don't you see

Thankful looked at the buggy. The only thing in it, so far as she
could see, was the little boy on the seat. The little boy grinned.

"Hello, Aunt Thankful," he said. "I've come to stay with you, I

Thankful started, stared, and then made a rush for the buggy.

"Georgie Hobbs!" she cried. "You blessed little scamp! Come here
to me this minute. Well, well, well!"

Georgie came and was received with a bear hug and a shower of

"Well, well!" repeated Thankful. "And to think I didn't know you!
I'm ashamed of myself. And you're the surprise, I suppose. You
ARE one, sure and sartin. How did you get here?"

"I came on the cars," declared Georgie, proudly. "Ma and Emmie put
me on 'em and told me to sit right still until I got to Wellmouth
Centre and then get off. And I did, too; didn't I, Mr.--I mean
Captain Bangs."

"You bet you did!" agreed the delighted captain. "That's some
relation you've got there, Mrs. Barnes. He's little but Oh my! He
and I have had a good talk on the way down. We got along fust-
rate; hey, commodore? The commodore's agreed to ship second-mate
along with me next v'yage I make, if I ever make one."

Thankful held her "relation"--he was Emily's half-brother and her
own favorite next to Emily herself in that family--at arm's length.
"You blessed little--little mite!" she exclaimed. "So you come
'way down here all alone just to see your old auntie. Did you ever
in your life! And I suppose you're the 'secret' Emily said she
had, the one that was to keep me from bein' lonesome."

Georgie nodded. "Yes," he said. "Emmie, she's wrote you all about
me. I've got the letter pinned inside of me here," patting his
small chest. "And I'm goin' to stay ever so long, I am. I want to
see the pig and the hens and the--and the orphan, and everything."

"So you shall," declared Thankful. "I'm glad enough to see you to
turn the house inside out if you wanted to look at it. And you
knew all about this, I suppose?" turning to Captain Obed.

The captain laughed aloud.

"Sartin I did," he said. "Miss Howes and I have been writin' each
other like a couple of courtin' young folks. I knew the commodore
was goin' to set sail today and I was on hand up to the depot to
man the yards. Forgive me for hookin' your horse and buggy, will
you, Mrs. Thankful?"

Forgiveness was granted. Thankful would have forgiven almost
anything just then. The "commodore" announced that he was hungry
and he was hurried into the house. The cares of travel had not
taken away his appetite. He was introduced to Imogene, at whom he
stared fixedly for a minute or more and then asked if she was the
"orphan." When told that she was he asked if her mamma and papa
were truly dead. Imogene said she guessed they were. Then Georgie
asked why, and, after then, what made them that way, adding the
information that he had a kitty that went dead one time and wasn't
any good any more.

The coming of the "commodore" brought a new touch of life to the
High Cliff House, which had settled down for its winter nap.
Thankful, of course, read Emily's letter at the first opportunity.
Emily wrote that she felt sure Georgie would be company for her
cousin and that she had conceived the idea of the boy's visit
before leaving East Wellmouth, but had said nothing because she was
not sure mother would consent. But that consent had been granted
and Georgie might stay until Christmas, perhaps even after that if
he was not too great a care.

He was something of a care, there was no doubt of that. Imogene,
whom he liked and who liked him, declared that "that young one had
more jump in him than a sand flea." The very afternoon of his
arrival he frightened the hens into shrieking hysterics, poked the
fat and somnolent Patrick Henry, the pig, with a sharp stick to see
if he was alive and not "gone dead" like the kitten, and barked his
shins and nose by falling out of the wheelbarrow in the barn.
Kenelm, who still retained his position at the High Cliff House and
was meek and lowly under the double domination of his fiancee and
his sister, was inclined to grumble. "A feller can't set down to
rest a minute," declared Kenelm, "without that young one's jumpin'
out at him from behind somethin' or 'nother and hollerin', 'Boo!'
Seems to like to scare me into a fit. Picks on me wuss than
Hannah, he does."

But even Kenelm confessed to a liking for the "pesky little
nuisance." Captain Obed idolized him and took him on excursions
along the beach or to his own fish-houses, where Georgie sat on a
heap of nets and came home smelling strongly of cod, but filled to
the brim with sea yarns. And Thankful found in the boy the one
comfort and solace for her increasing troubles and cares.
Altogether the commodore was in a fair way to become a thoroughly
spoiled officer.

With November came the rains again, and, compared with them, those
of early September seemed but showers. Day after day and night
after night the wind blew and the water splashed against the
windows and poured from the overflowing gutters. Patrick Henry,
the pig, found his quarters in the new pen, in the hollow behind
the barn, the center of the flood zone, and being discovered one
morning marooned on a swampy islet in the middle of a muddy lake,
was transferred to the old sty, that built by the late Mr. Laban
Eldredge, beneath the woodshed and adjoining the potato cellar.
Thankful's orderly, neat soul rebelled against having a pig under
the house, but, as she expressed it, "'twas either that or havin'
the critter two foot under water."

Captain Obed, like every citizen of East Wellmouth, was disgusted
with the weather. "I was cal'latin' to put in my spare time down
to the shanty buildin' a new dory," he said, "but I guess now I'll
build an ark instead. If this downpour keeps on I'll need one bad
as Noah ever did."

Heman Daniels, Miss Timpson and Caleb Hammond were now the only
boarders and roomers Mrs. Barnes had left to provide for. There
was little or no profit in providing for them, for the rates paid
by the two last named were not high, and their demands were at
times almost unreasonable. Miss Timpson had a new idea now, that
of giving up the room she had occupied since coming to the Barnes
boarding-house and moving her belongings into the suite at the rear
of the second floor, that comprising the large room and the little
back bedroom adjoining, the latter the scene of Thankful's spooky
adventure on the first night of her arrival in East Wellmouth.
These rooms ordinarily rented for much more than Miss Timpson had
paid for her former apartment, but she had no thought of paying
more for them. "Of course I shouldn't expect to get 'em for the
same if 'twas summer," she explained to Thankful, "but just now,
with 'em standin' empty, I might as well move there as not. I know
you'll be glad to have me, won't you, Mrs. Barnes, you and me being
such good friends by this time."

And Thankful, although conscious of an injustice somewhere, did not
like to refuse her "good friend." So she consented and Miss
Timpson moved into the back rooms. But she no sooner had her
trunks carried there than she was struck by another brilliant idea.
Thankful, hearing unusual sounds from above that Saturday morning,
ascended the back stairs to find the school mistress tugging at the
bureau, which she was apparently trying to drag from the small room
into the larger.

"It came to me all of a sudden," panted Miss Timpson, who was out
of breath but enthusiastic. "That little room's awful small and
stuffy to sleep in, and I do hate to sleep in a stuffy room. But
when I was standing there sniffing and looking it came to me."

"What came to you?" demanded the puzzled Thankful. "What are you
talkin' about--the bureau?"

"No, no! The idea! The bureau couldn't come to me by itself,
could it? No, the idea came to me. That little room isn't good
for much as a bedroom, but it will make the loveliest study. I can
put my table and my books in there and move the bed and things in
here. Then I'll have a beautiful, nice big bedroom and the cutest
little study. And I've always wanted a study. Now if you and
Imogene help me with the bureau and bed it'll be all fixed."

So Imogene, assisted by Kenelm, who was drafted in Thankful's
place, spent a good part of the afternoon shifting furniture and
arranging the bedroom and the "study." Miss Timpson superintended,
and as she was seldom satisfied until each separate item of the
suite's equipment had been changed about at least twice, in order
to get the "effect," all three were nervous and tired when the
shifting was over. Miss Timpson should have been happy over the
attainment of the study, but instead she appeared gloomy and

"I declare," she said, as she and Thankful sat together in the
living-room that evening, "I don't know's I've done right, after
all. I don't know's I wish I had stayed right where I was."

"Mercy on us! Why?" demanded Thankful, a trifle impatiently.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe 'cause I'm kind of tired and nervous
tonight. I feel as if--as if something was going to happen to me.
I wonder if I could have another cup of tea before I went to bed;
it might settle my nerves, you know."

Considering that the lady had drunk three cups of tea at supper
Mrs. Barnes could not help feeling doubtful concerning the soothing
effect of a fourth. But she prepared it and brought it into the
living-room. Miss Timpson sipped the tea and groaned.

"Do you ever have presentiments, Mrs. Barnes?" she asked.

"Have what?"

"Presentiments? Warnings, you know? I've had several in my life
and they have always come to something. I feel as if I was going
to have one now. Heavens! Hear that wind and rain! Don't they
sound like somebody calling--calling?"

"No, they don't. They sound cold and wet, that's all. Dear me, I
never saw such a spell of weather. I thought this mornin' 'twas
goin' to clear, but now it's come on again, hard as ever."

"Well," with dismal resignation, "we'll all go when our time comes,
I suppose. We're here today and gone tomorrow. I don't suppose
there's any use setting and worrying. Be prepared, that's the main
thing. Have you bought a cemetery lot, Mrs. Barnes? You ought to;
everybody had. We can't tell when we're liable to need a grave."

"Goodness gracious sakes! Don't talk about cemetery lots and
graves. You give me the blue creeps. Go to bed and rest up.
You're tired, and no wonder; you've moved no less'n three times
since mornin', and they say one movin's as bad as a fire. Here!
Give me that tea-cup. There's nothin' left in it but grounds, and
you don't want to drink THEM."

Miss Timpson relinquished the cup, took her lamp and climbed the
stairs. Her good night was as mournful as a funeral march.
Thankful, left alone, tried to read for a time, but the wailing
wind and squeaking shutters made her nervous and depressed, so,
after putting the key under the mat of the side door for Heman
Daniels, who was out attending a meeting of the Masonic Lodge, she,
too, retired.

It was not raining when she awoke, but the morning was gray and
cloudy. She came downstairs early, so early--for it was Sunday
morning, when all East Wellmouth lies abed--that she expected to
find no one, not even Imogene, astir. But, to her great surprise,
Miss Timpson was seated by the living-room stove.

"Land sakes!" exclaimed Thankful. "Are you up? What's the

Miss Timpson, who had started violently when Mrs. Barnes entered,
turned toward the latter a face as white, so Thankful described it
afterward, "as unbleached muslin." This was not a bad simile, for
Miss Timpson's complexion was, owing to her excessive tea-drinking,
a decided yellow. Just now it was a very pale yellow.

"Who is it?" she gasped. "Oh, it's you, Mrs. Barnes. It IS you,
isn't it?"

"Me? Of course it's me. Have I changed so much in the night that
you don't know me? What is it, Miss Timpson? Are you sick? Can I
get you anything?"

"No, no. I ain't sick--in body, anyway. And nobody can get me
anything this side of the grave. Mrs. Barnes, I'm going."

"You're GOIN'? What? You don't mean you're dyin'?"

Considering her lodger's remarks of the previous evening, those
relating to "going when the time came," it is no wonder Thankful
was alarmed. But Miss Timpson shook her head.

"No," she said, "I don't mean that, not yet, though that'll come
next; I feel it coming already. No, Mrs. Barnes, I don't mean
that. I mean I'm going away. I can't live here any longer."

Thankful collapsed upon a chair.

"Goin'!" she repeated. "You're goin' to leave here? Why--why
you've just fixed up to stay!"

Miss Timpson groaned. "I know," she wailed; "I thought I had, but
I--I've changed my mind. I'm going to leave--now."

By way of proof she pointed to her traveling-bag, which was beside
her on the floor. Mrs. Barnes had not noticed the bag before, but
now she saw that it was, apparently, packed.

"My trunks ain't ready yet," went on the schoolmistress. "I tried
to pack 'em, but--but I couldn't. I couldn't bear to do it alone.
Maybe you or Imogene will help me by and by. Oh, my soul! What
was that?"

"What? I didn't hear anything."

"Didn't you? Well, perhaps I didn't, either. It's just my nerves,
I guess! Mrs. Barnes, could you help me pack those trunks pretty
soon? I'm going away. I must go. If I stay in this house any
longer I shall DIE."

She was trembling and wringing her hands. Thankful tried to
comfort her and did succeed in quieting her somewhat, but, in spite
of her questionings and pleadings Miss Timpson refused to reveal
the cause of her agitation or of her sudden determination to leave
the High Cliff House.

"It ain't anything you've done or haven't done, Mrs. Barnes," she
said. "I like it here and I like the board and I like you. But I
must go. I'm going to my cousin's down in the village first and
after that I don't know where I'll go. Please don't ask me any

She ate a few mouthfuls of the breakfast which Thankful hastily
prepared for her and then she departed for her cousin's. Thankful
begged her to stay until Kenelm came, when he might harness the
horse and drive her to her destination, but she would not wait.
She would not even remain to pack her trunks.

"I'll come back and pack 'em," she said. "Or perhaps you and
Imogene will pack 'em for me. Oh, Mrs. Barnes, you've been so
kind. I hate to leave you this way, I do, honest."

"But WHY are you leavin'?" asked Thankful once more. For the first
time Miss Timpson seemed to hesitate. She looked about, as if to
make sure that the two were alone; then she leaned forward and
whispered in her companion's ear.

"Mrs. Barnes," she whispered, "I--I didn't mean to tell you. I
didn't mean to tell anybody. 'Twas too personal, too sacred a
thing to tell. But I don't know's I shan't tell you after all;
seem's as if I must tell somebody. Mrs. Barnes, I shan't live much
longer. I've had a warning."

Thankful stared at her.

"Rebecca Timpson!" she exclaimed. "Have you gone crazy? What are
you talkin' about? A warnin'!"

"Yes, a warning. I was warned last night. You--you knew I was a
twin, didn't you?"

"A which?"

"A twin. Probably you didn't know it, but I used to have a twin
sister, Medora, that died when she was only nineteen. She and I
looked alike, and were alike, in most everything. We thought the
world of each other, used to be together daytimes and sleep
together nights. And she used to--er--well, she was different from
me in one way--she couldn't help it, poor thing--she used to snore
something dreadful. I used to scold her for it, poor soul. Many's
the time I've reproached myself since, but--"

"For mercy sakes, what's your sister's snorin' got to do with--"

"Hush! Mrs. Barnes," with intense solemnity. "As sure as you and
I live and breathe this minute, my sister Medora came to me last

"CAME to you! Why--you mean you dreamed about her, don't you?
There's nothin' strange in that. When you took that fourth cup of
tea I said to myself--"

"HUSH! Oh, hush! DON'T talk so. I didn't dream. Mrs. Barnes, I
woke up at two o'clock this morning and--and I heard Medora snoring
as plain as I ever heard anything."

Thankful was strongly tempted to laugh, but the expression on Miss
Timpson's face was so deadly serious that she refrained.

"Goodness!" she exclaimed. "Is that all? That's nothin'. A night
like last night, with the rain and the blinds and the wind--"

"Hush! It wasn't the wind. Don't you suppose I know? I thought
it was the wind or my imagination at first. But I laid there and
listened and I kept hearing it. Finally I got up and lit my lamp;
and still I heard it. It was snoring and it didn't come from the
room I was in. It came from the little back room I'd made into a

Thankful's smile faded. She was conscious of a curious prickling
at the roots of her black hair. The back bedroom! The room in
which Laban Eldredge died! The room in which she herself had

"I went into that room," continued Miss Timpson. "I don't know how
I ever did it, but I did. I looked everywhere, but there was
nobody there, not a sign of anybody. And still that dreadful
snoring kept on and on. And then I realized--" with a shudder, "I
realized what I hadn't noticed before; that room was exactly the
size and shape of the one Medora and I used to sleep in. Mrs.
Barnes, it was Medora's spirit that had come to me. Do you wonder
I can't stay here any longer?"

Thankful fought with her feelings. She put a hand on the back of
her neck and rubbed vigorously. "Nonsense!" she declared, bravely.
"You imagined it. Nonsense! Whoever heard of a snorin' ghost?"

But Miss Timpson only shook her head. "Good-by, Thankful," she
said. "I shan't tell anybody; as I said, I didn't mean to tell
you. If--if you hear that anything's happened to me--happened
sudden, you know--you'll understand. You can tell Imogene and Mr.
Daniels and Mr. Hammond that I--that I've gone visiting to my
cousin Sarah's. That'll be true, anyway. Good-by. You MAY see me
again in this life, but I doubt it."

She hurried away along the path. Thankful reentered the house and
stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, thinking. Then she
walked steadily to the foot of the back stairs, ascended them, and
walked straight to the apartments so recently occupied by the
schoolmistress. Miss Timpson's trunks were there and the greater
part of her belongings. Mrs. Barnes did not stop to look at these.
She crossed the larger room and entered the little back bedroom.

The clouds were breaking and the light of the November sun shone
in. The little room was almost cheerful. There were no sounds
except those from without, the neigh of George Washington from his
stall, the cackle of the hens, the hungry grunts of Patrick Henry,
the pig, in his sty beside the kitchen.

Thankful looked and listened. Then she made a careful examination
of the room, but found nothing mysterious or out of the ordinary.
And yet there was a mystery there. She had long since decided that
her own experience in that room had been imagination, but now that
conviction was shaken. Miss Timpson must have heard something; she
HAD heard something which frightened her into leaving the boarding-
house she professed to like so well. Ghost or no ghost, Miss
Timpson had gone; and one more source of income upon which Mrs.
Barnes had depended went with her. Slowly, and with the feeling
that not only this world but the next was conspiring to bring about
the failure of her enterprise and the ruin of her plans and her
hopes, Thankful descended the stairs to the kitchen and set about
preparing breakfast.


Mr. Caleb Hammond rose that Sunday morning with a partially
developed attack of indigestion and a thoroughly developed
"grouch." The indigestion was due to an injudicious partaking of
light refreshment--sandwiches, ice cream and sarsaparilla "tonic"--
at the club the previous evening. Simeon Baker had paid for the
refreshment, ordering the supplies sent in from Mr. Chris Badger's
store. Simeon had received an unexpected high price for
cranberries shipped to New York, and was in consequence "flush" and
reckless. He appeared at the club at nine-thirty, after most of
its married members had departed for their homes and only a few of
the younger set and one or two bachelors, like Mr. Hammond,
remained, and announced that he was going to "blow the crowd." The
crowd was quite willing to be blown and said so.

Mr. Hammond ate three sandwiches and two plates of ice cream, also
he smoked two cigars. He did not really feel the need of the
second cream or the second cigar, but, as they were furnished
without cost to him, he took them as a matter of principle. Hence
the indigestion.

The "grouch" was due partially to the unwonted dissipation and its
consequences and partly to the fact that his winter "flannels" had
not been returned by Mrs. Melinda Pease, to whom they had been
consigned for mending and overhauling.

It was the tenth of November and for a period of twenty-four years,
ever since his recovery from a severe attack of rheumatic fever,
Caleb had made it a point to lay aside his summer underwear on the
morning of November tenth and don a heavy suit. Weather, cold or
warm, was not supposed to have any bearing on this change. The
ninth might be as frigid as a Greenland twilight and the tenth as
balmy as a Florida noon--no matter; on the ninth Mr. Hammond wore
light underwear and shivered; on the tenth he wore his "flannels"
and perspired. It was another of his principles, and Caleb had a
deserved reputation for adhering to principle and being "sot" in
his ways.

So, when, on this particular tenth of November, this Sabbath
morning, he rose, conscious of the sandwiches and "tonic," and
found no suit of flannels ready for him to don, his grouch began to
develop. He opened his chamber door a crack and shouted through
the crack.

"Mrs. Barnes," he called. "Hi--i, Mrs. Barnes!"

Thankful, still busy in the kitchen, where she had been joined by
Imogene, sent the latter to find out what was the matter. Imogene
returned, grinning.

"He wants his flannels," she announced. "Wants to know where them
winter flannels Mrs. Pease sent home yesterday are. Why, ain't
they in his room, he says."

Thankful sniffed. Her experience with Miss Timpson, and the worry
caused by the latter's leaving, had had their effect upon her

"Mercy sakes!" she exclaimed. "Is that all? I thought the house
was afire. I don't know where his flannels are. Why should I?
Where'd Melindy put 'em when she brought 'em here?"

Imogene chuckled. "I don't think she brought 'em at all," she
replied. "She wa'n't here yesterday. She--why, yes, seems to me
Kenelm said he heard she was sick abed with a cold."

Thankful nodded. "So she is," she said. "Probably the poor thing
ain't had time to finish mendin' 'em. It's a good deal of a job, I
guess. She told me once that that Hammond man wore his inside
clothes till they wa'n't anything BUT mendin', just hung together
with patches, as you might say. His suits and overcoats are all
right enough 'most always, but he can't seem to bear to spend money
for anything underneath. Perhaps he figgers that patches are good
as anything else, long's they don't show. Imogene, go tell him
Melindy didn't fetch 'em."

Imogene went and returned with her grin broader than ever.

"He says she did bring 'em," she announced. "Says she always
brings him his things on the ninth. He's pretty peppery this
mornin', seems to me. Says he don't cal'late to stand there and
freeze much longer."

"Freeze! Why, it's the warmest day we've had for a fortni't. The
sun's come out and it's cleared up fine, like Indian summer. Oh,
DO be still!" as another shout for "Mrs. Barnes" came from above.
"Here, never mind, Imogene; I'll tell him."

She went into the front hall and called up the stairs.

"Your things ain't here, Mr. Hammond," she said. "Melindy didn't
bring 'em. She's laid up with a cold and probably couldn't get 'em

"Course she's got 'em ready! She always has 'em ready. She knows
I want 'em."

"Maybe so, but she ain't always sick, 'tain't likely. They ain't
here, anyway. You won't need 'em today."

"Need 'em? Course I need 'em. It's colder than Christmas."

"No, it isn't. It's almost as warm as September. Put on two suits
of your others, if you're so cold. And come down to breakfast as
soon as you can. We've all had ours."

When Mr. Hammond did come down to breakfast his manner was that of
a martyr. The breakfast itself, baked beans and fishballs, did not
appeal to him, and he ate little. He grumbled as he drank his

"Healthy note, this is!" he muttered. "Got to set around and
freeze to death just 'cause that lazy critter ain't finished her
job. I pay her for it, don't I?"

Thankful sniffed. "I suppose you do," she said, adding under her
breath, "though how much you pay is another thing."

"Is this all the breakfast you've got?" queried Caleb.

"Why, yes; it's what we always have Sunday mornin's. Isn't it what
you expected?"

"Oh, I expected it, all right. Take it away; I don't want no more.
Consarn it! I wish sometimes I had a home of my own."

"Well, why don't you have one? I should think you would. You can
afford it."

Mr. Hammond did not reply. He folded his napkin, seized his hat
and coat and went out. When he crossed the threshold he shivered,
as a matter of principle.

He stalked gloomily along the path by the edge of the bluff.
Captain Obed Bangs came up the path and they met.

"Hello, Caleb!" hailed the captain. "Fine weather at last, eh?
Almost like August. Injun summer at last, I cal'late. What you
got your coat collar turned up for? Afraid of getting your neck

Mr. Hammond grunted and hurried on. Captain Obed had chosen a poor
topic if he desired a lengthy conversation.

Mrs. Pease lived at the farther end of the village and when Caleb
reached there he was met by the lady's niece, Emma Snow.

"Aunt Melindy's real poorly," said Emma. "She's been so for 'most
three days. I'm stayin' here with her till she gets better. No,
she ain't had time to do your mendin' yet. Anyhow it's so nice and
warm you don't need the things, that's a comfort."

It may have been a comfort to her, but it was not to Caleb. He
growled a reply and turned on his heel. The churchgoers along the
main road received scanty acknowledgment of their greetings.

"Ain't you comin' to meetin'?" asked Abbie Larkin.

"Naw," snarled Caleb, "I ain't."

"Why not? And it's such a lovely day, too."


"Why ain't you comin' to meetin', Mr. Hammond?"

"'Cause I don't feel like it, that's why."

"I want to know! Well, you DON'T seem to be in a pious frame of
mind, that's a fact. Better come; you may not feel like church,
but I should say you needed it, if ever anybody did."

Caleb did not deign a reply. He stalked across the road and took
the path to the shore.

As he came opposite the Parker cottage he saw Hannah Parker at the
window. He nodded and his nod was returned. Hannah's experience
was as gloomy as his own. She did not look happy and somehow the
idea that she was not happy pleased him; Abbie Larkin had been
altogether too happy; it grated on him. He was miserable and he
wanted company of his own kind. He stopped, hesitated, and then
turned in at the Parker gate.

Hannah opened the door.

"Good mornin', Caleb," she said. "Come in, won't you? It looks
sort of chilly outdoor."

This WAS a kindred spirit. Mr. Hammond entered the Parker sitting-
room. Hannah motioned toward a chair and he sat down.

"Mornin', Hannah," said Caleb. "'Tis chilly. It'll be a mercy if
we don't catch our deaths, dressed the way some of us be. How's
things with you?"

Miss Parker shook her head. "Oh, I don't know, Caleb," she
answered. "They ain't all they might be, I'm afraid."

"What's the matter? Ain't you feelin' up to the mark?"

"Oh, yes--yes; I'm feeling well enough in body. I ain't sick, if
that's what you mean. I'm kind of blue and--and lonesome, that's
all. I try to bear up under my burdens, but I get compressed in
spirit sometimes, I can't help it. Ah, hum a day!"

She sighed and Mr. Hammond sighed also.

"You ain't the only one," he said. "I'm bluer'n a whetstone
myself, this mornin'."

"What's the trouble?"

"Trouble? Trouble enough! Somethin' happened this mornin' that
riled me all up. It--" he paused, remembering that the cause of
the "rilin'" was somewhat personal, not to say delicate. "Well--
well, never mind what it was," he added. "'Twas mighty aggravatin',
that's all I've got to say."

Hannah sighed again. "Ah, hum!" she observed. "There's
aggravations enough in this life. And they generally come on
account of somebody else, too. There's times when I wish I didn't
have any flesh and blood."

"Hey? Good land! No flesh and blood! What do you want--bones?"

"Oh, I don't mean that. I wish I didn't have any--any relations of
my own flesh and blood."

"Humph! I don't know's you'd be any better off. I ain't got
nobody and I ain't what you might call cheerful. I know what's the
matter with you, though. That Kenelm's been frettin' you again, I

He had guessed it. Kenelm that morning had suddenly announced that
he was to have a day off. He was cal'latin' to borrow Mrs. Barnes'
horse and buggy and go for a ride. His sister promptly declared
that would be lovely; she was just wishing for a ride. Whereupon
Kenelm had hemmed and hawed and, at last, admitted that his company
for the drive was already provided.

"Oh!" sneered Hannah. "I see. You're goin' to take that precious
inmate of yours along. And I've got to set here alone at home.
Well, I should think you'd be ASHAMED."

"What for? Ain't nothin' in takin' a lady you're keepin' company
with out drivin', is there? I don't see no shame in that."

"No, I presume likely YOU don't. You're way past shame, both of
you. And when I think of all I've done for you. Slaved and cooked
your meals--"

"Well, you're cookin' 'em yet, ain't you? I ain't asked you to

"I will stop, though. I will."

"All right, then; heave ahead and stop. I cal'late my wife'll be
willin' to cook for me, if it's needful."

"Your wife! She ain't your wife yet. And she shan't be. This
ridiculous engaged business of yours is--is--"

"Well, if you don't like the engagin', why don't you stop it?"

"Why don't YOU stop it, you mean. You would if you had the
feelin's of a man."

"Humph! And let some everlastin' lawyer sue me out of my last cent
for damages. All right, I'll stop it if you say so. There's
plenty of room in the poorhouse, they tell me. How'd you like to
give us this place and move to the poorhouse, Hannah?"

"But--but, O Kenelm, I can't think of your gettin' married! I
can't think of it!"

"Don't think of it. I ain't thinkin' of it no more'n I can help.
Why ain't you satisfied with things as they be? Everything's goin'
on all right enough now, ain't it? You and me are livin' together
same as we have for ever so long. You're here and I--well, I--"

He did not finish the sentence, but his sister read his thought.
She knew perfectly well that her brother was finding a measure of
enjoyment in the situation, so far as his dealings with her were
concerned. He was more independent than he had been since she took
him in charge. But she realized, too, her own impotence. She
could not drive him too hard or he might be driven into marrying
Imogene. And THAT Hannah was determined should be deferred as long
as possible.

So she said no more concerning the "ride" and merely showed her
feelings by moping in the corner and wiping her eyes with her
handkerchief whenever he looked in her direction. After he had
gone she spent the half-hour previous to Mr. Hammond's arrival in
alternate fits of rage and despair.

"So Kenelm's been actin' unlikely, has he?" queried Caleb. "Well,
if he was my brother he'd soon come to time quick, or be put to bed
in a hospital. That's what would happen to HIM."

Miss Parker looked as if the hospital picture was more appealing
than dreadful.

"I wish he was your brother," she said. "Or I wish I was independent
and had a house of my own."

"Huh! Gosh! So do I wish I had one. I've been wishin' it all the
mornin'. If I had a home of my own I'd have what I wanted to eat--
yes, and wear. And I'd have 'em when I wanted 'em, too."

"Don't they give you good things to eat over at Mrs. Barnes'?"

"Oh, they're good enough maybe, if they're what you want. But
boardin's boardin'; 'tain't like your own home."

"Caleb, it's a wonder to me you don't rent a little house and live
in it. You've got money enough; least so everybody says."

"Humph! What everybody says is 'most generally lies. What would
be the sense of my hirin' a house? I'd have to have a housekeeper
and a good one costs like thunder. A feller's wife has to get
along on what he gives her, but a housekeeper--"

He stopped short, seemingly struck by a new and amazing idea. Miss
Parker rambled on about the old days when "dear papa" was alive;
how happy she was then, and so on, with occasional recourse to the
handkerchief. Suddenly Caleb slapped his knee.

"It's all right," he said. "It's fine--and it's commonsense, too.
Hannah, what's the matter with you and me gettin' married?"

Hannah stared at him.

"Married!" she repeated. "Me get married! Who to, for the land
sakes? Are you out of your head?"

"Not a mite. What's the matter with you marryin' me?"

"My soul! Is this a funny-paper joke, or are you--"

"'Tain't a joke; I mean it. Is there any reason why we shouldn't
marry and settle down together, you and me? I don't see none. You
could keep house for me then, and 'twouldn't cost--that is, you
could look out for me, and I--well, I suppose likely I could look
out for you, too. Why not?"

"Why, how you talk, Caleb Hammond!"

"No, I don't talk neither. I mean it. You was wishin' for a home
of your own; so was I. Let's have one together."

"Well, I swan! Get married at our--at our age! I never did hear
such talk! We'd be a nice young bride and groom, wouldn't we? I
guess East Wellmouth folks would have somethin' to laugh at then."

"Let 'em laugh. Laughin' don't cost nothin', and, if it does, we
won't have to pay for it. See here, Hannah, this ain't any foolish
front-gate courtin', this ain't. It's just common-sense business.
Let's do it. I will if you will."

Miss Parker shook her head. The prospect of being Mrs. Caleb
Hammond was not too alluring. Caleb's reputation as a husband was
not, while his wife lived, that of a "liberal provider." And yet
this was Hannah's first proposal, and it had come years after she
had given up hoping for one. So she prolonged the delicious moment
as long as possible.

"I suppose you're thinkin' about that brother of yours," suggested
Mr. Hammond. "Well, he'll be all right. 'Cordin' to what I've
heard, and seen myself, he's hangin' around that hired help girl at
the High Cliff pretty reg'lar these days. Maybe he'll marry her
and you'll be left without anybody. If he don't marry her he can
come to live along of us--maybe. If he does he'll mind his p's and
q's, I tell you that. He'll find out who's boss."

This speech had an effect. For the first time Hannah's
determination wavered. Kenelm was, although Caleb did not know it,
actually engaged to marry Imogene. His sister was even then
writhing under the humiliation. And here was an opportunity to get
even, not only with Kenelm, but with the "inmate." If she, Hannah,
were to marry and leave the pair instead of being herself left!
Oh, the glory of it--the triumphant glory of it! How she could
crush her brother! How she could gloat over and sneer at Imogene!
The things she might say--she, the wife of a rich man! Oh,

"Well, come on, Hannah, come on," urged the impatient Caleb. "What
do you say?"

But Miss Parker still shook her head. "It ain't any use, Caleb,"
she declared. "Even if--if I wanted to, how could I tell Kenelm?
He'd raise an awful fuss. He'd tell everybody and they--"

"No, he wouldn't. I'd break his neck if he did. . . . And--eh--"
as another idea came to him, "he needn't know till 'twas all over.
We could get married right off now, and not tell a soul--Kenelm or
anybody else--till it was done. Then they could talk or shut up,
we wouldn't care. They couldn't change nothin'."

"Caleb Hammond, do you suppose I'd have the face to go to a
minister in this town and have you tell him we'd come to get
married? I'd be so ashamed--"

"Hold on! We don't have to go to a minister in this town. There's
other towns with parsons in them, ain't they? We could drive over
somewheres else."

"Everybody'd see us drivin' together."

"What of it? They see us drivin' to the Cattle Show together,
didn't they?"

"Yes, and they've talked about it ever since, some of 'em. That
Abbie Larkin said--Oh, I can't tell you what she said. No, I
shan't do it. I shouldn't have the face. And everybody'd ask
where we was bound, and I'd--I'd be so--so mortified and--and--why,
I'd act like a reg'lar--er--er--domicile that had run away from the
Idiots' Home. No, no, no! I couldn't."

Mr. Hammond thought it over. Then he said:

"See here, Hannah, I cal'late we can fix that. We'll start in the
night, after all hands have gone to bed. I'll sneak out about
quarter to twelve and borrow Thankful's horse and buggy out of her
barn. I know where she keeps the key. I'll be ready here at
twelve prompt--or not here, maybe, but down in the hollow back of
your henhouse. You must be there and we'll drive over to Trumet--"

"Trumet! Why, Caleb Hammond, I know everybody in Trumet well's I
do here. And gettin' to Trumet at three o'clock in the mornin'
would be--"

"Then we won't go to Trumet. We'll go to Bayport. It's quite a
trip, but that's all the better 'cause we won't make Bayport till
daylight. Then we'll hunt up a parson to marry us and come back
here and tell folks when we get good and ready. Thankful'll miss
the horse and team, I cal'late, but I'll fix that; I'll leave a
note sayin' I took the critter, bein' called away on business."

"Yes, but what will I tell Kenelm?"

"Don't tell him anything, the foolhead. Why, yes, you can leave a
note sayin' you've gone up to the village, to the store or
somethin', and that he must get his own breakfast 'cause you won't
be back till after he's gone to work over to Thankful's. That'll
fix it. By crimus! That'll fix it fine. Look here, Hannah
Parker; I've set out to do this and, by crimus, I'm goin' to do it.
Come on now; let's."

Caleb was, as has been said, "sot" in his ways. He was "sot" now,
and although Hannah continued to protest and declare she could not
do such a thing, she yielded at last. Mr. Hammond left the Parker
cottage in a triumphant mood. He had won his point and that had
pleased him for a time; then, as he began to ponder upon that point
and its consequences his triumph changed to misgiving and doubt.
He had had no idea, until that forenoon, of marrying again. His
proposal had been made on impulse, on the spur of the moment. He
was not sure that he wished to marry Hannah Parker. But he had
pleaded and persuaded her into accepting him that very night. Even
if he wished to back out, how could he--now? He was conscious of
an uneasy feeling that, perhaps, he had made a fool of himself.

He went to his room early in the evening and stayed there, looking
at his watch and waiting for the rest of the family to retire. He
heard Georgie's voice in the room at the end of the hall, where
Mrs. Barnes was tucking the youngster in for the night. Later he
heard Imogene come up the backstairs and, after her, Thankful
herself. But it was nearly eleven before Heman Daniels' important
and dignified step sounded on the front stairs and by that time the
Hammond nerves were as taut as banjo strings.

It was nearly twelve before he dared creep downstairs and out of
the back door, the key of which he left in the lock. Luckily the
barn was a good distance from the house and Mrs. Barnes and Imogene
were sound sleepers. But even with those advantages he did not
dare attempt getting the buggy out of the barn, and decided to use
the old discarded carryall, relic of "Cap'n Abner," which now stood
under the open shed at the rear.

George Washington looked at him in sleepy wonder as he tiptoed into
the barn and lit the lantern. To be led out of his stall at
"midnight's solemn hour" and harnessed was more than George's
equine reasoning could fathom. The harnessing was a weird and
wonderful operation. Caleb's trembling fingers were all thumbs.
After a while, however, the harnessing was accomplished somehow and
in some way, although whether the breeching was where the bridle
should have been or vice versa was more than the harnesser would
have dared swear. After several centuries, as the prospective
bridegroom was reckoning time, the horse was between the shafts of
the carriage and driven very carefully along the road to the Parker

He hitched the sleepy animal to a pine tree just off the road and
tiptoed toward the hollow, the appointed rendezvous. To reach this
hollow he was obliged to pass through the Parker yard and, although
he went on tiptoe, each footstep sounded, in his ears, like the
crack of doom. He tried to think of some explanation to be made to
Kenelm in case the latter should hear and hail him, but he could
think of nothing more plausible than that he was taking a walk, and
this was far from satisfactory.

And then he was hailed. From a window above, at the extreme end of
the kitchen, came a trembling whisper.

"Caleb! Caleb Hammond, is that you?"

Mr. Hammond's heart, which had been thumping anything but a wedding
march beneath the summer under-flannels, leaped up and stuck in his
throat; but he choked it down and gasped a faint affirmative.

"Oh, my soul and body! Where HAVE you been? I've been waitin' and

"What in time did you wait up there for? Why don't you come down?"

"I can't. Kenelm's locked the doors, and the keys are right next
to his room door. I can't get down."

Here was an unexpected obstacle. Caleb was nonplused.

"Go home!" wailed the voice from above. "Don't stand there. Go
HOME! Can't you SEE it ain't any use? Go HOME!"

Five minutes before he received this order Mr. Hammond would have
been only too glad to go home. Now he was startled and angry and,
being angry, his habitual stubbornness developed.

"I shan't go home neither," he whispered, fiercely. "If you can't
come down I'll--I'll come up and get you."

"Shh--shh! He'll hear you. Kenelm'll hear you."

"I don't care much if he does. See here, Hannah, can't you get
down nohow? How about that window? Can't you climb out of that
window? Say, didn't I see a ladder layin' alongside the woodshed
this mornin'?"

"Yes, there's a ladder there, but--where are you goin'? Mr.

But Caleb was on his way to the woodshed. He found the ladder and
laboriously dragged it beneath the window. Kenelm Parker had a
local reputation for sleeping like the dead. Otherwise Mr. Hammond
would never have dared risk the noise he was making.

Even after the ladder had been placed in position, Miss Parker
hesitated. At first she flatly refused to descend, asserting that
no mortal power could get her down that thing alive. But Caleb
begged and commanded in agonized whispers, and finally she was
prevailed upon to try. Mr. Hammond grasped the lower end of the
ladder with a grip that brought the perspiration out upon his
forehead, and the lady, with suppressed screams and ejaculations of
"Oh, good Lord!" and "Heavens and earth! What shall I do?" reached
the ground safe and more or less sound. They left the ladder where
it was, and tiptoed fearfully out to the lane.

"Whew!" panted the exhausted swain, mopping his brow. "I'm clean
tuckered out. I ain't done so much work for ten years."

"Don't say a word, Caleb Hammond. If I ain't got my death of--of
ammonia or somethin', I miss my guess. I'm all wheezed up from
settin' at that open winder waitin' for you to come; and I thought
you never WOULD come."

As Caleb was helping the lady of his choice into the carryall he
noticed that she carried a small hand-bag.

"What you got that thing for?" he demanded.

"It's my reticule; there's a clean handkerchief and a few other
things in it. Mercy on us! You didn't suppose I'd go off to get
married without even a decent handkerchief, did you? I feel enough
like a sneakin' ragamuffin and housebreaker as 'tis. Why I ever
was crazy enough to--where have you put the horse?"

Mr. Hammond led her to where George Washington was tethered. The
father of his country was tired of standing alone in the damp, and
he trotted off briskly. The first mile of their journey was
accomplished safely, although the night was pitch-dark, and when
they turned into the Bayport Road, which for two-thirds of its
length leads through thick soft pine and scrub-oak woods, it was
hard to distinguish even the horse's ears. Miss Parker insisted
that every curtain of the carryall--at the back and both sides--
should be closely buttoned down, as she was fearful of the effects
of the night air.

"Fresh air never hurts nobody," said Caleb. "There ain't nothin'
so good for a body as fresh air. I sleep with my window open wide
winter and summer."

"You DO? Well, I tell you right now, I don't. I should say not!
I shut every winder tight and I make Kenelm do the same thing. I
don't run any risks from drafts."

Mr. Hammond grunted, and was silent for some little time, only
brightening up when the lady, now in a measure recovered from her
fright and the anxiety of waiting, began to talk of the blessings
that were to come from their independent wedded life in a home of
their own.

"We'll keep chickens," she said, "because I do like fresh eggs for
breakfast. Let's see; this is the way 'twill be; you'll get up
about five o'clock and kindle the fire, and--"


"I say you'll get up at five o'clock and kindle the fire."

"ME get up and kindle it?"

"Sartin; you don't expect I'm goin' to, do you?"

"No-o, I suppose not. It come kind of sudden, that's all. You
see, I've been used to turnin' out about seven. Seldom get up
afore that."

"Seven! My soul! I always have my breakfast et by seven. Well,
as I say, you get up at five and kindle the fire, and then you'll
go out to the henyard and get what eggs there is. Then--"

"Then I'll come in and call you, and you'll come down and get
breakfast. What breakfasts we will have! Eggs for you, if you
want 'em, and ham and fried potatoes for me, and pie--"

"Pie? For breakfast?"

"Sartin. Laviny Marthy, my first wife, always had a piece of pie
warmed for me, and I've missed it since. I don't really care two
cents for breakfast without pie."

"Well now, Caleb, if you think I'm goin' to get up and warm up pie
every mornin', let alone fryin' potatoes, and--"

"See here, Hannah! Seems to me if I'm willin' to turn out at that
ungodly hour and then go scratchin' around the henhouse to please
you, you might be willin' to have a piece of pie het up for me."

"Well, maybe you're right. But I must say--well, I'll try and do
it. It'll seem kind of hard, though, after the simple breakfasts
Kenelm and I have when we're alone. But--what are you stoppin'

"There seems to be a kind of crossroads here," said Caleb, bending
forward and peering out of the carryall. "It's so everlastin' dark
a feller can't see nothin'. Yes, there is crossroads, three of
'em. Now, which one do we take? I ain't drove to Bayport direct
for years. When we went to the Cattle Show we went up through the
Centre. Do you know which is the right road, Hannah?"

Hannah peered forth from the blackness of the back seat. "Now, let
me think," she said. "Last time I went to Bayport by this road was
four year ago come next February. Sarah Snow's daughter Becky was
married to a feller named Higgins--Solon Higgins' son 'twas. No,
'twa'n't his son, because--"

"Aw, crimus! Who cares if 'twas his aunt's gran'mother? What I
want to know is which road to take."

"Well, seems to me, nigh as I can recollect, that we took the left-
hand road. No, I ain't sure but 'twas the right-hand. There's a
bare chance that it might have been the middle one, 'cause there
was trees along both sides. I know we was goin' to Becky Snow's

"Trees 'long it! There ain't nothin' BUT trees for two square
miles around these diggin's. Git dap, you! I'll take the right-
hand road. I think that's the way."

"Well, so do I; but, as I say, I ain't sure. You needn't be so
cross and unlikely, whether 'tis or 'tain't."

If the main road had been dark, the branch road was darker, and the
branches of the trees slapped and scratched the sides of the
carryall. Caleb's whole attention was given to his driving, and he
said nothing. Miss Parker at length broke the dismal silence.

"Caleb," she said, "what time had we ought to get to Bayport?"

"About four o'clock, I should think. We'll drive 'round till about
seven o'clock, and then we'll go and get married. I used to know
the Methodist minister there, and--"

"METHODIST minister! You ain't goin' to a Methodist minister to be

"I sartin shouldn't go to no one else. I've been goin' to the
Methodist church for over thirty year. You know that well's I do."

"I snum I never thought of it, or you wouldn't have got me this far
without settlin' that question. I was confirmed into the Baptist
faith when I was twelve year old. And you must have known that
just as well as I knew you was a Methodist."

"Well, if you knew I was one you ought to know I'd want a Methodist
to marry me. 'Twas a Methodist married me afore."

"Humph! What do you suppose I care who married you before? I'm
the one that's goin' with you to be married now; and if I was
married by anybody but a Baptist minister I wouldn't feel as if I
was married at all."

"Well, I shan't be married by no Baptist."

"No Methodist shall marry ME."

"Now, look here, Hannah--"

"I don't care, Caleb. You ain't done nothin' but contradict me
since we started. I've been settin' up all night, and I'm tired
out, and there's a draft comin' in 'round these plaguy curtains
right on the back of my neck. I'll get cold and die and you'll
have a funeral on your hands instead of a weddin'. And I don't
know's I'd care much," desperately.

Caleb choked down his own irritation.

"There, there, Hannah," he said, "don't talk about dyin' when you're
just gettin' ready to live. We won't fret about the minister
business. If worst comes to worst I'll give in to a Baptist, I
suppose. One reason I did figger on goin' to a Methodist was that,
I bein' of that faith, I thought maybe he'd do the job a little
cheaper for us."

"Cheaper? What do you mean? Was you cal'latin' to make a BARGAIN
with him?"

"No, no, course not. But there ain't any sense in heavin' money
away on a parson more'n on anybody else."

"Caleb Hammond, how much do you intend givin' that minister?"

Mr. Hammond stirred uneasily on the seat of the carryall.

"Oh, I don't know," he answered evasively.

"Yes, you do know, too. How much?"

"I don't know. Two or three dollars, maybe."

"TWO or three dollars! My soul and body! Is two dollars all
you're willin' to give up to get MARRIED? Is THAT all the
ceremony's worth to you? Two dollars! My soul!"

"Oh, let up! I don't care. I'll--I'll--" after a desperate
wrestle with his sense of economy. "I'll give him whatever you
say--in reason. Eh! . . . What's that foolhead horse stoppin' for
now? What in the tunket's the matter with him?"

The matter was simply that in his hasty harnessing Mr. Hammond had
but partially buckled one of the girths, and the horse was now
half-way out of the shafts, with the larger part of the harness
well up towards his ears. Caleb groaningly climbed down from the
seat, rummaged out and lit the lantern, which he had been
thoughtful enough to put under the seat before starting, and
proceeded to repair damages. This took a long time, and in getting
back to the carryall he tore a triangular rent in the back of his
Sunday coat. He had donned his best clothes to be married in, and,
to add to his troubles, had left his watch in the fob-pocket of his
everyday trousers, so they had no means of knowing the time.

"That's a nice mess," he grumbled, taking off his coat to examine
the tear by the light of the lantern. "Nice-lookin' rag-bag I'll
be to get married."

"Maybe I can mend it when we get to Bayport," said Miss Parker.

"What'll you mend it with--pins?"

"No, there's a needle and thread in my reticule. Wait till we get
to Bayport and then--"

"Can't mend it in broad daylight ridin up and down the main street,
can you? And I'd look pretty shuckin' my coat in the minister's
parlor for you to patch up the holes in it. Couldn't you mend it

Hannah announced her willingness to try, and the reticule being
produced, the needle was threaded after numerous trials, and the
mending began. Caleb, holding the lantern, watched the operation
anxiously, his face falling at every stitch.

"I'm afraid I haven't made a good job of it," sighed Hannah, gazing
sorrowfully at the puckered and wrinkled star in the back of the
garment. "If you'd only held that lantern steady, instead of
jigglin' it round and round so, I might have done better."

Mr. Hammond said nothing, but struggled into his coat, and picked
up the reins. He sighed, heavily, and his sigh was echoed from the
back seat of the carryall.

The road was now very rough, and the ruts were deep and full of
holes. George Washington seemed to be stumbling through tall grass
and bushes, and the carryall jolted and rocked from side to side.
Miss Parker grew more and more nervous. After a particularly
severe jolt she could not hold in any longer.

"Land of love, Caleb!" she gasped. "Where ARE you goin'! It
doesn't seem as if this could be the right road!"

"I don't know whether 'tis or not; but it's too narrow and too dark
to turn 'round, so we've got to go ahead, that's all."

"Oh, heavens! What a jounce that was! Seems to me you're awful
reckless. I wish Kenelm was drivin'; he's always so careful."

This was too much. Mr. Hammond suppressed his feelings no longer.

"I wish to thunder he was!" he roared. "I wish Kenelm or some
other dam' fool was here instead of me."

"Caleb HAMMOND!"

"I don't care, Hannah. You're enough to drive a deacon to swearin'.
It's been nothin' but nag, nag, nag, fight, fight, fight ever since
this cruise started. If--if we row like this afore we're married
what'll it be afterwards? Talk about bein' independent! Git dap
there!" this a savage roar at George Washington, who had stopped
again. "I do believe the idiot's struck with a palsy."

Hannah leaned forward and touched her fellow-sufferer on the arm.
"Sshh, shh, Caleb!" she said. "Don't holler so. I don't blame you
for hollerin' and--and I declare I don't know as I much blame you
for swearin', though I never thought I'D live to say a thing like
that. But it ain't the horse deserves to be sworn at. He ain't
the idiot; the idiots are you and me. We was both of us out of
sorts this mornin', I guess--I know I was--and then you come along
and we talked and--and, well, we both went into this foolish,
ridiculous, awful piece of silliness without stoppin' to figger out
whether we really wanted to, or whether we was liable to get along
together, or anything else. Caleb, I've been wantin' to say this
for the last hour or more--now I'm goin' to say it: You turn that
horse's head around and start right home again."

Mr. Hammond shook his head.

"No," he said.

"I say yes. I don't want to marry you and I don't believe you want
to marry me. Now do you--honest?"

Caleb was silent for a full minute. Then he drew a deep breath.

"It don't make no difference whether I do or not, fur's I can see,"
he said, gloomily. "It's too late to start home now. I don't know
what time 'tis, but we must have been ridin' three or four hours--
seems eight or ten year to me--and we ought to be pretty near to
Bayport. If we should turn back now we wouldn't get home till long
after daylight, and everybody would be up and wantin' to know the
whys and wherefores. If we told 'em we'd been ridin' around
together all night, and didn't give any reasons for it, there'd be
talk enough to last till Judgment. No, we've just got to get
married now. That's all there is to it."

Hannah groaned as the truth of this statement dawned upon her.
Caleb gathered the reins in his hands preparatory to driving on,
when a new thought came to him.

"Say, Hannah," he observed, "I suppose you left that note for
Kenelm, didn't you?"

Miss Parker uttered a faint shriek.

"Oh, my soul!" she cried. "I didn't! I didn't! I wrote it, but I
was so upset when I found I couldn't get the doorkey and get out
that way that I left the note in my bureau drawer."

"Tut, tut! Huh! Well, he may find it there; let's hope he does."

"But he won't! He WON'T! He never finds anything, even if it's in
plain sight. He won't know what's become of me--"

"And he'll most likely have the whole town out lookin' for you. I
guess now you see there's nothin' to do but for us to get married--
don't you?"

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" wailed Miss Parker, and burst into tears.

Caleb groaned. "Git dap!" he shouted to the horse. "No use
cryin', Hannah. Might's well grin and bear it. The joyful bridal
party'll now proceed."

But the horse refused to proceed, and his driver, peering forward,
dimly saw a black barrier in front of him. He lit the lantern once
more and, getting out of the carryall, discovered that the road
apparently ended at a rail fence that barred further progress.

"Queer," he said. "We must be pretty nigh civilization. Got to
Bayport, most likely, Hannah; there seems to be a buildin' ahead of
us there. I'm goin' to take the lantern and explore. You set
still till I come back."

But this Miss Parker refused to do. She declared that she would
not wait alone in those woods for anybody or anything. If her
companion was going to explore so was she. So Mr. Hammond assisted
her to alight, and after he had taken down the bars, the pair went
on through a grove to where a large building loomed against the sky.

"A church," said Caleb. "One of the Bayport churches, I cal'late.
Wonder which 'tis?"

"There's always a sign on the front of a church," said Hannah.
"Let's go around front and see."

There were no trees in front of the church, and when they came out
by the front platform, Miss Parker exclaimed, "Well, I never! I
wouldn't believe I'd remember so clear. This church seems just as
familiar as if I was here yesterday. Why, what's the matter?"

Mr. Hammond was standing on the platform, holding his lantern up
before a gilt-lettered placard by the church door.

"Hannah," he gurgled, "this night's been too much for me. My
foolishness has struck out of my brains into my eyes. I can't read
straight. Look here."

Hannah clambered up beside her agitated companion, and read from
the placard these words:



"Good land!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Langworthy! Why, Mr. Langworthy
is the minister at Wellmouth Centre, ain't he? I thought he was."

"He is, but perhaps there's another one."

"No, there ain't--not another Baptist. And--and this church, what
little I can see of it, LOOKS like the Wellmouth Centre Baptist
Church, too; I declare it does! . . . Where are you goin'?"

Caleb did not reply, neither did he turn back. Hannah, who did not
propose to be left alone there in the dark, was hurrying after him,
but he stopped and when she reached his side she found him holding
the lantern and peering at an iron gate in a white fence. His
face, seen by the lantern light, was a picture of bewildered

"What is it?" she demanded. "What IS it?"

He did not answer, but merely pointed to the gate.

"Eh? What--why--why, Caleb, that's--ain't that the Nickerson
memorial gate? . . . It can't be! But--but it IS! Why--"

Mr. Hammond was muttering to himself.

"We took the wrong road at the crossin'," he said. "Then we must
have switched again, probably when we was arguin' about kindlin'
the fire; then we must have turned again when the harness broke;
and that must have fetched us into Lemuel Ellis' wood-lot road that
comes out--"

"Eh? Lemuel Ellis' wood-lot? Why, Lemuel's wood-lot is at--"

"It's at Wellmouth Centre, that's where 'tis. No wonder that
church looked familiar. Hannah, we ain't been nigh Bayport. We've
been ridin' round and round in circles through them woods all

"Caleb HAMMOND!"

Before Caleb could add anything to his astonishing statement the
silence of the night was broken by the clang of the bell in the
tower of the church. It clanged four times.

"WHAT!" exclaimed Caleb. "Only four o'clock! It can't be!"

"My soul!" cried Miss Parker. "only four! Why--why, I thought
we'd been ridin' ten hours at least. . . . Caleb Hammond, you and
me don't want to find a minister; what we need to look up is a pair
of guardians to take care of us."

But Mr. Hammond seized her arm.

"Hannah," he cried, excitedly, "do you understand what that means--
that clock strikin'? It means that, bein' as we're only five miles
from home, we can GET home, if we want to, afore anybody's out of
bed. You can sneak up that ladder again; I can get that horse and
team back in Thankful's stable; we can both be in our own beds by
gettin'-up time and not one soul need ever know a word about this
foolishness. If we--"

But Miss Parker had not waited for him to finish; she was already
on her way to the carryall.

At a quarter after seven that morning Thankful knocked at the door
of her boarder's room.

"Mr. Hammond!" she called. "Mr. Hammond!"

Caleb awoke with a start.

"Eh?" he said.

"Are you up? It's most breakfast time."

Caleb, now more thoroughly awake, looked about his room. It was
real; he was actually in it--and safe--and still single.

"Yes--yes; all right," he said. "I'll get right up. Must have
overslept myself, I guess. What--what made you call me? Nothin'--
er--nothin's happened, has it?"

"No, nothin's happened. But you're usually up by seven and, as I
hadn't heard a sound from you, I was afraid you might be sick."

"No, no; I ain't sick. I'm feelin' fine. Has--has Kenelm Parker
got here yet?"

"Yes, he's here."

"Ain't--ain't said nothin', has he?"

"Said anything? No. What do you mean? What did you expect him to

"Nothin', nothin', I--I wondered what sort of a drive he and
Imogene had yesterday, that's all. I thought it would be fine to
hear him tell about it. You run along, Mrs. Barnes; I'll hurry and
get dressed."

He jumped out of bed. He was tired and lame and his head ached--
but, Oh, he was happy! He had stabled George Washington and
reached his room without disturbing anyone. And, as Kenelm had,
according to Mrs. Barnes, spoken and appeared as usual, it was
evident that Hannah Parker, too, had gotten safely and undetected
to her own apartment.

Thankful knocked at his door again.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but Melindy Pease hasn't sent home your
mendin' yet. I'm afraid you'll have to do without your--er--your
winter things for one more day."

"Hey? My winter--Oh, yes, yes. Well, I don't care. It's warmer
today than 'twas yesterday."

"Oh no, it isn't; it's a good deal colder. I hope you won't catch

"No, no, I shan't. I'm feelin' fine."

"Well, thank goodness for that."

"Thank goodness for a good many things," said Mr. Hammond, devoutly.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothin', nothin', Cap'n Bangs," she said. "I've had a--a surprise,
that's all."

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Obed took a step forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Obed finished the letter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mrs. Barnes," he said, "I--I--"

Thankful's face was still buried in her handkerchief.

"I--I--" continued Captain Obed. "Now, now, don't do that. Don't
DO it!"

Mrs. Barnes wiped her eyes.

"I won't," she said, stoutly. "I won't. I know I'm silly and

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

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

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

Book of the day: