And the story, when at last it appeared for sale, was almost from the beginning a success. The reviewers praised it, the reading public--that final court of appeal which makes or unmakes novels--took kindly to it, and discussed and recommended it; and, most important of all, perhaps, it sold and continued to sell. There was something in it, its humanity, its simplicity, its clearly marked characters, which made a hit. Pearson no longer needed to seek publishers; they sought him. His short stories were bid for by the magazines, and his prices climbed and climbed.

He found himself suddenly planted in the middle of the highway to prosperity, with a clear road ahead of him, provided he continued to do his best.

In September Stephen gave up his work at the broker's office, spent the weeks with his friends in Maine, and then returned to Yale. He gave up the position on the Street with reluctance. He was sure he liked it now, he declared. It was what he was fitted for, and he meant, more than ever, to take it up permanently as soon as he was free. And his employer told Captain Elisha that the youngster was bright, clever, and apt. "A little conceited, needs taking down occasionally, but that is the only trouble. He has been spoiled, I should imagine," he said.

"Yup," replied the captain, with emphasis; "your imagination's a good one. It don't need cultivatin' any."

The novel being out of the way, and its successor not yet far enough advanced in plot or general plan for much discussion, the "literary clinics" were no longer as frequent. But Pearson's visits to the Warren house were not discontinued. All summer long he had been coming out, once, and usually twice, a week. Captain Elisha had told him not to stand on formality, to come any time, and he did. On most of these occasions he found the captain at home; but, if only Caroline was there, he seemed quite contented. She did not remark on the frequency of his visits. In fact, she mentioned him less and less in conversation with her uncle. But, as the autumn came and moved towards its prime she seemed, to the captain's noticing eye, a trifle more grave, a little more desirous of being by herself. Sometimes he found her sitting by the open fire--pleasant in the cool October evenings--and gazing very soberly at the blaze. She had been in good spirits, more merry and light-hearted than he had ever seen her, during the latter part of the summer; now her old sadness seemed to be returning. It would have troubled him, this change in her mood, if he had not believed he knew the cause.

He was planning a glorious Thanksgiving. At least, it would be glorious to him, for he intended spending the day, and several days, at his own home in South Denboro. Abbie Baker had made him promise to do it, and he had agreed. He would not leave Caroline, of course; she was going with him. Steve would be there, though he would not come until Thanksgiving Day itself. Sylvester, also, would be of the party; he seemed delighted at the opportunity.

"I'm curious to see the place where they raise fellows like you," the lawyer said. "It must be worth looking at."

"Graves don't think so," chuckled the captain. "I invited him, and he said, 'No, thank you' so quick that the words was all telescoped together. And he shivered, too, when he said it; just as if he felt that sou'west gale whistlin' between his bones even now. I told him I'd pretty nigh guarantee that no more trees would fall on him, but it didn't have any effect."

Pearson was asked and had accepted. His going was so far a settled thing that he had commissioned Captain Elisha to purchase a stateroom for him on the Fall River boat; for of course the captain would not consider their traveling the entire distance by train. At an interview in the young man's room in the boarding house, only three days before the date set for the start, he had been almost as enthusiastic as the Cape Codder himself. The pair had planned several side excursions, time and weather permitting, among them a trip across the Sound to Setuckit Point, with the possibility of some late sea-fowl shooting and a long tramp to one of the life-saving stations, where Pearson hoped to pick up material for his new book. He was all antic.i.p.ation and enthusiasm when the captain left him, and said he would run out to the house the following day, to make final arrangements.

That day Sylvester 'phoned, asking Captain Elisha to come to his office on a matter of business. When, having done so, the captain, returning, alighted at his home station, he was surprised to see Pearson standing on the platform.

"Why, h.e.l.lo, Jim!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? Just come, have you?"

His friend shook his head. "No, Captain Warren," he said; "I'm just going."

"Goin'? What for? Been up to the house, of course? Caroline told you where I'd gone and that I was cal'latin' to hurry back, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, course you ain't goin'! You're goin' to stay to dinner.

I've got some things to tell you about that life-savin' station cruise.

I've been thinkin' that I know the cap'n and most of the crew on the lightship off back of the Point. How'd you like to go aboard of her? You could get some yarns from those fellers that might be wuth hearin'."

"I have no doubt I should. But I'm afraid I can't go. The fact is, Captain, I've decided not to spend Thanksgiving with you, after all."

"Hey?" Captain Elisha could scarcely believe he had heard correctly.

"You can't go--to South Denboro?"

"No."

"Why not, for the land sakes?"

"Well, I've decided--I've decided not to."

"But, Jim! Why, I can't have it so! I'm dreadful disappointed. I've counted on your goin'. So has Abbie. She's read your book, and she says she's crazy to see the feller that wrote it. She's told the minister and a whole lot more, and they're all comin' in to look at you. 'Tain't often we have a celebrated character in our town. You've _got_ to go."

"Thank you, Captain. I appreciate the invitation and your kindness, but," with decision, "I can't accept."

"Can't you come later? Say Thanksgivin' mornin'? Or even the day after?"

"No."

"But why not? What's the matter with you all of a sudden? Come here! let me look at you."

He took the young man by the arm and led him, almost by main strength, close to the lighted window of the station. It was late, and the afternoon was gloomy. Here, by the lamplight streaming through the window, he could see his face more clearly. He looked at it.

"Humph!" he grunted, after a moment's scrutiny. "You've made up your mind; I can see that. Have you told Caroline? Does she know?"

"Yes. You'll have to excuse me, Captain Warren; my train is coming."

"What did she say?"

Pearson smiled, but there was little mirth in the smile. "I think she agrees with me that it is best," he observed.

"Humph! She does, hey? I want to know! Look here, Jim! have you and she--"

He got no further, for Pearson broke away, and, with a hurried "Good night," strode up the platform to meet the city-bound train. Captain Elisha watched it go and then walked slowly homeward, his hands in his pockets, troubled and wondering.

He entered the house by the back door, a remnant of South Denboro habit, and found Annie in the kitchen.

"Where's Caroline?" he asked.

"She's in the living room, sir, I think. Mr. Pearson has been here and just gone."

"Um-hm. So I heard. Say, Annie, you needn't hurry dinner; I ain't ready for it yet awhile."

He hung his coat and hat in the back hall and quietly entered the living room. The lamp was not lighted, and the room was dark, but he saw his niece, a shadowy figure, seated by the window. He crossed to her side.

"Well, Caroline," he said, cheerfully, "I'm home again."

She turned. "I see you are," she answered.

"Humph! your eyes must be better than mine then. I can't see anything in here. It's darker than a n.i.g.g.e.r's pocket. Suppose we turn on the glim."

He struck a match as he said it. By its light he saw her face. The match burned down to his finger tips and then he extinguished it.

"I don't know but the dark is just as good and more economical," he observed. "No use of encouragin' the graspin' ile trust unless it's necessary. Let's you and me sit here in the dark and talk. No objection to talkin' to your back country relation, have you?"

"No."

"That's good. Well, Caroline, I'm goin' to talk plain again. You can order me to close my hatch any time you feel like it; that's skipper's privilege, and you're boss of this craft, you know. Dearie, I just met Jim Pearson. He tells me he's decided not to go on this Cape cruise of ours. He said you agreed with him 'twas best he shouldn't go. Do you mind tellin' me why?"

She did not answer. He waited a minute and then continued.

"Course, I know I ain't got any real right to ask," he went on; "but I think more of you and Jim than I do of anybody else, and so maybe you'll excuse me. Have you and he had a fallin' out?"

Still she was silent. He sighed. "Well," he observed, "I see you have, and I don't blame you for not wantin' to talk about it. I'm awful sorry.

I'd begun to hope that.... However, we'll change the subject. Or we won't talk at all, if you'd rather not."

Another pause. Then she laid her hand on his.