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

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

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

"Never mind the relation business. I found out what you think of relations afore you found out I was one. And I ain't askin'

accommodation. This is just plain business, seems to me. Will you let me have two thousand dollars on a mortgage on this place?"

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

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

"And I wouldn't do that for n.o.body else," he declared. "You bein' my relation I don't know's it ain't my duty as a perfessin' Christian to--to help you out. I hadn't ought to afford it, but I'm willin' to go so far."

Thankful shook her head. "I'm glad you said, 'PROFESSIN' Christian.'"

she observed. "Well," drawing a long breath, "then I suppose I've got to say yes or no. . . . And I'll say yes," she added firmly. "And we'll call it settled."

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

Solomon climbed into the buggy. "Well, good-by," he said. "I hope you'll do fust-rate. The interest'll be paid regular, of course. I'm real pleased to meet you--er--Cousin Thankful. Be sure you sign them papers in the right place. Good-by. Oh--er--er--sometimes I'll be droppin'

in to see you after you get your boardin'-house goin'. I come to East Wellmouth once in a while. Yes--yes--I'll come and see you. You can tell me more about Captain Abner, you know. I'd--I'd like to hear what he said to you about me. Good-by."

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

Thankful sighed also.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII

March, so to speak, blew itself out; April came and went; May was here.

And on the seventeenth of May the repairs on the "Cap'n Abner place"

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

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

The name had been Emily Howes' choice. She and Mrs. Barnes had carried on a lengthy and voluminous correspondence and the selection of a name had been left to Emily. To her also had been intrusted the selection of wallpapers, furniture and the few pictures which Thankful had felt able to afford. These were but few, for the cost of repairing and refitting had been much larger than the original estimate. The fifteen hundred dollars raised on the mortgage had gone and of the money obtained by the sale of the cranberry bog shares--Mrs. Pearson's legacy--nearly half had gone also. Estimates are one thing and actual expenditures are another, a fact known to everyone who has either built a house or rebuilt one, and more than once during the repairing and furnishing process Thankful had repented of her venture and wished she had not risked the plunge.

But, having risked it, backing out was impossible. Neither was it possible to stop half-way. As she said to Captain Obed, "There's enough half-way decent boardin'-houses and hotels in this neighborhood now.

There's about as much need of another of that kind as there is of an icehouse at the North Pole. Either this boardin'-house of mine must be the very best there can be, price considered, or it mustn't be at all.

That's the way I look at it."

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

"You could find one, of course," said the captain. "There's two or three I could think of right off now who would probably take the job, but two out of the three wouldn't be much account anyhow, and the only one that would is Sarah Mullet and she's engaged to a Trumet feller. Now let alone the prospect of Sarah's gettin' married and leavin' you 'most any time, there's another reason for not hirin' her. She's the everlastin'est gossip in Ostable County, and that's sayin' somethin'.

What Sarah don't know about everybody's private affairs she guesses and she always guesses out loud. Inside of a fortnight she'd have all you ever done and a whole lot you never thought of doin' advertised from Race P'int to Sagamore. She's a reg'lar talkin' foghorn, if there was such a thing--only a foghorn shuts down in clear weather and SHE don't shut down, day or night. Talks in her sleep, I shouldn't wonder. If I was you, Mrs. Barnes, I wouldn't bother with any help from 'round here.

I'd hire a girl from Boston, or somewheres; then you could be skipper of your own ship."

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

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

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

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

variety.

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

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

"Lordy, yes'm!" was the emphatic answer, accompanied by a brilliant smile. "I never had such a long ride in my life. 'Twas just like bein'

rich. I made believe I WAS rich most all the way, except when a man set down in the seat alongside of me and wanted to talk. Then I didn't make believe none, I bet you!"

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

"I don't know. One of the railroad men I guess 'twas; anyhow he was a fresh young guy, with some sort of uniform hat on. He asked me if I didn't want him to put my bag up in the rack. He said you couldn't be too careful of a bag like that. I told him never mind my bag; it was where it belonged and it stayed shut up, which was more'n you could say of some folks in this world. I guess he understood; anyhow he beat it.

Lordy!" with another smile. "I knew how to treat HIS kind. Miss Coffin's told me enough times to look out for strange men. Is this where I'm goin' to live, ma'am?"

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

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

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

"No, ma'am. I'm the one. My name used to be Marguerite, but it's goin'

to be Imogene now. I've wanted to change for a long while, but up there to the Home they'd got kind of used to Marguerite, so 'twas easier to let it go at that. I like Imogene lots better; I got it out of a book."

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

"No'm. Anyhow I guess 'tain't. I got that out of a book, too. Lordy,"

with a burst of enthusiasm, "I've had more names in my time! My Aunt Bridget she called me 'Mag' when she didn't make it somethin' worse. And when I first came to the Home the kids called me 'Fire Alarm,' 'cause my hair was red. And the cook they had then called me 'Lonesome,' 'cause I guess I looked that way. And the matron--not Miss Coffin, but the other one--called me 'Maggie.' I didn't like that, so when Miss Coffin showed up I told her I was Marguerite. But I'd rather be Imogene now, if you ain't particular, ma'am."

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

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