"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 habit.

"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 Tacoma.

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 ch.o.r.es 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 childish."

"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 have."

"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. Give it up."

"Give it up?"

"Yes, give it up. Give up this wearin' yourself out keepin' boarders and runnin' this big house. Why don't you stop takin' care of other folks and take care of yourself for a spell?"

"But I can't. I can't take care of myself. All I have is invested in this place and if I give it up I lose everything."

"Yes, yes, I know what you mean. But what I mean is--is--"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean--I mean why don't you let somebody take care of you? That's what I mean."

Thankful turned to stare at him.

"Somebody--else--take care of me?" she repeated.

"Yes--yes. Don't look at me like that. If you do I can't say it.

I'm--I'm havin' a--a hard enough time sayin' it as 'tis. Thankful Barnes, why--don't LOOK at me, I tell you!"

But she still looked at him, and, if a look ever conveyed a meaning, hers did just then.