You've been a church man for years, and a professor of religion. You told me so, yourself. How can you set there and say--"

Mr. Cobb waved his hand.

"Don't make no difference," he moaned. "Or, if it does, it only makes it worse. I know where I'm goin', but--but I'll go with a clean manifest, anyhow. I'll tell you the whole thing. I promised the dead I would and I will. Thankful Cahoon, I've been a bad man to you. I swore my solemn oath as a Christian to one that was my best friend, and I broke it.

"Years ago I swore by all that was good and great I'd look out for you and see that you was comf'table and happy long's you lived. And instead of that, when I come here last night--LED here, I know now that I was--my mind was about made up to take your home away from you, if I could. Yes, sir, I was cal'latin' to foreclose on you and sell this place to Kendrick. I thought I was mighty smart and was doin' a good stroke of business. No mortal man could have made me think diff'rent; BUT AN IMMORTAL ONE DID!"

He groaned and wiped his forehead. Thankful did not speak; her surprise and curiosity were too great for speech.

"'Twas your Uncle Abner Barnes," went on Solomon, "that was the makin'

of me. I sailed fust mate for him fourteen year. And he always treated me fine, raised my wages right along, and the like of that. 'Twas him that put me in the way of investin' my money in them sugar stocks and the rest. He made me rich, or headed me that way. And when he lost all he had except this place here and was dyin' aboard the old schooner, he calls me to him and he says:

"'Sol,' he says, 'Sol, I've done consider'ble for you, and you've said you was grateful. Well, I'm goin' to ask a favor of you. I ain't got a cent of my own left, and my niece by marriage, Thankful Cahoon that was, that I love same as if she was my own child, may, sometime or other, be pretty hard put to it to get along. I want you to look after her. If ever the time comes that she needs money or help I want you to do for her what I'd do if I was here. If you don't,' he says, risin' on one elbow in the bunk, 'I'll come back and ha'nt you. Promise on your solemn oath.' And I promised. And you know how I've kept that promise. And last night he come back. Yes, sir, he come back!"

Still Thankful said nothing. He groaned again and went on:

"Last night," he said, "up in that bedroom, I woke up and, as sure as I'm settin' here this minute, I heard Cap'n Abner Barnes snorin' just as he snored afore his death aboard the schooner, T. I. Smalley, in the stateroom next to mine. I knew it in a minute, but I got up and went all round my room and the empty one alongside. There was nothin' there, of course. Nothin' but the snorin'. And I got down on my knees and swore to set things right this very day. Give me a pen and ink and some paper."

"Eh? What?"

"Give me a pen and some ink and paper. Don't sit there starin'! Hurry up! Can't you see I want to get this thing off my chest afore I die!

And--and I--I wouldn't be surprised if I died any minute. Hurry UP!"

Thankful went into the living-room in search of the writing materials.

Emily, who was sitting on the floor with Georgie and the presents, turned to ask a question.

"What is it, Auntie?" she whispered, eagerly. "Is it anything important?"

Her cousin made an excited gesture.

"I--I don't know," she whispered in reply. "Either he's been driven looney by what happened last night, or else--or else somethin's goin' to happen that I don't dast to believe. Emily, you stand right here by the door. I may want you."

"Where's that pen and things?" queried Solomon from the next room.

"Ain't you ever comin'?"

When the writing materials were brought and placed upon the dining-room table he drew his chair to that table and scrawled a few lines.

"Somebody ought to witness this," he cried, nervously. "Some disinterested person ought to witness this. Then 'twill hold in law.

Where's that--that Howes girl? Oh, here you be! Here! you sign that as a witness."

Emily, who had entered at the mention of her name, took the paper from his trembling fingers. She read what was written upon it.

"Why--why, Auntie!" she cried, excitedly. "Aunt Thankful, have you seen this? He--"

"Stop your talk!" shouted Solomon. "Can't you women do nothin' BUT talk?

Sign your name alongside of mine as a witness."

Emily took the pen and signed as directed. Mr. Cobb s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper from her, glanced at it and then handed it to Thankful.

"There!" he cried. "That's done, anyhow. I've done so much. Now--now don't say a word to me for a spell. I--I'm all in; that's what I am, all in."

Thankful did not say a word; she couldn't have said it at that moment.

Upon the paper which she held in her hand was written a cancellation of the fifteen-hundred-dollar mortgage and a receipt in full for the loan itself, signed by Solomon Cobb.

Dimly and uncomprehendingly she heard Emily trying to thank their visitor. But thanks he would not listen to.

"No, no, no!" he shouted. "Go away and let me alone. I'm a wicked, condemned critter. n.o.body's ever cared a durn for me, n.o.body but one, and I broke my word to him. Friendless I've lived since Abner went and friendless I'll die. Serve me right. I ain't got a livin' soul of my own blood in the world."

But Thankful was in a measure herself again.

"Don't talk so, Solomon," she cried. "You have got somebody of your own blood. I'm a relation of yours, even if 'tis a far-off relation. I--I don't know how to thank you for this. I--"

He interrupted again.

"Yes," he wailed, "you're my relation. I know it. Think that makes it any better? Look how I've treated you. No, no; I'm goin' to die and go--"

"You're goin' to have breakfast, that's what you're goin' to have. And it shan't be warmed up fried clams either. Emily, you stay with him. I'm goin' to the kitchen."

She fled to the kitchen, where, between fits of crying and laughing, which would have alarmed Imogene had she been there, she tried to prepare a breakfast which might tempt the repentant money-lender. Emily joined her after a short interval.

"He won't listen to anything," said the young lady. "He has been frightened almost to death, that's certain. He is praying now. I came away and left him praying. Oh, Auntie, isn't it wonderful! Isn't it splendid!"

Thankful sighed. "It's so wonderful I can scarcely believe it," she said. "To think of his givin' up money--givin' it away of his own accord! I said last night that Jedediah's comin' home was a miracle.

This one beats that all to pieces. I don't know what to do about takin'

that thousand from him," she added. "I declare I don't. 'Course I shan't take it in the long run; I'll pay it back soon as ever I can. But should I pretend to take it now? That's what troubles me."

"Of course you should. He is rich and he doesn't need it. What have you done with that receipt? Put it away somewhere and in a safe place. He is frightened; that--that something, whatever it was, last night--frightened him so that he will give away anything now. But, by and by, when his fright is over he may change his mind. Lock up that paper, Aunt Thankful. If you don't, I will."

"But what was it that frightened him, Emily? I declare I'm gettin'

afraid to stay in this house myself. What was it he heard--and we heard?"

"I don't know, but I mean to find out. I'm a sensible person this morning, not an idiot, and I intend to lay that ghost."

When they went back into the dining-room they were surprised at what they saw. Solomon was still sitting by the window, but Georgie was sitting in a chair beside him, exhibiting the pictures in one of his Christmas books and apparently on the best of terms with his new acquaintance.

"I'm showin' him my 'Swiss Family Robinson,'" said the boy. "Here's where they built a house in a tree, Mr. Cobb. Emmie told me about their doin' it."

Solomon groaned.

"You better take this child away from me," he said. "He came to me of his own accord, but he hadn't ought to stay. A man like me ain't fit to have children around him."

Thankful had an inspiration.

"It's a sign," she cried, clapping her hands. "It's a sign sent to you, Solomon. It means you're forgiven. That's what it means. Now you eat your breakfast."

He was eating, or trying to eat, when someone knocked at the door.

Winnie S. Holt was standing on the step.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Barnes," he hailed. "Ain't drowned out after the gale, be you? Judas priest! Our place is afloat. Dad says he cal'lates we'll have to build a raft to get to the henhouse on. Here; here's somethin' Mr. Kendrick sent to you. Wanted me to give it to you, yourself, and n.o.body else."