Captain Enos nodded approvingly. He and Anne were sitting before a bright fire of driftwood in the pleasant kitchen, while Mrs. Stoddard had gone to Mrs. Starkweather’s for more scarlet yarn. Anne was knitting busily; her wooden doll sat on the floor, and the white kitten was curled up close to the little girl’s feet. Captain Enos had several pieces of smooth cedar wood on a stool near his chair, and was at work upon one with his sharp jack-knife.
“Well, well!” he said, looking up from his whittling. “That will please thy father, Anne. And learn as fast as you can, for I see a fair chance of sending a letter to Boston, when one is ready; and then thy father could soon get it.”
“Oh, Uncle Enos!” exclaimed Anne, “if there be a chance to send a letter could you not write for me? It may be when I can write there will be no chance to send a letter.”
Captain Enos nodded. “You are a wise child,” he said. “My writing isn’t the plainest in the world, but I’ll do my best. I have some sheets of good smooth paper in my sea-chest, and a good quill pen, too. Elder Haven fixed the pen for me from the feather of a wild goose I killed on the marshes last spring. But I do not think there is such a thing as ink in the house; but I can make a fair ink with the juice of the elderberry and a fair lot of soot from the chimney. So think up what you wish to tell your father, Anne, and if it storms to-morrow we’ll write the letter.”
“How will you send it, Uncle Enos?” asked Anne, forgetting to knit and turning eager eyes toward the captain.
“Sshh!” said Captain Enos. “’Tis a secret—hardly to be whispered. But there is a good-hearted sailorman on board the British ship. We have had some talk together on the shore, and he told me that he liked thy father; and that he did not blame him for escaping from the ship.”
Anne nodded smilingly, and reached down and picked up her wooden doll.
“Has the sailorman any little girl?” she asked.
“That he has,” said Captain Enos. “He told me that he had two small maids of his own in Plymouth, England, far across the ocean; and he asked if I knew aught of John Nelson’s little girl.”
“That’s me!” said Anne, holding the wooden doll tight.