"And he——" Chilian looked intently into the captain's eyes.
"I suppose the end has come before this. They thought he might last a month when we left. It's sad enough. He should have lived to be ninety. But matters went well with him, and he has been an honest, kindly, upright man with a large heart. I've lost my best friend and adviser."
The captain drew his rough coat-sleeve across his face and looked past Chilian, winking hard.
"There's a sight of business when we come to that, Mr. Leverett, but now—will you go on board? The maid is a most excellent and sensible person. They are in the cabin."
"Yes," he answered and followed with a curious throb at his heart—pity for the orphaned child and a sense of responsibility he was conscious that he accepted unwillingly, yet he would do his duty to the uttermost.
Already some officials were on hand, for at this period Salem was really a notable port. Chilian passed them with a bow, followed the captain down the gangplank, stared a little at the foreign deck-hands in their odd habiliments, stepped over boxes and bales in canvas and matting full of Oriental fragrance that from the closeness was almost stifling, coming from the clear air. Then he was ushered into the cabin, that was replete with Orientalism as well.
A rather tall woman rose to meet him.
"This is Mistress Rachel Winn, who has mothered the little girl for several years, Mr. Leverett, her relative and guardian, and—Cynthia——"
The child threw herself down on the couch.
"I want to go back home. I want to see my father, and Aymeer, and Babo, and Nalla. I can't stay here."