The Salem air was fragrant, with all manner of sweet springtime odors—the ship was not. Things that had been stored in the hold came up with a certain old smell and a little mustiness. First, Cynthia held her nose and made a wry face. But it was delightful to run about and exchange greetings with the sailors, who seemed merry enough over their work.
"Well, missy," said the captain, catching her in his arms as she ran, "how do you like living on dry land? You haven't lost your sea legs yet, that's plain."
"It's very queer. There are just tiny leaves coming out on the trees, and a few curious white flowers, little bells, coming up in the garden, and crocus in pretty colors. But I don't like it very much. Miss Eunice is nice and has such a soft voice. And the houses are so funny and shut up, and there are no servants about, nor any one praying on the corners and holding out a basin for rice; and no piles of fruit for sale."
"No; this isn't the time of year for fruit;" and there was a funny twinkle in the captain's eye. "Just wait until August and September."
Cynthia considered. "That is three and four months away. Father will be here then;" with a child's confidence.
"And there are berries earlier, and cherries, and then some sugar pears. Oh, you will be feasted. And you'll like Cousin Leverett, when you come to get acquainted with him. You will go to school, too, and know lots of little girls. You won't want to go back to India."
"Unless father shouldn't come. Oh, he surely will, because, you see, I'm praying ever so many times a day."
"That's right;" with a cheerful nod.
"When are you going back?"
"In about a month, I calculate."