YOU’LL HAVE BREAKFAST WITH ME, WON’T YOU?
“Oh, Hiram,”—the lips were quivering still, and she paused, then reached up a hand which was quickly lost in both of his,—“can’t you see? I’ve come home.”
There were only the rocks, and the beach, and the waves that hissed and broke, to look upon them.
Instantly Hiram was beside her on the garden-seat, with Betsy in his arms, her thin cheek pressed against his broad chest, and sobs convulsing her slender body.
He scowled, and smiled at the restless sea across his precious burden. Not a word he said, but his big hand patted her in gentle rhythm, and once he kissed her temple.
At last she pushed herself from him, and sat up.
“There’s one favor I’m goin’ to beg,” she said, with pauses, her handkerchief still at her eyes. “That is, that you won’t ask me why. I feel as if I couldn’t go over it.”
“My Betsy,” replied the captain slowly, “there was only one question I ever wanted to ask o’ you. I did it a good many times, ’cause you didn’t give the right answer. Now you’ve done it, and I sha’n’t ask ye anything more.”
“And Hiram,” she went on, struggling for self-control, “I have a feelin’ as if—as if I didn’t want it—to happen here.”