A certain rough seaman mending his sail in far-off Yankee land little realized that, could his canvas be turned into a magic carpet, this was his psychological moment.
“I suppose,” Betsy was reflecting, “’tain’t Mrs. Pogram’s fault that she hasn’t as much backbone as a jelly-fish.”
A broad, strong flame flew squarely up toward the chimney. “I suppose if—if I ever was—soft enough—to— Well, Hiram’s a good soul. He’d be kind as any father to Rosalie.”
Betsy suddenly realized that the fire was making her face hot, and she put up her hand to shield it.
Meanwhile Hiram Salter was placidly sitting cross-legged over his prostrate sail. A piece of twine held in his lips fell down each side of his chin, giving him some resemblance to a gigantic catfish.
A few days later he received a picture-postal from the Fountain House Hotel in the Yellowstone. It was dated on the evening when Betsy sat so long before the fire; and it read,—
Dear H.:
Cold as Xmas here.
B. F.