During the long winter a strong bond of friendship grew between Mrs. Wright and Eliza Brewster. The latter's broken heart seemed to heal in the very act of caring for the exiled lady, and in the consolation of knowing that her own familiarity with the island, and with all domestic cares, gave daily return for the unspeakable benefit of her home.
Upon Mr. Wright she looked from the first with a reflective and judicial eye. He was Mrs. Wright's husband, and that fact made Eliza rigidly careful to do her duty by him; but mentally she classified the adopted islander as a lazy man who had all his days been looking for a soft spot and who had been irresistibly drawn to the freedom and irresponsibility of a life which permitted him to wear a négligée shirt during the semi-hibernation of the winter, and made no demands upon him beyond an occasional arising, by request, from the lounge to shovel snow-paths and bring in fuel, and at evening to play checkers with Captain James until an early bedtime.
He liked Eliza's cooking and her nimble, quiet ways, and externally they were at peace; but Captain James's shrewd eyes often read Eliza's suppressed impatience. One spring morning, when he met her in the island road, he attempted a mild protest in favor of the master of the house.
"Mr. Wright's a clever feller," he said argumentatively. "What's wrong with him, Eliza?"
"What have I said about him?" she snapped.
"Don't you suppose I got eyes?" asked Captain James.
Eliza was startled. She must put even greater guard upon herself.
"Now, I ain't a-goin' to talk about him, James. I s'pose it's all right for a great hulk of a man to own a dainty city woman and take her away from her friends and mew her up on a snow-bank to suit his convenience."
"What you goin' back on the island for?" inquired Captain James.
"I ain't goin' back on it. I'm island folks. I find there is something, after all, in this talk about native air."