“No; I have to go to Huttontown.”
“Well, you’ll stay when you do come?”
“I am afraid I cannot promise you, indeed, aunt; but, at all events, I will see you every day, and make it a point to spend the whole of Christmas Day with you. Good-night, aunt! Good-night, Agnes, my dear!”
A week passed, during which Hugh was for the most part at the cottage.
New Year’s Day dawned. It was the last day he had to stay at home. They spent this holiday very much as they had spent Christmas Day—going to church at Huttontown in the forenoon and returning to the isle to dinner. After dinner Hugh took them to the mainland, where he hired a sleigh and gave them a long, fine run over the frozen snow.
The next morning Hugh came early—unknown to Aunt Joe, however, who was outdoors giving directions to Pontius Pilate about his day’s work. She had returned to the kitchen and was busily engaged, as usual, at her loom, when she was very much astounded by a noise on the stairs as of a man’s heavy footsteps, and the stair-door was pushed open and Hugh appeared, porter-like, with a great trunk—Agnes’ trunk—upon his shoulders, a basket in his hand, and a bandbox under his arm, and followed by Agnes herself, dressed in traveling gear, with another basket and a bundle.
Miss Joe stared in amazement, without being able to articulate.
“Why, what in the name of all the saints in heaven does all this here mean?”
“I am going to take Agnes to sea with me,” said Hugh.
The old lady broke out into loud sobs for company.