“Why, Caleb, be ye comin’ in too?” she said. “I’ll git supper for both o’ ye. Guess ye’re tuckered out.”
“I don’t want no supper,” he answered gravely, without looking at her. “I’ll go into the settin’-room an’ wait, if ye’ll let me.”
She opened the door silently for him, wondering if he was in one of his moods. The only light in the room came from the street-lamp, stenciling the vines on the drawn shades.
“I’ll fetch a light for ye, Caleb,” she said quietly, and turned toward the kitchen. In the hall she paused, her knees shaking, a prayer in her heart. Captain Joe and Betty were coming down the stairs, Betty’s face hidden on his shoulder, her trembling fingers clinging to his coat.
“Ain’t nothin’ to skeer ye, child”
“Ain’t nothin’ to skeer ye, child,” the captain said, patting the girl’s cheek as he stopped at the threshold. “It’s all right. He’s in there waitin’,” and he closed the door upon them.
Then he walked straight toward Aunty Bell, two big tears rolling down his cheeks, and, laying his hand upon her shoulder, said, “Caleb’s got his lights trimmed, an’ Betty’s found harbor. The little gal’s home.”
In another room, some miles away, before a window that looked upon the sea, sat a woman, with cheeks tight pressed between her hands. The low-lying drowsy moon shed a white light on her thoughtful face and silvered the fluff of loosened hair that fell about her shoulders. She had sat there for hours—long after the house was silent. Outside the world was still: only the lapping of little wave-tongues along the shore was heard; the croaking of frogs in the marsh, and the cry of the night-hawk circling as he flew.