The captain pointed inside.
The little woman pushed past him into the darkening room. For a moment she stood still, her eyes fixed on Betty’s slender, drooping figure and bowed head, outlined against the panes of the low window.
“Betty!” she cried, running forward with outstretched arms.
The girl did not move.
“Betty—my child!” Aunty Bell cried again, taking the weeping woman in her arms.
Then, with smothered kisses and halting, broken speech, these two—the forgiving and the forgiven—sank to the floor.
Outside, on a bench by the door, sat the captain, rocking himself, bringing his hands down on his knees, and with every seesaw repeating in a low tone to himself, “She’s home. She’s home.”
CHAPTER XII—CAPTAIN JOE’S CREED
When Captain Joe flung open Caleb’s cabin door, the same cry was on his lips: “She’s home, Caleb, she’s home! Run 'way an’ lef’ him, jes’ ’s I knowed she would, soon’s she got the spell off’n her.”
Caleb looked up over the rim of his glasses into the captain’s face. He was sitting at the table in his shirt-sleeves and rough overalls, the carpet slippers on his feet. He was eating his supper,—the supper that he had cooked himself.