“No need to go to Barney’s, fust mate,” he said. “He’s not there an’ the cabin’s shut up tight’s a clam. ’Pears that when he got to Boston and met the incomin’ steamer the young priest that was comin’ over with his ol’ mither tol’ him as how she’d been all ready to start, an’ then wa’n’t strong enough to make the v’yage. ’Twas best, the priest said, it bein’ stormy all the way, but she’d sent word that she’d come in the spring.”
“That’s how it’s been for years,” the girl declared. “But where is Uncle Barney? What did he do?” Rilla’s voice was tremulous and eager.
“He signed articles to sail back on the same boat as steward, an’ he had the young priest write to Mrs. Sol to shut up his cabin but to leave things shipshape as he’d cruise back in the spring and bring his ol’ mither.”
There were tears in the eyes of the girl, and, as she held close to his arm, Captain Ezra felt her tremble. “Grand-dad, we’d better be hurryin’ home,” she said. “The sky’s cloudin’ fast an’ it’s gettin’ colder.”
CHAPTER XV.
THREE MORE GIRLS.
Upon reaching Windy Island that cold, grey, late afternoon, Muriel went at once to her Treasure Cave to procure the primer which her Uncle Lem had given her, and by the aid of which she could read other books and letters containing the simplest words. This she carried to her room above the kitchen adjoining the lighthouse. But it was not until the following morning, when her tasks were finished, that she was able to slip away to decipher the message from Gene. A drizzling rain was keeping them both indoors. The old captain, never content when he was idle, had brought to the warm kitchen a net that he was mending.
“I’m getting strong by the day,” the little letter told the girl, “and the hope of seeing you very soon again, Muriel, good friend, helps me more than anything else.”
What would the girls in his home set have thought could they have seen that letter which had been written in the greatest sincerity, for with none of them did Gene have a serious friendship. They knew him merely as the good-looking, always good-natured brother of their favorite, Helen Beavers, with whom they bantered merrily. Gene liked them all well enough, but they wearied him with their constant chatter of tennis tournaments and teas, and their ceaseless laughter. No wonder that his pal, David Davison, had often said that most girls seemed to be afflicted with “giggleitis,” but not so Muriel.
As Gene sat alone hour after hour in a hospital, the windows of which looked out across the Hudson, he thought often of the sweet seriousness of the truly beautiful face of his “storm maiden.” Those hazel eyes had looked into his very soul, and how thankful he was that he had nothing in that soul that he wished to conceal.
She had laughed, now and then, spontaneously, joyfully, but she was very different from the modern girl who laughed continually because she thought it becoming. He couldn’t conceive of Muriel doing anything merely to gain admiration.