As the train carried them further upon the Cape a boyish excitement seized the old man. He declared that, though he’d only been in Boston three or four days, it was as good as “moorin’ from a long v’yage.” He pointed out to Sidney the places and things of interest they were passing. Through his eyes Sidney saw the beauty of the old, elm-shaped villages, the rich meadow lands, the low-lying salt marshes, the sand-bars gleaming against stretches of blue water. Cap’n Phin Davies seemed to know something, and it was nearly always funny, about every one who lived in the quaint houses set here and there under century old trees. Wellfleet came all too soon.
“Now don’t forget, Missy, you’re coming to visit old Phin Davies. I’ll tell Elizy. And keep an eye to wind’ard for those pirates!”
“Gosh all fish hooks,” he exclaimed to his Elizy a half hour later, as he divested himself of his Sunday coat and vest and sprawled his great hulk in his own easy chair, “don’t know as I’ve ever seen a cuter little girl—and comin’ all this way by herself to visit what’s left of Zeke Green’s folks.”
In her way Elizy Davies registered sincere horror. “You don’t say! Why, all there is is old Achsa and that poor Lavender! Now, you don’t say! The little thing—”
With Cap’n Phin’s going Sidney was engulfed in a terrifying loneliness. The lump swelled in her throat again. She tried desperately to rally something of that splendid excitement with which she had started on her journey, to thrill again over the assembled belongings in the old satchel, some things Isolde’s and some Trude’s and some even Vick’s. The girls had been very kind and generous with her. But in spite of her valiant efforts her spirits sank lower and lower. She had come so far, she had sat through so many lonely hours that all that had happened back at Middletown seemed now to belong to someone else—some other Sidney Romley. Strong within her mounted an apprehension at what awaited her at her journey’s end.
But there was a chance the “baby” had lived; Cap’n Davies had said it’d be about sixteen. Sidney hoped it was a boy—a boy cousin would be such fun. And he’d be more likely to have a boat. In order to keep from thinking that the low dunes of sand and marsh, shrouded in twilight haze, through which they now were passing were very dreary she held stubbornly to her speculations concerning the “baby.” She was tired and hungry. The lump was growing very big and hurt. When, as she finally followed her fellow passengers off the train and along a bustling platform she heard a pleasant voice ask: “Is this Sidney Romley?” she gave an involuntary little gasp of relief.
“Oh, are you my cousin?”
Dugald Allan took her bag. “Well, yes, if both of us belonging to Aunt Achsa can make us cousins. Are you tired? It’s an endless journey—you think you are never going to get here, don’t you? Did you have any fears that you’d just ride off into the ocean? You had a coolish day.” As he talked he piloted her through the crowd, a crowd that startled Sidney after those miles of twilight loneliness. “It’s always like this toward the week-end,” he apologized. “But Sunset Lane is quiet enough. I’ve old Dobbin here and the one-hoss shay. Hoist this up, will you, Toby?” he addressed a lanky barefooted boy who slouched upon the driver’s high seat.
As they creaked and swayed down the sandy road Sidney turned searching eyes again upon her companion.
“I mean—are you the baby that was born? You see, Captain Phin Davies told me—”