Captain Dan told of this precious scheme, just as it had been told him by his daughter. At first his wife interrupted with exclamations and questions; then she listened in silence.
“That's what they did,” cried the captain angrily. “Chucked you into the scrap heap to save themselves. And you sick abed! This was the gang you worked yourself pretty nigh to death for. These were the FRIENDS you thought you had. And Annette Black was the worst of all. 'Twas her idea in the first place. Why, Serena—”
But Serena could hear no more. She threw her arms about her husband's neck and the tears, which she had so bravely repressed at the tidings of her own disappointment, burst forth.
“Oh—oh, Daniel,” she sobbed, “take me away from here. I hate this place; I hate Scarford and all the dreadful people in it! Take me to Trumet, Daniel. Take me home! Take me home!”
Half an hour later Captain Dan shouted his daughter's name over the balusters.
“Gertie!” he called; “Gertie! come up here, will you?”
Gertrude came. She entered the room hastily. She had feared to find her mother prostrate, suffering from a new attack of “nerves.” She was prepared to obey her father's order to 'phone for the doctor.
But Serena did not, apparently, need a doctor. She was not prostrate, and, although she was nervous, it was rather the nervousness of expectancy, coupled with determination.
“Gertie,” said the captain, “I've got some news for you. Your mother and I have made up our minds to go back to Trumet, and we want you to go along with us.”
The young lady did not answer at once. She looked first at Serena and then at Daniel. The troubled expression left her face and was succeeded by another, an odd one. When she spoke it was in a tone of great surprise.