After the captain had gone, Sylvester sat down before the fire in the sitting room to read the Boston Transcript. As he sat there, Caroline entered and closed the door behind her. Miss Abigail was in the kitchen, busy with preparations for the morrow’s plum pudding.
The girl took the chair next that occupied by the lawyer. He put down his paper and turned to her.
“Well,” he asked, “how does this Cape Cod air effect your appetite, Caroline? I’m ashamed of mine. I’m rather glad to-morrow is Thanksgiving; on that day, I believe, it is permissible, even commendable, to eat three times more than a self-respecting person ordinarily should.”
She smiled, but her answer was in the form of another question, and quite irrelevant.
“Mr. Sylvester,” she said, “I wish you would tell me something about the value of a seat on the Stock Exchange. What is the price of one?”
The lawyer looked at her in surprise.
“The value of a seat on the Stock Exchange?” he repeated.
“Yes; what does it cost to buy one?”
He hesitated, wondering why she should be interested in that subject. Captain Elisha had not told him a word of the interview following Pearson’s last visit. He wondered, and then surmised a reason—Stephen, of course. Steve’s ambition was to be a broker, and his sister was, doubtless, with sisterly solicitude and feminine ignorance of high prices, planning for his future.
“Well,” he replied, smiling, “they’re pretty expensive, I’m afraid, Caroline.”