Gabe, brimful of curiosity, brought the box a little later. His curiosity was ungratified, Captain Cyrus explaining that it was a package he had been expecting. The captain took the box to the bedroom, and, finding the child still asleep, deposited it on the floor and tiptoed out again. He went to the kitchen, poked up the fire, and set about getting dinner.
He was warming the beef broth in a saucepan on the stove when Emily appeared. She was dressed in dry clothes from the box and seemed to be feeling as good as new.
“Hello!” exclaimed Captain Cy. “You're on deck again, hey? How's icicles?”
“All gone,” was the reply. “Do you do your own work? Can't I help? I can set the table. I used to for Mrs. Oliver.”
The captain protested that he could do it himself just as well, but the girl persisting, he showed her where the dishes were kept. From the corner of his eye he watched her as she unfolded the tablecloth.
“Is this the only one you've got?” she inquired. “It's awful dirty.”
“Hum! Yes, I ain't tended up to my washin' and ironin' the way I'd ought to. I'll lose my job if I don't look out, hey?”
Before they sat down to the meal Captain Cy insisted that his guest take a tablespoonful of the sarsaparilla and decorate her throat with a section of red flannel soaked in the 'Arabian Balsam.' The perfume of the latter was penetrating and might have interfered with a less healthy appetite than that of Miss Thomas.
“Have some soup? Some I bought purpose for you. Best thing goin' for folks with icicles,” remarked the captain, waving the iron spoon he had used to stir the contents of the saucepan.
“Yes, sir, thank you. But don't you ask a blessing?”