“Hey?”
“A blessing, you know. Saying that you're thankful for the food now set before us.”
“Hum! Why, to tell you the truth I've kind of neglected that, I'm afraid. Bein' thankful for the grub I've had lately was most too much of a strain, I shouldn't wonder.”
“I know the one mamma used to say. Shall I ask it for you?”
“Sho! I guess so, if you want to.”
The girl bent her head and repeated a short grace. Captain Cy watched her curiously.
“Now, I'll have some soup, please,” observed Emily. “I'm awful hungry. I had breakfast at five o'clock this morning and we didn't have a chance to eat much.”
A good many times that day the captain caught himself wondering if he wasn't dreaming. The whole affair seemed too ridiculous to be an actual experience. Dinner over, he and Emmie attended to the dishes, he washing and she wiping. And even at this early stage of their acquaintance her disposition to take charge of things was apparent. She found fault with the dish towels; they were almost as bad as the tablecloth, she said. Considering that the same set had been in use since Mrs. Beasley's departure, the criticism was not altogether baseless. But the young lady did not stop there—her companion's skill as a washer was questioned.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but don't you think that plate had better be done over? I guess you didn't see that place in the corner. Perhaps you've forgot your specs. Auntie Oliver couldn't see well without her specs.”
Captain Cy grinned and admitted that a second washing wouldn't hurt the plate.