“Thinkin', hey? What about? or is that a secret?”
“No, sir. I was thinking that this room was different from any I've ever seen.”
“Humph! Yes, I presume likely 'tis. Don't like it very much, do you?”
“Yes, sir, I think I do. It's got a good many things in it that I never saw before, but I guess they're pretty—after you get used to 'em.”
Captain Cy laughed aloud. “After you get used to 'em, hey?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir. That's what mamma said about Auntie Oliver's new bonnet that she made herself. I—I was thinking that you must be peculiar.”
“Peculiar?”
“Yes, sir. I like peculiar people. I'm peculiar myself. Auntie used to say I was the most peculiar child she ever saw. P'raps that's why I came to you. P'raps God meant for peculiar ones to live together. Don't you think maybe that was it?”
And the captain, having no answer ready, said nothing.
That evening when Asaph and Bailey, coming for their usual call, peeped in at the window, they were astounded by the tableau in the Whittaker sitting room. Captain Cy was seated in the rocking chair which had been his grandfather's. At his feet, on the walnut cricket with a haircloth top, sat a little girl turning over the leaves of a tattered magazine, a Godey's Lady's Book. A pile of these magazines was beside her on the floor. The captain was smiling and looking over her shoulder. The cat was curled up in another chair. The room looked more homelike than it had since its owner returned to it.