Keziah took the cloth from his hands and refolded it.
“Nat Hammond,” she said, laughing, “you may be a good sailor, but you're an awful poor housekeeper. Look at the mess you've made of that floor.”
Nat looked at the scattered crumbs and shook his head.
“By the everlastin'!” he observed, “I did make dirty weather on that tack, didn't I? Cal'late I ain't much of a housekeeper, same as you say. Maybe that's why I was so dreadful anxious to get a good one to cruise along with me. Well, I've got her. I'm satisfied.”
He walked to the back door of the kitchen, threw it open, and stood looking out.
“Keziah,” he said, “come here a minute.”
She came from the dining room and stood at his side. He put an arm about her.
“Look off there,” he said, pointing with his free hand. “See that?”
The sun was just setting and all the west was gorgeous with crimson and purple and yellow. The bay was spangled with fire, the high sand bluffs along the shore looked like broken golden ingots. The fields and swamps and salt meadows, rich in their spring glory of bud and new leaf, were tinged with the ruddy glow. The Trumet roofs were bathed in it, the old packet, asleep at her moorings by the breakwater, was silhouetted against the radiance. The church bell had ceased to ring and there was not a sound, except the low music of the distant surf.
“Look at it, Keziah,” urged Captain Nat.