“You know I'm glad, Nat,” she said.
“So? I hoped you would be, but I did want to hear you say it. Now you come to anchor yourself and let's have a talk. I've been countin' on it ever since we set tops'ls off Surinam.”
The housekeeper took the other chair.
“How are you—” she began. He stopped her.
“S-shh!” he interrupted. “Don't say anything for a minute. Let me look at you. Just as clean and wholesome and good-lookin' as ever. They don't make girls like that anywhere else but down on this old sand bar. Not a day older, by the jumpin'—”
She held up her hand.
“Hush, Nat,” she protested; “don't talk foolish. Girl? Not a day older? Why, if feelin's count for anything, I'm as old as Methusaleh. Haven't I had enough to make me old?”
He was grave immediately.
“I beg your pardon, Keziah,” he said. “I'm a dough head, that's a fact. I hadn't forgot about Sol, but I was so glad to be home again and to see dad and Grace and the old town and you that everything else flew out of my mind. Poor Sol! I liked him.”
“He liked you, too. No wonder, considerin' what you did to—”