Ann believed with her father that this was nothing more than an old wooden sailing vessel thrown on the shore by a great storm. Where had it come from, and for what port was it bound? Where were the families who were waiting for their men to come home to them? Were there children who thought that their father would come back in a few weeks, now that good weather had made the seas safe? Were there mothers who believed that their sailor sons would soon be home? How anxious they must be, waiting all this time since last winter. Something ought to be done about letting them know the truth. It was tragic, and it was romantic, too.
And if there was a mystery attached to the ship that mystery could be explained by a detective or by any one else who had the courage and determination to find out what was at the bottom of this strangeness. Her father had said there was a reason for everything that was queer and uncanny. If only she were brave enough to face that grinning demon! Should she be sensible, or should she let herself be weak and unintelligent? Intelligent, that was what father wanted them all to be, it was his favorite expression, “Be intelligent.”
The others began to chatter about other things while they were finishing supper and washing the dishes afterward, but although Ann took part in the work and the jokes and laughter and all the anticipations of a great time to-morrow, she could think in the back of her mind of nothing but the ship. If Jo would help them, she and Ben would try to find out all about the wreck. It would be much more fun than hunting imaginary Indians and bears in the woods.
After supper had been cleared away and the sweet old kitchen put in order, all the Seymours trooped through every room in the house, patting the wide soft feather beds that stood so high from the floor that a little flight of steps was needed to climb into them.
“A tiny stepladder beside my bed!” exclaimed Helen. “What fun! I love this house.”
The unaccustomedness of the quaint old furniture, the wide floor boards polished with age, the small-paned windows, the bulky mahogany chests of drawers that smiled so kindly as they waited for the children’s clothes to be unpacked, all these things crowded the ship out of Helen’s mind. She went to bed perfectly happy.
“Don’t you fall out,” called Ben from his room, “because if you should you’d break your leg, probably, you’re so high.”
“I couldn’t fall out,” Helen called back. “You wait until you try your bed. It seemed high before I got in, but I sank away down and down into a nest; I think I’ll pretend I am a baby swan to-night with billows of my mother swan’s feathers all about me to keep me warm. I never slept in such a funny bed, but I like it!”
And then Helen’s voice trailed off into silence.
In each room the Seymours found a lamp trimmed and filled ready for use, with its glass chimney as spotlessly clear as the glass of a lighthouse.