id. He was only concerned in getting hold of some
positive facts upon which he could base his judgment.

"Come, now," he said in an authoritative voice, "let me get that chair
and set down and then I'll see what all this amounts to. Sounds like a
yarn of a horse-marine." As he spoke he crossed the room and, dragging
a rocking-chair from its place beside the wall, settled himself in it.
Martha found a seat upon the sofa and turned her tear-stained face
toward him.

"Now, what's these young people been doin' that makes ye so almighty
narvous?" he continued, lying back in his chair and looking at her from
under his bushy eyebrows, his fingers supporting his forehead.

"Everything. Goes out sailin' with her and goes driftin' past with his
head in her lap. Fogarty's man who brings fish to the house told me."
She had regained something of her old composure now.

"Anything else?" The captain's voice had a relieved, almost
condescending tone in it. He had taken his thumb and forefinger from
his eyebrow now and sat drumming with his stiffened knuckles on the arm
of the rocker.

"Yes, a heap more--ain't that enough along with the other things I've
told ye?" Martha's eyes were beginning to blaze again.

"No, that's just as it ought to be. Boys and girls will be boys and
girls the world over." The tone of the captain's voice indicated the
condition of his mind. He had at last arrived at a conclusion. Martha's
head was muddled because of her inordinate and unnatural love for the
child she had nursed. She had found a spookship in a fog bank, that was
all. Jealousy might be at the bottom of it or a certain nervous
fussiness. Whatever it was it was too trivial for him to waste his time
over.

The captain rose from his chair, crossed the sitting-room, and opened
the door leading to the porch, letting in the sunshine. Martha followed
close at his heels.

"You're runnin' on a wrong tack, old woman, and first thing ye know
ye'll be in the breakers," he said, with his hand on the knob. "Ease
off a little and don't be too hard on 'em. They'll make harbor all
right. You're makin' more fuss than a hen over one chicken. Miss Jane
knows what she's about. She's got a level head, and when she tells me
that my Bart ain't good enough to ship alongside the daughter of Morton
Cobden, I'll sign papers for him somewhere else, and not before. I'll
have to get you to excuse me now; I'm busy. Good-day," and picking up
his paper, he re-entered the