from a pile of papers the note he had begun to Mrs. Thomas, dipped a
sputtering pen into the ink bottle and proceeded to write.

His letter was a short one and rather noncommittal. As Mrs. Thomas no
doubt knew he had come back to live in his father's house at Bayport. He
might possibly need some one to keep house for him. He understood that
she, Mary Thayer that was, was a good housekeeper and that she was open
to an engagement if everything was mutually satisfactory. He had known
her mother slightly when the latter lived in Orham. He thought an
interview might be pleasant, for they could talk over old times if
nothing more. Perhaps, on the whole, she might care to risk a trip
to Bayport, therefore he inclosed money for her railroad fare. "You
understand, of course," so he wrote in conclusion, "that nothing may
come of our meeting at all. So please don't say a word to anybody when
you strike town. You've lived here yourself, and you know that three
words hove overboard in Bayport will dredge up gab enough to sink a
dictionary. So just keep mum till the business is settled one way or the
other."

He put on his hat and went down to the post office, where he dropped
his letter in the slot of the box fastened to the front door. Then he
returned home and retired at exactly eleven o'clock. In spite of his
remarks to Asaph, he had not "turned in" so early after all.

If the captain expected a prompt reply to his note he was disappointed.
A week passed and he heard nothing. Then three more days and still no
word from the New Hampshire widow. Meanwhile fresh layers of dust spread
themselves over the Whittaker furniture, and the gaudy patterns of the
carpets blushed dimly beneath a grimy fog. The situation was desperate;
even Matilda Tripp, Come-Outer sermons and all, began to be thinkable as
a possibility.

The eleventh day began with a pouring rain that changed, later on, to a
dismal drizzle. The silver-leaf tree in the front yard dripped, and the
overflowing gutters gurgled and splashed. The bay was gray and lonely,
and the fish weirs along the outer bar were lost in the mist. The
flowers in the Atkins urns were draggled and beaten down. Only the iron
dogs glistened undaunted as the wet ran off their newly painted backs.
The air was heavy, and the salty flavor of the flats might almost be
tasted in it.

Captain Cy was in the sitting room, as usual. His spirits were as gray
as the weather. He was actually lonesome for th