e a flannel rag, and red flannel if you've got it;
that acts quicker'n the other kinds. Fifteen cent bottle?"

"I guess so. Might's well give me some sass'p'rilla, while you're about
it; always handy to have in the house. And--er--say, is that canned soup
you've got up on that shelf?"

The astonished clerk admitted that it was.

"Well, give me a can of the chicken kind."

Mr. Smalley, standing on a chair to reach the shelf where the soup was
kept, shook his head.

"Now, that's too bad, Cap'n," he said, "but we're all out of chicken
just now. Fact is, we ain't got nothin' but termatter and beef broth.
Yes, and I declare if the termatter ain't all gone."

"Humph! then I guess I'll take the beef. Needn't mind wrappin' it up. So
long."

He departed bearing his purchases. When Mr. Simmons, proprietor of
the store, returned, Alpheus told him that he "cal'lated" Captain Cy
Whittaker was preparing to "go into a decline, or somethin'."

"Anyhow," said Alpheus, "he bought sass'p'rilla and 'Arabian Balsam,'
and I sold him a can of that beef soup you bought three year ago last
summer, when Alicia Atkins had the chicken pox."

The captain entered the house quietly and tiptoed to the door of the
bedroom. Emily was asleep, and the sight of the childish head upon the
pillow gave him a start as he peeped in at it. It looked so natural,
almost as if it belonged there. It had been in a bed like that and in
that very room that he had slept when a boy.

Gabe, brimful of curiosity, brought the box a little later. His
curiosity was ungratified, Captain Cyrus explaining that it was a
package he had been expecting. The captain took the box to the bedroom,
and, finding the child still asleep, deposited it on the floor and
tiptoed out again. He went to the kitchen, poked up the fire, and set
about getting dinner.

He was warming the beef broth in a saucepan on the stove when Emily
appeared. She was dressed in dry clothes from the box and seemed to be
feeling as good as new.

"Hello!" exclaimed Captain Cy. "You're on deck again, hey? How's
icicles?"

"All gone," was the reply. "Do you do your own work? Can't I help? I can
set the table. I used to for Mrs. Oliver."

The captain protested that he could do it himself just as well, but
the girl persisting, he showed her where the dishes were kept. From the
corner of his eye he watched her as she unfolded the tablecloth.

"Is this the only one you've got?" she inquired. "It's awful d