ve thousand dollars. I told her to think that over
and think Eg over, too. She was terribly high and mighty then, but I bet
you she's done some thinkin' since. Yes, and come to the conclusion
that, spy or no spy, I was tellin' the plain truth.... Hey, Cap'n
Kendrick?"

"Eh?... Oh, yes, yes; I shouldn't wonder, Esther."

"I shouldn't wonder, neither. But it won't have no effect on Cordelia.
She'd put her best Sunday bonnet on the ground and let that Eg dance the
grand fandango on it if he asked her to. Poor, soft-headed critter."

"Yes, yes.... Humph! Any other news? How is Elvira?"

"Oh, she's full of spite and jealousy as a yeast jug is full of pop. She
pretends that the idea of anything serious between Cordelia and Phillips
is just silliness. Might as well talk about King Solomon in all his
glory marryin' the woman that done his washin'--that's what she pretends
to believe. It's all Cordelia and not Eg at all, that's what she says.
But she knows better, just the same. She's got somethin' else to think
about now. That aunt of hers over to Ostable, the one that owns them
iron images she wanted the Harbor to buy--she's sick, the aunt is.
Elviry's pretty worried about her; she's the old woman's only relation."

Kendrick had heard nothing further from his sister in the matter of
young Kent and his trouble, whatever the latter might be. Sears had
pondered a good deal concerning it and tried to guess in what possible
way the boy could be "in the same boat" with Egbert. There was little
use in guessing, however, and he had given up trying. And another week
passed, another fruitless, dreary, hopeless week.

Judah's lodge night came around again and Mr. Cahoon, after asking his
skipper's permission, departed for the meeting, leaving Sears Kendrick
alone. It was a beastly November evening, cold and with a heavy rain
beating against the windows of the Minot kitchen, and a wind which
shrieked and howled about the corners and gables of the old house,
rattled every loose shingle, and set the dry bones of the wisteria vine
scratching and thumping against the walls. The water was thrown in
bucketfuls against the ancient panes and poured from the sashes as if
the latter were miniature dams in flood time.

Sears sat by the kitchen stove, smoking and trying to read. He could
make a success of the smoking, but the attempt at reading was a failure.
It was so much easier to think, so much easier to let his thoughts dwell
upon his own