“I never saw that child,” said Betsy. “No. There’s another generation comin’ up. He won’t be able to tell Mrs. Bachelder who’s havin’ breakfast with me; and when she comes home from Portland she’ll get a letter tellin’ her she’s lost her job.” “I’ll write it,” said Betsy. “She’s a good soul.” “You’ll write it!” The captain was standing, and he paused, a cup and saucer in each hand, and gazed at her admiringly. “Clever Betsy! and she’s mine.” “She’s taken good care of you, Hiram. I want her to know we appreciate it.” “We!” repeated the radiant man. “You care that I’ve been took good care of, Betsy?” The coffee had restored some energy to the guest. She gave her one-sided smile. “I do wish, Hiram,” she said deprecatingly, “that you wouldn’t feel you’ve got so much in gettin’ me.” To her consternation he dropped the gold-banded old china he had been holding. Both cups fell in tinkling pieces on the ground as he wiped his eyes, and blew his nose lustily. “O Hiram!” she cried, starting. “Never mind, dear.” The man’s breath caught. “I didn’t notice. I had to work at the pumps. Our ship o’ matrimony is bein’ launched. Let’s say we broke ’em on purpose over it. Nothin’ was too good. Set still.” And Betsy did. She leaned back against the calico cushion and let her faithful lover carry away the table, while she watched the sea, and breathed the sumptuous perfume of the sweet peas. The last thing Hiram carried into the house was the traveling-bag. Her hand went out to it involuntarily as he picked it up; but he looked at her, and she leaned back again, and let it go. At last he took his knife, and going about the flowers, cut a large bunch of white sweet peas. These he tied with a piece of linen thread, and Betsy smiled as he gave them to her. He watched while she fastened them in the front of her white waist. “Are you ready now?” he asked. For answer she rose, and together they moved down to the floating wharf, and Hiram handed her into the row-boat by which they went out to the Clever Betsy. It took some time to unfurl the sails and put them up, and Betsy went into the little cabin and made acquaintance with her namesake. It was queer, she thought, that it didn’t seem queerer to be here, and irresponsible of all things earthly except Hiram. Even Rosalie did not need her. Last night’s arraignment was proof positive of her success. Her duty was here now, and nowhere else; and the wonderful feature of the position was that it seemed so natural, and—yes, so sweet. As the boat bounded forward, borne on strong white wings, Betsy’s heart seemed to soar also into some new and freer region. Some wireless message from a New England ancestry reached her. “Is it right to be so happy?” she asked herself. Suddenly she turned and met Hiram’s eyes. “This is a long leg, Betsy,” he said quietly. “Come over and sit against this cushion. I want to get my hand on ye and know it ain’t a dream.” “Yes, it’s right!” answered Betsy’s heart, and she obeyed.