“WOULD I? Hosy, how you talk! You know I've been crazy to go ever since I was a little girl. I don't know what makes me so. Perhaps it's the salt water in my blood. All our folks were sailors and ship captains. They went everywhere. I presume likely it takes more than one generation to kill off that sort of thing.” “And you really want to go?” “Of course I do.” “Then why haven't you gone? You could afford to take a moderate-priced tour.” Hephzy laughed over her knitting. “I guess,” she said, “I haven't gone for the reason you haven't, Hosy. You could afford, it, too--you know you could. But how could I go and leave you? Why, I shouldn't sleep a minute wonderin' if you were wearin' clothes without holes in 'em and if you changed your flannels when the weather changed and ate what you ought to, and all that. You've been so--so sort of dependent on me and I've been so used to takin' care of you that I don't believe either of us would be happy anywhere without the other. I know certain sure _I_ shouldn't.” I did not answer immediately. The idea, the amazing, ridiculous idea which had burst upon me suddenly began to lose something of its absurdity. Somehow it began to look like the answer to my riddle. I realized that my main objection to the Campbell prescription had been that I must take it alone or with strangers. And now-- “Hephzy,” I demanded, “would you go away--on a trip abroad--with me?” She put down the knitting. “Hosy Knowles!” she exclaimed. “WHAT are you talkin' about?” “But would you?” “I presume likely I would, if I had the chance; but it isn't likely that--where are you goin'?” I did not answer. I hurried out of the sitting-room and out of the house. When I returned I found her still knitting. The circular lay on the floor at her feet. She regarded me anxiously. “Hosy,” she demanded, “where--” I interrupted. “Hephzy,” said I, “I have been to the station to send a telegram.” “A telegram? A TELEGRAM! For mercy sakes, who's dead?” Telegrams in Bayport usually mean death or desperate illness. I laughed. “No one is dead, Hephzy,” I replied. “In fact it is barely possible that someone is coming to life. I telegraphed Mr. Campbell to engage passage for you and me on some steamer leaving for Europe next week.” Hephzibah turned pale. The partially knitted sock dropped beside the circular. “Why--why--what--?” she gasped. “On a steamer leaving next week,” I repeated. “You want to travel, Hephzy. Jim says I must. So we'll travel together.” She did not believe I meant it, of course, and it took a long time to convince her. But when at last she began to believe--at least to the extent of believing that I had sent the telegram--her next remark was characteristic. “But I--I can't go, Hosy,” declared Hephzibah. “I CAN'T. Who--who would take care of the cat and the hens?” CHAPTER IV In Which Hephzy and I and the Plutonia Sail Together