“I don’t know that I am, altogether,” she said. “I’ve been rather expectin’ you, if you want to know.” Townsend swung about in the rocker. “You have!” he exclaimed, sharply. “What do you mean by that?” “I mean what I say. I don’t _know_ what you’ve come for, but I might guess, maybe. Most of us have got a conscience somewheres on the premises, even if some of us have kept it packed away up-attic so long we’ve pretty nigh forgot it.” The captain regarded her with what appeared to be sincere, if somewhat grudging, admiration. “You’re a smart woman, Reliance Clark,” he declared. “Yes, you are! If Freeling had had sense enough to pick you out instead of-- Well, well! there’s no use wasting breath about that.... You say you’ve guessed what I’ve come here for. If you have perhaps Esther hasn’t. I’m going to make her a proposition. I don’t expect her to answer it, one way or the other, to-night. I want to make it; then I want her and you, Reliance, to think it over and talk it over between you. When you’ve done that you can say yes or no. Esther,” turning to the girl once more, “how would you like to come up to my house and live with me?” The question, thus bluntly put, had a varied effect upon his listeners. Millard Clark’s eyes and mouth opened and he gasped audibly. His half-sister nodded two or three times, as if with satisfaction at finding her suspicions confirmed. Esther gazed at the speaker in mute bewilderment. Townsend looked from one to the other and smiled. “So you had guessed right, had you, Reliance,” he observed. “Well, whether you had or not, there it is. I am lonesome in that big house of mine, lonesome as the devil. I don’t suppose I’m what you’d call a sentimental man; I try to use my common sense and face what can’t be helped in a sensible way, but since Mother died I’m lonesome. For the last week I’ve been making up my mind what to do. I might travel, I suppose, but when I went to sea I cruised a whole lot and there wouldn’t be much that was new to look at and no satisfaction in looking at it alone. And I’d rather stay at home, anyhow. This is my town. I helped to make it grow and I’m more interested in it, and the folks in and around it, than I am in anything else. I might move out of my house to a smaller one, but I won’t. Mother and I built that house together. She thought the world of it and so do I. She lived in it till she died and that’s what I want to do. But I’d rather not live in it by myself. I want somebody to talk to and to talk to me, and I’d rather have a Townsend than anybody else. So I thought of Esther. If she wants to, she can move up there and call it home. I’ll look out for her and be as decent as I can to her. She can have all the things she wants--things she can’t have now--and all the money she wants--all I think it good for her to have, anyhow. What I’m trying to say is,” he added, with deliberate emphasis, “that, if you, Esther, come to live with me you’ll be the same as my daughter.