misdemeanours of Sally. The sparse hair was so tightly drawn into its knob that it seemed as if coiffured by some instrument of the Spanish inquisitors whom she resembled, or rather the iron union of one of those mediæval fanatics and some Puritan dame with a tight-corseted soul. She was forever making life a perpetual inquisition for herself and others, forever straightlacing their souls.
This championship of Philip by Cap'n Bluster was a little puzzling, for deep under the last layer of his crusty old heart was a selfish affection for the girl, and, though he rarely faced the fact, he at least subconsciously realized how barren the house would be of all life and colour and joy if she passed over its portal. Perhaps the foolish old Boltwood grudge had something to do with it, more likely the fact that her coldness to the Huntington heir made the catastrophe remote—but then, of course, Captain had a lee eye on that Huntington fortune.
All through the meal he annoyed her by constant innuendo which he meant to be subtle but which was only sly. She said nothing until Aunt Abigail was locked in rigid slumber, and she herself was sitting on the arm of the old Washington rocker. The firelight softened the stiffness of the oval portraits on the wall and the picture of Nelson s victory; flickered on the model of the ship on the mantel, the heavy side-board with its huge lobster-shaped tureen and the blue willow-ware; and wove fantastic patterns in the variegated rag-carpet on the floor.
But the comfort and cheer of the hour vanished when he took up again the thread that meandered through
