"Father Captain," she said, after a silence, "what were you painting again for?"
"Oh, well," he answered, with an uneasy shift, "ye see, She's kind o' poorly. Took to her bed again."
"Oh, I'm sorry," replied the girl. Her manner became constrained and timid. "Is—is there anything I can do? I'd come in and see her if—if there was."
Both understood the futility of that offer.
"No, thank ye, Joyce," said the captain. "Don't know the' is. Thank ye. How's the organ play now, sence I mended it?"
"Oh, it's beautiful," she cried, with evident relief. "You made it almost like new. There's only one bad wheeze now. You stopped the worst rumble."
"That's good," he said. "I 'll come hear ye play nex' Sunday,—if She's all right by then."
He watched the girl as with light-footed swing she passed down the grass-grown street. "Clears the ground like—like a filly," he grumbled, his eyes twinkling affection.
