t--but I don't know as I shall be up this way to-morrow, Cap'n
Ira. Though maybe I shall." And he glanced again at the smiling
girl.

"Course you will, or next day at the latest," said the old man
stoutly. "I can see plainly that you ain't going to neglect Prue and
me no more. And I shall want that snuff."

"Well--er--Cap'n--"

"If you don't come," pursued the perfectly sober captain, "you can
hand the snuff to Andy Roby, or to Josh Jones, or to 'most any of
the boys. They'll be up this way pretty near every day, I shouldn't
wonder."

Zebedee took the hint and the dime.

He was no "slow coach" if he was longshore bred. He got the chance
of carrying another heavy basket of clothes out to the lines for
Sheila, who rewarded him with a smile, and then he nodded to the old
man as he left.

"I'll bring that snuff myself, Cap'n Ira," he assured him.

"Don't it beat all?" queried the captain, shaking his head
reflectively, as he resumed his seat. "Don't it beat all? For old
folks, Prue, we do certainly seem to be popular."

"Oh, you hesh!" exclaimed his wife.

But Sheila giggled delightedly. The way Cap'n Ira handled the
several visitors who thereafter came to Wreckers' Head continued to
amuse the girl immensely. Nor did the visits cease. The Ball
homestead was no longer a lonely habitation. Somebody was forever
"just stopping by," as the expression ran; and the path from the
port was trodden brown and sere as autumn drew on apace.

CHAPTER XIV

THE HARVEST HOME FESTIVAL

It was not that Sheila Macklin had no graver moments. There were
nights when, in spite of her healthful weariness of body, arising
from the work of the household, she lay awake for long hours of
restless, anxious thought. And sometimes her pillow was wet with
tears. Yet she was not of a lachrymose disposition. She could not
invent imaginary troubles or build in her mind gibbets on which
remorse and sorrow might hang in chains.

Indeed, how could she be sorrowful? Why should she feel remorse? She
had taken another girl's name and claim of parentage, and she filled
a place which the other girl might have had. But the rightful owner
of the name had scorned this refuge. The real Ida May Bostwick had
no appreciation of what the Balls had to offer, and she had been
unwilling even to open communication with her relatives down on the
Cape.

Besides, Tunis Latham always cheered the girl who was playing an
imposter's part with the declaratio