Marianne, she knew, wished all boys to think her the most charming girl they had ever met, and though Gene was polite, he had not been devoted.
“Poor brother,” Helen thought, as she glanced at his face, pale in spite of its recent tanning. Aloud she said: “Gene, this is the last night that I am going to drag you around to a dance. I know that you ought to just rest, if you are to go back to college next month.”
Gene said nothing, but reached for his sister’s hand and held it in a loving clasp.
It was the first week in February before Captain Ezra thought it wise for him to cross the turbulent waters of the bay. It was indeed necessary for him to make the voyage then, as the oil had dropped to what he called “low tide mark,” and after that the faithful keeper of the light never delayed longer than necessary before refilling the tank.
The wind had subsided and the sun came out, revealing the island white with drifts of snow, and, too, there was ice on the stairs leading down to the little wharf. The ever-thoughtful Muriel, upon hearing her grand-dad say that he must go down and get the dory out of the boathouse, skipped ahead with a kettle of boiling water, and, after thawing the ice, swept the steps dry that her grand-dad might not slip.
The old man, coming out of the house just then, his fur cap drawn over his ears and his red knitted muffler tied about his neck, looked lovingly at the girl who always seemed to be planning something for his comfort or happiness.
Why, just then, he should have thought of Muriel’s father whom he had “robbed,” as Barney put it, he could not have told. What that father had lost no one knew better than Captain Ezra. “Ho! Rilly gal, yo’ve swabbed the decks clean, I snum.” Then he added: “Fust mate, I cal’late yo’d better get under cover. It’s cold enough to freeze a volcano, ’pears like.”
As he spoke, his breath frosted on the nipping air. The girl, rosy cheeked, was without hat or coat, and so, kissing her grand-dad on the tip of his nose (little else was visible) and telling him not to slip, and to be sure to bring her a pocketful of letters, she darted indoors.
She felt radiantly happy that glorious morning, and if she had been familiar with the poems of Robert Browning she would have sung, “God’s in His Heaven; all’s right with the world!” But, instead, her wordless song reverberated through the small house until her tasks were finished; then, putting on her leggins, her crimson tam and sweater-coat, and taking a small bag of bread crumbs, she waded through the snow to the cliff to try to find her feathered friends.