"
"To ask for an interview, Caleb," pursued Mr. Fogo, drawing himself
up suddenly, while his eyes fairly gleamed behind his spectacles.
"Here I am, my past wrecked and all its cargo of ambitions scattered
on the sands, and yet--and yet I feel tonight that I could thank that
woman. Do you understand?"
"I reckon I do," said Caleb, rising heavily and making for the door.
He stopped with his hand on the door, and turning, observed his
master for a minute or so without remark. At last he said abruptly--
"Pleasant dreams to 'ee, sir: an' two knacks 'pon the floor ef I be
wanted. Good-night, sir." And with this he was gone.
Mr. Fogo stood for some moments listening to his footsteps as they
shuffled down the stairs. Then with a sigh he turned to his
writing-case, pulled a straw-bottomed chair before the rickety table,
and sat for a while, pen in hand, pondering.
Before he had finished, his candle was low in its socket, and the
floor around him littered with scraps of torn paper. He sealed the
envelope, blew out the candle, and stepped to the window.
"I wonder if she has changed," he said to himself.
Outside, the summer moon had risen above the hill facing him, and the
near half of the creek was ablaze with silver. The old schooner
still lay in shadow, but the water rushing from her hold kept a
perpetual music.
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