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“Don’t say a word, sir,” protested Mrs. Lunn. “You can get you just as good housekeepers as I am. I don’t feel to change my situation just at present, sir.”

“Is that final?” said Captain Shaw, looking crestfallen. “Come now, Maria! I’m a good-hearted man, I’m worth over forty thousand dollars, and I’ll make you a good husband, I promise. Here’s the minister on your hands, I know. I did feel all ashore when I found you’d promised to take him in. I tried to get a chance to speak with you before you went off, but when I come home from New York ‘t was the first news I heard. I don’t deem it best for you; you can’t make nothin’ out o’ one boarder, anyway. I tried it once myself.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Shaw,” said Mrs. Lunn coldly; “I know my own business best. You have had my answer, sir.” She added in a more amiable tone, “Not but what I feel obliged to you for payin’ me the compliment.”

There was a sudden loud knocking at the side door, which startled our friends extremely. They looked at each other with apprehension; then Mrs. Lunn slowly rose and answered the summons.

The gentle voice of the giant was heard without. “Oh, Mis’ Lunn,” said Captain Crowe excitedly, “I saw some elegant mackerel brought ashore, blown up from the south’ard, I expect, though so late in the season; and I recalled that you once found some acceptable. I thought ‘t would help you out.”

“I’m obliged to you, Captain Crowe,” said the mistress of the house; “and to think of your bringin’ ’em yourself this drenchin’ day! I take it very neighborly, sir.” Her tone was entirely different from that in which she had conducted so decisive a conversation with the guest in the sitting-room. They heard the front door bang just as Captain Crowe entered with his fish.

“Was that the wind sprung up so quick?” he inquired, alert to any change of weather.

“I expect it was Captain Shaw, just leavin’,” said Mrs. Lunn angrily. “He’s always full o’ business, ain’t he? No wonder those children of his are without manners.” There was no favor in her tone, and the spirits of Captain Crowe were for once equal to his height.

The daylight was fading fast. The mackerel were deposited in their proper place, and the donor was kindly bidden to come in and sit down. Mrs. Lunn’s old-fashioned sitting-room was warm and pleasant, and the big captain felt that his moment had come; the very atmosphere was encouraging. He was sitting in the rocking-chair, and she had taken her place by the window. There was a pause; the captain remembered how he had felt once in the China Seas just before a typhoon struck the ship.

“Maria,” he said huskily, his voice sounding as if it came from the next room,–“Maria, I s’pose you know what I’m thinkin’ of?”

“I don’t,” said Mrs. Lunn, with cheerful firmness. “Cap’n Crowe, I know it ain’t polite to talk about your goin’ when you’ve just come in; but when you do go, I’ve got something I want to send over to your sister Eliza.”

The captain gasped; there was something in her tone that he could not fathom. He began to speak, but his voice failed him altogether. There she sat, perfectly self-possessed, just as she looked every day.

“What are you payin’ now for potatoes, sir?” continued Mrs. Lunn.

“Sixty cents a bushel for the last, ma’am,” faltered the captain. “I wish you’d hear to me, Maria,” he burst out. “I wish”–

“Now don’t, cap’n,” urged the pleasant little woman. “I’ve made other arrangements. At any rate,” she added, with her voice growing more business-like than ever,–“at any rate, I deem it best to wait until the late potatoes come into market; they seem to keep better.”

The typhoon had gone past, but the captain waited a moment, still apprehensive. Then he took his hat, and slowly and sadly departed without any words of farewell. In spite of his lame foot he walked some distance beyond his own house, in a fit of absent-mindedness that was born of deep regret. It was impossible to help respecting Mrs. Lunn’s character and ability more than ever. “Oh! them ministers, them ministers!” he groaned, turning in at his high white gate between the tall posts with their funeral urns.