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“Then I will send for the gal. Perhaps you’re right, ma’am. I’ve slept myself into the doldrums. Whoo! whoo! ” he said, loudly–anything to gain a little time. “Anything you say, ma’am,” he protested. “I’ve got to step down-town on some business,” and the captain fled with ponderous footsteps out through the dining-room to the little side entry where he hung his hat; then a moment later he went away, clicking his cane along the narrow sidewalk.

He had escaped that time, and wrote the brief note to his great-niece, Ann Ball–how familiar the name looked!–with a sense of victory. He dreaded the next interview with his housekeeper, but she was business-like and self-possessed, and seemed to be giving him plenty of time. Then the captain regretted his letter, and felt as if he were going to be broken up once more in his home comfort. He spoke only when it was absolutely necessary, and simply nodded his head when Mrs. French said that she was ready to start as soon as she showed the young woman about the house. But what favorite dishes were served the captain in those intervening days! and there was one cool evening beside, when the housekeeper had the social assistance of a fire in the Franklin stove. The captain thought that his only safety lay in sleep, and promptly took that means of saving himself from a dangerous conversation. He even went to a panorama on Friday night, a diversion that would usually be quite beneath his dignity. It was difficult to avoid asking Mrs. French to accompany him, she helped him on with his coat so pleasantly, but “she’d git her claws on me comin’ home perhaps,” mused the self-distrustful mariner, and stoutly went his way to the panorama alone. It was a very dull show indeed, and he bravely confessed it, and then was angry at a twinkle in Mrs. French’s eyes. Yet he should miss the good creature, and for the life of him he could not think lightly of her. “She well knows how able she is to do for me. Women-folks is cap’ns ashore,” sighed the captain as he went upstairs to bed.

“Women-folks is cap’ns ashore,” he repeated, in solemn confidence to one of his intimate friends, as they stood next day on one of the deserted wharves, looking out across the empty harbor roads. There was nothing coming in. How they had watched the deep-laden ships enter between the outer capes and drop their great sails in home waters! How they had ruled those ships, and been the ablest ship-masters of their day, with nobody to question their decisions! There is no such absolute monarchy as a sea-captain’s. He is a petty king, indeed, as he sails the high seas from port to port.

There was a fine easterly breeze and a bright sun that day, but Captain Ball came toiling up the cobble-stoned street toward his house as if he were vexed by a headwind. He carried a post-card between his thumb and finger, and grumbled aloud as he stumped along. “Mis’ French!” he called, loudly, as he opened the door, and that worthy woman appeared with a floured apron, and a mind divided between her employer’s special business and her own affairs of pie-making.

“She’s coming this same day,” roared the captain. “Might have given some notice, I’m sure. ‘Be with you Saturday afternoon,’ and signed her name. That’s all she’s written. Whoo! whoo! ’tis a dreadful close day,” and the poor old fellow fumbled for his big silk handkerchief. “I don’t know what train she’ll take. I ain’t going to hang round up at the depot; my rheumatism troubles me.”

“I wouldn’t, if I was you,” answered Mrs. French, shortly, and turned from him with a pettish movement to open the oven door.

The captain passed into the sitting-room, and sat down heavily in his large chair. On the wall facing him was a picture of his old ship the Ocean Rover leaving the harbor of Bristol. It was not valuable as a marine painting, but the sea was blue in that picture, and the white canvas all spread to the very sky-scrapers; it was an emblem of that freedom which Captain Asaph Ball had once enjoyed. Dinner that day was a melancholy meal, and after it was cleared away the master of the house forlornly watched Mrs. French gather an armful of her own belongings, and mount the stairs as if she were going to pack her box that very afternoon. It did not seem possible that she meant to leave before Monday, but the captain could not bring himself to ask any questions. He was at the mercy of womankind. “A jiggeting girl. I don’t know how to act with her. She sha’n’t rule me,” he muttered to himself. “She and Mis’ French may think they’ve got things right to their hands, but I’ll stand my ground–I’ll stand my ground,” and the captain gently slid into the calmer waters of his afternoon nap.