“Mornin’, boys; mornin’, little ones; mornin’, Miss Amy,” said the captain, regardless alike of my seniority to the rest of the group, and of any claims of social position over the servants. “Where’s pa?” This to me.

“Mr. Livingstone is out driving,” I answered, with what I intended to be crushing dignity; for, much as I liked Captain Yorke, it always vexed me to have my father and mother spoken of thus familiarly.

“Ma in, then?” he asked, quite unabashed; and indeed, quite unconscious of any reproof.

“No; Mrs. Livingstone is with Mr. Livingstone,” I answered again.

“Wal,” drawled the captain, “that’s likely enough. If ye see one on ’em drivin’ or walkin’ roun’, you’re like enough to see t’other, for they’re lover-like yet, if they has got a big fam’ly part grown up. I declar’, yer pa an’ ma is as like me an’ Mis’ Yorke as two peas is like two more peas, allus kind of hankerin’ to be together, jes’ as if we was all young folks yet, an’ doin’ our courtin’. Not that pa an’ ma is sech old folks as me an’ Mis’ Yorke, but they’ll get to it bimeby if they lives long enough.”

I passed over the compliment to my parents without comment, merely asking,

“Can you leave your message with me, captain?”

“‘Twill keep,” he answered; “an’ I’ve got a bit of business with Jim here. Yer projeck ain’t no secret, be it, Jim?”

“No,” replied Jim. “I was just tellin’ Miss Amy, an’ askin’ her to do up the sums about it; but” lowering his voice, and ignorant of the laws of acoustics, by virtue of which I heard every word from my position “she ain’t none too smart at sums if she has had such a lot of schoolin’, an’ she didn’t make it out real nice and clear like. But you can speak out. She knows, an’ is agreeble, an’ says she’ll help. She’s awful generous, like the rest of ’em, Miss Amy is.”

With this little salve to the wounds which my filial pride and personal vanity had received, he raised his voice once more, quite unnecessarily, and continued,

“Miss Amy, Captain Yorke’s got somethin’ to say’ bout what we was just talkin’ of. Go on, captain; Miss Amy don’t mind.”

“I was jes’ goin’ to tell you what I been an’ done,” drawled the old man, raising his hat with one hand, and rubbing up his grizzled locks with the other, as was his wont when he was talking at length, he generally did talk at length when he talked at all. “You’ve jes’ about made up yer mind to do that undertakin’, haven’t yeou? That peanut-undertakin’, I mean.”

Jim gave a prompt and decided assent.

“All right. So far so good, an’ better too,” said the captain, rather illogically; “for if you hadn’t, maybe I’d a been a little too forehanded, as it were; but it was my opinions you’d made up yer mind for it, so I acted accordin’ an’ brought ’em along.”

“Brought who along?” asked Jim impatiently.

“I’m jes’ goin’ to tell ye,” continued the old man. “Don’t yeou be in too great a hurry. Things takes time to tell when there’s any thin’ in ‘em worth tellin’; not that I’m no great hand on a long story, for I allers was a man of few words; an’ Mis’ Yorke she can allers tell a story more to the pint than me, or than any one I know on bless her heart.” Certainly the old man’s loyalty to, and affection for, his dear motherly wife was beautiful to see and hear. “But she ain’t here to tell, an’, what’s more, she don’t know nothin’ ’bout it to tell. She ain’t the kind to go on talkin’, talkin’ ’bout things she don’t know nothin’ ‘bout; or, s’pose she does know somethin’ ’bout ’em, to go yarnin’, yarnin’ on forever an’ a day, an’ never gettin’ to the pint, like to Mis’ Clay, ye’ve seen Mis’ Clay, ain’t ye? She’s Mis’ Yorke’s cousin, comes over from Millville now an’ then, an’ the powerfullest han’ to talk, an’ never comin’ to the pint, an’ never givin’ anybody else the chance.”

Mrs. Clay was the captain’s pet grievance, and almost the only person of whom we ever heard him speak disparagingly; his objection to her probably being founded on the ground that she never gave him “a chance.”

“Such a tongue,” rambled on the captain, “an’ so fast an’ confused like she’s wuss than the Tower of Babel itself, an’ jes’ as like to scatter the folks what’s livin’ around her. But if ye’ve got a thing to tell that’s got a pint, folks mostly likes to hear the ins an’ outs of it, ‘thout the trouble of askin’ no questions, an’ I’d as lieve tell ’em to ’em. So I’ll tell ye all about it, Jim, an’ all of ye.”

“Well, if it’s any thin’ about my business, would you mind havin’ it out right quick, Cap?” said Jim.

“An’ ain’t I a doin’ it?” responded the captain. “Don’t be in sech a hurry, boy. I got to get my breath to talk, after walkin’ up the hill for to rest Sanky Pansy a bit, for the cart was powerful full this mornin’, an’ he did have a load, an’ he’s gettin’ old an’ has to be eased off a bit like myself, an’ I felt kind of blowed an’ puffy-like. Soon’s I can talk good, I will. Young folks is allers got to be impatient. There’s my darter, Matildy Jane, she ain’t none too patient, you know leastways, not onless it’s with you, Jim,” here a wink of the eye at Jim made evident the playful irony of the exception, for Jim was Matilda’s bête noir, and a chronic warfare waged between the two, “an’ she says to me this mornin’, says she, ‘Pa,’ says she, an’ ye might think I hadn’t never learned her the Ten Comman’ments, leastways the one about honorin’ her father an’ mother; but young folks is different behaved from what they was in my day at least them’s my opinions. I was jest a tellin’ her an’ Mis’ Yorke how Peter Slade got his boat capsized last night; an’ ‘Pa,’ says she, ’it’s time my bread was took out of the oven, an’ if you’ve got any thin’ to say’ I declar’, Miss Amy, if she didn’t give me a message about yer clothes; how when the wind riz up last night, some of ’em was carried off the lines into the sand, an’ she had ’em to wash over again, an’ wouldn’t have ’em home jes’ up to time. Now, where was I, Jim?”

“Out on the sands, an’ upset in Slade’s boat, an’ talkin’ to Matilda Jane; an’ where you’re goin’ to is more than me or any one else can tell, Cap,” answered Jim, saucily. “You started to tell us something about my peanut-business, I believe; but you’ve got considerable off the line.”

“To-o be sure, to-o be sure,” said the old man, no whit offended or displeased by the boy’s pertness; for the spirit of bon camaraderie which existed between them was not easily disturbed. “Well, now, I’m jes’ comin’ to it right spang off. Well, ye see, I been over to Millville this mornin’ in the boat, accordin’ to custom, when the water ain’t too rough, an’ bein’ off extry early, too, for I’d more ’n common to market for, Mis’ Douglas she told me to bring her cowcumbers for picklin’; an’ Mis’ Stewart she wanted some chany dishes an’ some glasses outer the crockery store, an’ that’s considerable way from the dock, you know; an’ Mis’ Yorke she gimme some bit of flannen she wanted matched, an’ such like arrands takes time. So I says, says I, I’ll jes’ run over to the station an’ see what’s doin’ there, more by token, as it was near time for the express, an’ it kind of livens ye up a bit to see them express-trains come in, they’re nice an’ bustlin’ like, with a sort of go in ’em; an’ after she come in, there was a freight-train come, an’ there was lots of freight put off, an’ guess what I see, Jim, among it.”

“Peanuts, I suppose,” answered Jim, “an’ I guess I’ll get at the whole story jest as quick by guessing it out myself, as by waitin’ for you, Cap.”

The captain gave Jim a friendly nod, still no whit disturbed by the freedom of his criticisms, and rambled on again,

“Yes, peanuts, bags of ’em, half a dozen or more, I reckon, though I didn’t take the trouble to count ’em; an’ the way I foun’ out how do ye s’pose I knew what was in them bags?”

“Smelled ’em,” said Jim; “Sampled ’em,” said Bill, in a breath.

“How was I to sample ’em when they was I mean, if they was fastened up in the bags?” continued the captain; “nor it wasn’t no smell, either. There ain’t much smell outer peanuts ‘thout they’re cookin’. Mis’ Yorke, she’s a master hand to roast peanuts, does ’em jes’ to a turn, an’ then ye can smell ’em clear down to the beach, an’ fustrate it is, too. I’d rather smell ’em than all the fine parfumery things they puts up in bottles.”

“What about the peanuts?” urged Jim. “Then how did you know, an’ what did you do? Hurry up.”

“There was a feller one of the freight-hands a pitchin’ of the things outer the cars; an’ one of them bags hit against a barrow stood there, an’ got cut right through, the bag did, an’ what do you s’pose come a pourin’ outer that bag, Jim?”

“Think I can guess that riddle. Peanuts,” answered Jim.

“Yes, peanuts,” said the captain; “an’ it was a lucky thing for Sam Bates, to who they was consigned, that there wasn’t a raft of youngsters roun’ that freight-house as there is most times of the day. There’s a Sunday-school clam-bake comin’ off up to the Pint to-day, an’ I reckon most of the Millville boys was gettin’ ready for to go to that, so they wasn’t on hand. Sam himself was there, though, an’ it beat all, the takin’ he was in over them peanuts; an’, to be sure, it was enough to make any creetur’ mad, to see them good peanuts go rollin’ an’ hoppin’ over the platform, an’ Sam he in a’ awful hurry to load up an’ go home, for he’s a darter gettin’ married this arternoon. Ye didn’t never hear about Sam Bates’ darter, an’ her city young man, did ye? Well, ye see, Sam Bates’ darter, her that is called ”

“But the peanuts; tell us what became of the peanuts first, Cap,” interrupted Jim, determined to check the old sailor’s wanderings, and keep him to the “pint.”

“Why, ye see,” meandered on the captain, “when I see them peanuts a-rollin’ round, an’ Sam in that takin’, I says to myself, Sam ain’t got no time to lose a-pickin’ up of them peanuts, an’ maybe he’d be glad to get rid of ’em for what he give for ’em an’ no profits, an’ let Jim have the profits, an’ no freight to pay on ’em but me to get ’em picked up. ‘Sam,’ says I, as he was fussin’ round, ‘the Scriptur’ says,’ Sam’s a deacon in the church, an’ I thought mebbe a little Scriptur’ would fetch him, and keep the price down, ’the Scriptur’ says, Whatever a man can get, therewith let him be content; an’ I take it the moral of that is, make the best of a bad bargain. An’ there’s another teks that says, Don’t ye fret over spilt milk; an’, bein’ a pillar of the church, I reckon you’d like to practise ’em, an’ let your light shine afore men.’ Now if there’s one thing more’n another that Sam prides himself on, its bein’ a deacon, an’ livin’ up to it; an’ my speakin’ Scriptur’ to him was jest a word in season, for he quiets down an’ falls to reckonin’. ’Give ’em to me for what you give by the lot, an’ throw in the freight,’ says I, seein’ he meant to make on ’em, ‘an’ I’ll take ’em an’ see to the pickin’ ’em up, an’ you can load up the cart an’ start off home.’ He jes’ took to it at once, for, with the lot he had, one bag didn’t make so much differ out half a dozen he buys ‘em that way mostly, for ye know he keeps a’ eatin’ house; temperance strict it is, up to Stony Beach, where there’s lots of clambakes an’ picnics holdin’ all the time, an’ the folks eats heaps of peanuts. So Sam came to my terms, an’ I made thirty cents on the bag of nuts, an’ the freight throwed in for ye, Jim; an’ me an’ Taylor an’ Shepherd picked up all the nuts, an’ I brought ’em along in a basket Taylor lent me.”

Jim turned expectant eyes towards the donkey-cart.

“No,” said Captain Yorke, seeing the direction of his glance, “they bean’t here in the cart, nor nowheres here; they’re down into the lighthouse. Perry was comin’ over in his boat ‘thout no load; an’, as I was pretty well filled up, he brought ’em over, an’ he’s took ’em to his own landin’. Soon’s I’m rid of my load I’ll go after ’em. Hello!” as a blue-coated, brass-buttoned boy from the chief hotel of the place came running into our grounds, and up to the house. “Hello, here’s a telegraph for some on ye! Hope ’tain’t no bad news. I don’t like them telegraphs; ill news comes fast enough of its own accord, an’ good news is jes’ as good for a little keepin’, an’ ain’t goin’ to spile. Mis’ Yorke she says ”

But Mrs. Yorke’s sayings, valuable though they might be, were lost upon me as I took the yellow-covered message from the hand of the messenger. Telegrams were matters of such almost daily occurrence in our family that the sight of one rarely excited any apprehension; and, as all of our immediate household were at present here at our seaside home, I knew that the message could bring no ill news of any one of them. But my heart sank as I saw that this was a cablegram, for a dearly loved uncle and aunt were over the sea, and my fears were at once excited for them.

But fear was quickly changed to joy when, opening the cablegram in the absence of my parents, to whom it was addressed, I read these words,

“We take ‘Scythia’ to-morrow for home, direct to you at the Point. All well.”

As we had not expected the dear absentees for at least six weeks or perhaps two months, this news was not only a relief, but a joyful surprise, and I gave a little shriek of delight, which called forth eager inquiries from the children, while Captain Yorke and Bill and Jim were alert to catch my answer.

“Uncle Rutherford and aunt Emily are coming home, now, right away; they will be here in a week or so, and they are coming to us, here to this house!” I exclaimed, waving aloft the paper, in the exuberance of my joy.

Daisy forgot her downfall, and her bandaged head, as she and Allie seized one another by the hands, and went capering up and down the piazza in an improvised dance; and Captain Yorke’s face beamed, as he said,

“That’s the best news I’ve heered this summer, leastways next to hearin’ Jim was likely to get well that time, for the Pint ain’t the Pint when the Governor and the Madam ain’t on to it. But, Miss Amy, I wouldn’t be for turnin’ your folks out afore ye’d go to the city anyhow; for, take ye for all in all, ye’re a pretty likely set, an’ I’d miss Jim an’ Bill a heap.”

There was no fear of that: we were tenants for the season in the dear old seaside homestead, where we had been guests for more or less of every previous summer; and the beloved uncle and aunt whose home-coming from a European trip we were now rejoicing over, would, in their turn, be now our much prized and welcome visitors. It would not be for long, however; for, to the great regret of the whole household, our summer sojourn by the sea would in a few weeks come to a close. I said the whole household; but there was one exception, for father had privately sighed all summer for our own country home, where he had his fancy farm, extensive and beautifully cultivated grounds, and superb old trees in which his soul delighted. We told him that a branch of one of these last was, in his eyes, worth the whole broad ocean, in which his family so revelled; and he did not deny the soft impeachment. But his patience was not to be much longer tried, for we were to spend a couple of months at Oaklands after leaving the seashore, and before we settled down for the winter in our city home. Nevertheless, absence from his beloved Oaklands had been more than compensated for by the roses which the invigorating sea-breezes had brought to the cheeks of the two youngest of the household, Allie and Daisy, who had been brought here pale, feeble, and drooping, from the effects of the scarlet-fever, but who were now more robust than they had been before the dreadful scourge had laid its hand upon them.

Nor had the summer been one of unmixed enjoyment, even to those members of the family who gloried in the sea and the seashore; for circumstances had arisen which had been productive, not only of great anxiety and trouble to us all, but which had involved bodily injury, and all but fatal consequences, to poor Jim. And although his name and character had come out scatheless from the trying ordeal of doubt and suspicion which had fallen upon them at that time, it had been otherwise with those of one who had been received as no other than a favored friend and guest in our household; and a young girl whose advantages had outweighed a thousand-fold those of the once neglected waif rescued by our Milly from a life of evil, had gone forth from among us with a record of shame and wrong-doing which had forfeited, not only her own good name, but also the respect and liking of all who had become cognizant of the shameful tale.

To those who have read “Uncle Rutherford’s Attic,” these circumstances will be familiar; to those who have not, a few words will suffice for explanation.

In the early part of the summer, my aunt, Mrs. Rutherford, had sent to me a pair of very valuable diamond earrings, old family jewels, and an heirloom. They came to me by virtue of my baptismal name, Amy Rutherford, which I had inherited from several successive grandmothers on my mother’s side; the young cousin to whom they would have descended, the only daughter of aunt and uncle Rutherford, having died some years since, when a very little girl. She was exactly of my own age; and this, with the fact that she too was an Amy, had caused me to be regarded by my uncle and aunt, especially the latter, with a peculiar tenderness; and they seemed to feel that to me, the only living representative of the family name once borne by their lost darling, belonged all the rights and privileges which would have fallen to their own Amy Rutherford. It may be imagined how I had prized a gift precious, not only for its own intrinsic value, but for the many associations which clustered about it.

Scarcely, however, had the earrings become my personal property, than there followed in their train such a course of sin, sorrow, and tribulation, that my pleasure in them was quite destroyed; and, for a long time, the very sight of them became hateful to me.

Ella Raymond, a ward of my father’s, and a girl somewhat older than myself, had come to make us a visit just about the time that the beautiful jewels came into my hands. Incited by vanity, and an inordinate love of dress, this unhappy girl had recklessly allowed herself to become heavily involved in debt, debt from which she saw no means of escape, and which she was resolved not to confess to her guardians. The sight of my diamonds aroused within her the desire to possess herself of them, not for her own personal adornment, but that she might dispose of the jewels, replacing them with counterfeit stones, and so obtaining the means to satisfy her creditors.

Unrestrained by principle, honor, or the laws of hospitality, the wish became but the precursor to the actual carrying-out of the evil thought. Thanks to my heedlessness, and the careless way in which I had guarded the earrings, she obtained them with little trouble; and after an amount of duplicity and deceit, terrible and shameful to contemplate in a woman so young, had contrived to carry out her purpose, to have the stones changed, and then to convey the earrings back to my possession, without drawing suspicion upon herself.

Nor, was this the worst; for when, by a most unfortunate series of events, suspicion was forcibly directed toward Jim, she failed to exonerate him by acknowledging her own guilt; and but for the merest accident, which brought about the proverbial “Murder will out” and fixed the crime without a shadow of doubt upon her, would have suffered the innocent boy to bear all the penalties and disgrace which by right belonged to her.

So it will be seen that the summer, spite of its many pleasures and much happiness, had not been without a large share of care and perplexity.

That all this was over, and that our fears for Jim’s moral and physical well-being had come to an end, we were most thankful; and the most of us still clung lovingly to the grand old ocean, and our summer-home on its shore.

But autumn gales would, ere many weeks, be sweeping over this exposed coast; and already the summer-guests were flitting from the large hotels, although the cottagers would probably hold their ground for some little time longer. But what would it matter to us if we should be left the very last of the summer-residents upon the Point, so long as dear aunt and uncle Rutherford were to be with us? They were a host in themselves, especially the latter, who always seemed to pervade the whole house with his jovial, hearty presence, and who was the first of favorites with all the young people of the family.

There would be much for them to hear, too: all the sad story related above in brief, to be told, with all its minor particulars; for it had been kept from them hitherto, as I had been very sensitive on the subject, my own carelessness having been partially in fault, and I had preferred that they should hear nothing of it until their return. Aunt Emily would not have been severe with me, I knew; but I had wished that the face and the voice, which she always associated with her own lost Amy, should speak and plead for my shortcomings in the matter, when it should come to her knowledge. And oh! was I not thankful beyond measure, for her sake, even more than for my own, that the jewels had been recovered, and were once more safe in my own possession, before she learned of the perils they had passed through. If I felt somewhat shamefaced and repentant, as it was, what would it have been if they had been lost beyond recovery!

The joy at the unexpected return of the absentees was not confined to their own family or circle, for the “Governor” uncle Rutherford had years since held that dignity in the State, and was still “the Governor” to all the denizens of the Point was greatly beloved by all who knew him well; and the old residents of the place, which had for so many years been his summer-home, considered themselves to be his intimate acquaintances. He was an authority and a law to each one among them. What “the Governor” did, was invariably right in their eyes; from what “the Governor” said, there was no appeal. He would, indeed, have been a daring man who should question the right or wisdom of uncle Rutherford’s words or deeds in the presence of any of these stanch adherents.

And dear aunt Emily was not less beloved in her way, for the simple people of the Point all but adored her, true, wise friend that she had proved to them; and among them none were more ardent in their devotion and admiration than Captain and Mrs. Yorke.

So it was no wonder that the captain’s face beamed with delight, nor that, being somewhat after the manner of the Athenians of old, who delighted in some new thing to tell or to hear, he should now be in haste to despatch his daily business, and take his departure to spread the news about the Point. Indeed, he would scarcely wait until I who regained my senses before it was too late furnished him with the list for the next day’s supplies, which mother had confided to my keeping. In fact, in the midst of the excitement and pleasant anticipations which uncle Rutherford’s cablegram had called forth, Jim’s “peanut-undertakin’” was for the present entirely lost sight of, unless it was by the lad himself and his faithful chum and ally, Bill.

No need to give here the reasons which had influenced uncle Rutherford’s unexpected return; they were purely of a business nature, and would interest no one else.