"
"Oh, you hesh!" exclaimed his wife.
But Sheila giggled delightedly. The way Cap'n Ira handled the
several visitors who thereafter came to Wreckers' Head continued to
amuse the girl immensely. Nor did the visits cease. The Ball
homestead was no longer a lonely habitation. Somebody was forever
"just stopping by," as the expression ran; and the path from the
port was trodden brown and sere as autumn drew on apace.
CHAPTER XIV
THE HARVEST HOME FESTIVAL
It was not that Sheila Macklin had no graver moments. There were
nights when, in spite of her healthful weariness of body, arising
from the work of the household, she lay awake for long hours of
restless, anxious thought. And sometimes her pillow was wet with
tears. Yet she was not of a lachrymose disposition. She could not
invent imaginary troubles or build in her mind gibbets on which
remorse and sorrow might hang in chains.
Indeed, how could she be sorrowful? Why should she feel remorse? She
had taken another girl's name and claim of parentage, and she filled
a place which the other girl might have had. But the rightful owner
of the name had scorned this refuge. The real Ida May Bostwick had
no appreciation of what the Balls had to offer, and she had been
unwilling even to open communication with her relatives down on the
Cape.
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