“Make a mistake!  How?”

“Cook that baby.  It’s awful!”

“Why, its mother’s there.”

“Yes, but they’ve put her to bed, and its father too.  Hey, here come the lobsters.  Now, Ford”—­

The rest of what he had to say was given in a whisper, and was not even heard by Annie Foster, who was just then looking prettier than ever, as she busied herself around the kitchen-fire.  The bloom that was coming up into her face was a sight worth seeing.  As for the Hart boys, Mrs. Foster had invited them to come into the parlor and talk with her until dinner should be ready.  She added, with her usual smile, that there were cooks enough in the kitchen.

Such a frying and broiling!

Before Ham Morris was ready with his cargo for his trip back to the wreck, and right in the midst of his greatest hurry, word came over from Mrs. Foster that “the table was waiting for them all.”

Even Mrs. Kinzer drew a long breath of relief and satisfaction.  There was nothing more in the wide world that she could do, just then, for either “that baby” or its unfortunate parents; and she was beginning to worry about her son-in-law, and how she should manage to get him to eat something.  For Ham Morris had worked himself into a high state of excitement, in his benevolent haste, and did not seem to know that he was hungry.  Miranda had entirely sympathized with her husband until the arrival of that message from Mrs. Foster.

“O Hamilton!  And good Mrs. Foster must have cooked it all herself!”

“No, Miranda,” said Ham thoughtfully.  “Our Dabney went home with Ford and Annie.  I can’t stay more than a minute, but I think we’d better go right over.  There’s a good many things to come yet, from the village.”

Go they did; while the charitable neighbors whom Ham had stirred up concerning the wreck, attended to the completion of the cargo of “The Swallow.”  More than that was true; for at least one other good and kind-hearted boat would be ready to accompany her on her return trip across the bay, laden with creature comforts of all sorts.

Even old Jock, the village tavern-keeper, not by any means the best man in the world, had come waddling down to the landing with a demijohn of old “apple-brandy;” and his gift had been kindly accepted, by the special advice of the village physician.

“That sort of thing has made plenty of shipwrecks around here,” said the man of medicine; “and the people on the bar have swallowed so much salt water, the apple-jack can’t hurt ’em.”

Maybe the doctor was wrong about it; but the demijohn went over to the wreck in “The Swallow,” very much to the gratification of old Jock.

Mrs. Foster’s dining-room was not a large one:  there were no large rooms in that house.  Nevertheless, the entire party managed to gather around the table,—­all except Dab and Ford.

“Dab is head cook, and I’m head waiter,” had been Ford’s explanation.  “Frank and the boys are company.”