Afterwards she and Father played the ’cello and piano, because we asked them to, and the Bottle Man sat with his arm over Jerry’s shoulders, watching, with the light on his nice, brown, kind face.  And Father sat with his head tucked down over the ’cello, just the way I remembered there on the Sea Monster, and the candles shone on Aunt Ailsa’s amberish-colored hair, and I thought she was the beautifullest person in the world, except Mother.  I thought about a lot of things while the music went on, and wondered whether we’d ever want to picnic on Wecanicut again.  But I knew we would, because Wecanicut is a kind, friendly, safe place (and we do go there now lots, only we don’t look at the Sea Monster much).  I thought, too, that perhaps if we’d never thrown the message in the bottle into the harbor, Aunt Ailsa and Uncle Andrew would never have been married and lived happily ever after,—­that is, they’ve lived happily so far and I think they’ll keep on.  Because if we hadn’t, the Bottle Man would never have come sailing down to see us, and he might still be thinking Aunt Ailsa had married the Mr. Thingummy, when she hadn’t at all.

He was such a nice Bottle Man!  I sat there on the couch and thought how splendid it would be when he was our own uncle, and I laughed when I remembered how we’d imagined that he was an ancient old gentleman.  The wind began to rise outside.  I could hear it whisking around and bumping in the chimney, and I thought how glad I was—­oh, how glad, glad I was—­that we were all at home, and I listened hard to the ’cello and tried not to remember the horrible old Sea Monster.

Mother slipped in and sat down beside me, and when the music ended, she said:  “Greg wants to see the ’Bottle Man’.”  We asked if we might come, too, because we hadn’t seen Greg since they carried him up to the house, all bloody and rumpled and dirty.  So we all went up, and Mother tip-toed in first with the lamp.  He looked almost quite like himself, with clean pajamas and his hair brushed and all the frightened, hurt look gone out of his face.

The Bottle Man (I almost forget to call him that, because we’ve been calling him Uncle Andrew for months) leaned over and said: 

“Lots better now, old man?”

Greg said “Lots,” and then, “But what I did want to ask you is, how you sailed all the way from the Mid-Equator to here in such a little boat?”

The Bottle Man laughed, and then said very soberly: 

“But are you sure you measured it right?  To-morrow I’ll show you on the map.”

We only stayed a minute, and then said good-night and went out.  I was the last one, and just as I was going through the door, Greg said: 

“Chris!  Come back!”

So I went and sat on the edge of the bed in the dark, and Greg put his good arm around my neck when I bent down.

“Do you know, Chris,” he said, “sometimes that night I think I thought you were Mother.  Oh, Chris, I do love you awfully much!”