CHAPTER XIII

SOME YOUNG MEN APPEAR

A house plant brought out into the May sunshine and air expands almost immediately under the rejuvenating influences of improved conditions.  Its leaves uncurl; its buds develop; it turns at once and gratefully to the business of growing which has been restricted during its incarceration indoors.

So with Sheila Macklin—­she who now proclaimed herself Ida May Bostwick and who was gladly welcomed as such by the old people at the Ball homestead on Wreckers’ Head.  After the girl’s experiences of more than three years since leaving her home town, the surroundings of the house on the headland seemed an estate in paradise.

As for the work which fell to her share, she enjoyed it.  She felt that she could not do too much for the old people to repay them for this refuge they had given her.  That Cap’n Ira and Prudence had no idea of the terrible predicament in which she had been placed previous to her coming made no difference to the girl’s feeling of gratitude toward them.  She had been serving a sentence in purgatory, and Tunis Latham’s bold plan had opened the door of heaven to her.

The timidity which had so marked her voice and manner when Tunis had first met her soon wore away.  With Cap’n Ira and Prudence she was never shy, and when the captain of the Seamew came back again he found such a different girl at the old house on Wreckers’ Head that he could scarcely believe she was the Sheila Macklin who had told him her history on the bench on Boston Common.

“I swan, Tunis,” hoarsely announced Cap’n Ira, “you done a deed that deserves a monument equal to that over there to Plymouth.  Them Pilgrim fathers—­to say nothing of the mothers—­never done no more beneficial thing than you did in bringing Ida May down here to stay along o’ Prudence and me.  And I cal’late Prue and me are more thankful to you than the red Indians was to the Pilgrims for coming ashore in Plymouth County and so puttin’ the noses of Provincetown people out o’ joint.”

He chuckled.

“She’s as sweet as them rose geraniums of Prue’s and just as sightly looking.  Did you ever notice how that black hair of hers sort of curls about her ears, and them ears like little, tiny seashells ye pick up ’long shore?  Them curls just lays against her neck that pretty!  I swan!  I don’t see how the young fellers kept their hands off her where she come from.  Do you?”

“Why, you old Don Juan!” exclaimed Tunis, grinning.  “Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“Me?  Aha!  I’ve come to that point of age and experience, Tunis, where whatever I say about the female sect can’t be misconstrued.  That’s where I have the advantage of you.”

“Uh-huh!” agreed Tunis, nodding.

“Now, if you begun raving about that gal’s black hair—­An’ come to think of it, Tunis, her mother, Sarah Honey’s hair was near ’bout red.  Funny, ain’t it?”