“Charley’s got a lot of ideas in his head,” she said one day when she and her sisters were slicing apples for drying.  “He aint no common boy, Charley aint.  He’ll make a mark yet—­see if he don’t.”

“Dear little fellow!” sighed Aunt Hitty. “So lovin’ and affectionate!  He used to be a little worrisome in his ways at times, but he’s got all over that!”

“Oh, has he?” snapped Aunt Prue.  “I’d like to know when?  He’s been more of a plague the last six weeks than ever in his life before.  When he upset that milk last night I could have cuffed him.  It’s the third time since Wednesday.  Mark, indeed!  The only mark he’ll ever make is a dirt-mark on clean floors.  The kitchen looks like Sancho at this moment.  I’ve washed it up twice as often as ordinary, but as sure as I get it clean, in he comes stamping about with his muddy boots and tracks it from end to end.  I believe he does it a-purpose.”

“O, Prue!” began Aunt Hitty, in a pleading tone, while Aunt Greg broke in, indignantly: 

“A-purpose!  Well!  Charley’s mind is on other things, I can tell you, and it it’s no wonder he sometimes forgets to wipe his feet.”

“Other things!  Getting off to sea, I suppose you mean?” remarked Aunt Prue, grimly.  “He’s pulled the wool over your eyes and Hitty’s finely, I declare.  As for me, if he’s goin’ on to behave as he has done for a spell back, the sooner he quits the better.  I wash my hands of him,” and Aunt Prue flounced into the buttery just as Grandmother came in at the other door.

“Charley is it you was talking about?” she asked.  “Did you hear him coughin’ last night?  I did, and I couldn’t sleep a wink for worrying about it.  A real deep cough it was.  Do you suppose it the lungs, and what’s good for him to take?”

“He’s well enough except for mischief,” put in Aunt Prue through the buttery door.

“Prue never thinks anything ails anybody,” said Mrs. Brush, sinking her voice to a whisper.  “I’m really consarned about Charley.  He don’t eat hardly anything at dinner.  That aint a bit natural for a growin’ boy.  And he says he lies awake a great deal of nights.  He thinks it’s the air about here makes him feel bad, but I don’t know if he’s right about it.  I wish we’d a doctor here to say if going off to sea—­or somewhere—­would be the best thing for him.  I’m clean confused as to what we’d best do about it, but I’m real uneasy in my mind.”

Charley, coming in just then, chuckled to himself as he heard her.

So things went on, and by October Charley had his wish.  It was settled that he should go to sea.  Aunt Greg drove over to Wachuset Center and consulted with old Mr. Greg, her father-in-law, who was the wise man of the neighborhood.

“Let him go—­let him go,” was Mr. Greg’s advice.  “When a chap like that gets the bit between his teeth, it’s no use to keep yanking at the reins.  Let him go for one long cruise, and see how he likes it.  Ten to one he’ll come back then and be glad to settle down.  He aint the kind of boy to make a sailor of, I judge.  There’s Ben Bradley,—­my first wife’s cousin,—­captain of one of them China traders; ship Charley with him.  I’ll write a line, and I guess Ben’ll kind of keep an eye on him for the sake of the connection.”