He could not imagine her as beaming on his hearth!  It was with some alarm that, after the introduction had been completed, he beheld the manager take his leave.  As the door closed, the bashful Prosper felt the murky eyes of the widow fixed upon him.  A gentle cough, accompanied with the resigned laying of a black mittened hand upon her chest, suggested a genteel prelude to conversation, with possible pulmonary complications.

“I am induced to accept your proposal temporarily,” she said, in a voice of querulous precision, “on account of pressing pecuniary circumstances which would not have happened had my claim against the shipowners for my dear husband’s loss been properly raised.  I hope you fully understand that I am unfitted both by ill health and early education from doing any menial or manual work in your household.  I shall simply oversee and direct.  I shall expect that the stipend you offer shall be paid monthly in advance.  And as my medical man prescribes a certain amount of stimulation for my system, I shall expect to be furnished with such viands—­or even”—­she coughed slightly—­“such beverages as may be necessary.  I am far from strong—­yet my wants are few.”

“Ez far ez I am ketchin’ on and followin’ ye, ma’am,” returned Prosper timidly, “ye’ll hev everything ye want—­jest like it was yer own home.  In fact,” he went on, suddenly growing desperate as the difficulties of adjusting this unexpectedly fastidious and superior woman to his plan seemed to increase, “ye’ll jest consider me ez yer”—­But here her murky eyes were fixed on his and he faltered.  Yet he had gone too far to retreat.  “Ye see,” he stammered, with a hysterical grimness that was intended to be playful—­“ye see, this is jest a little secret betwixt and between you and me; there’ll be only you and me in the house, and it would kinder seem to the boys more homelike—­ef—­ef—­you and me had—­you bein’ a widder, you know—­a kind of—­of”—­here his smile became ghastly—­“close relationship.”

The widow of Captain Pottinger here sat up so suddenly that she seemed to slip through her sombre and precise enwrappings with an exposure of the real Mrs. Pottinger that was almost improper.  Her high color deepened; the pupils of her black eyes contracted in the light the innocent Prosper had poured into them.  Leaning forward, with her fingers clasped on her bosom, she said:  “Did you tell this to the manager?”

“Of course not,” said Prosper; “ye see, it’s only a matter ’twixt you and me.”

Mrs. Pottinger looked at Prosper, drew a deep breath, and then gazed at the abelone shells for moral support.  A smile, half querulous, half superior, crossed her face as she said:  “This is very abrupt and unusual.  There is, of course, a disparity in our ages!  You have never seen me before—­at least to my knowledge—­although you may have heard of me.  The Spraggs of Marblehead are well known—­perhaps better than the Pottingers.  And yet, Mr. Griggs”—­