“As I see it, Auntie,” said Emily, when they discussed the situation, “you have splendid prospects here.  Your first season has been all or more than you dared hope for, and if we had had good weather—­the sort of weather everyone says the Cape usually has in the fall months—­you would have come out even or better.  But, even then, to make this scheme a real money-maker, you would be obliged to have more sleeping-rooms made over, and a larger dining-room.  Now why don’t you go and see this—­what is he?—­cousin of yours, Mr. Cobb, and tell him just how you stand?  Tell him of your prospects and your plans, and get him to advance you another thousand dollars—­more, if you can get it.  Why don’t you do that?”

Thankful did not answer.  She had few secrets from Emily, whom she loved as dearly as a daughter, but one secret she had kept.  Just why she had kept this one she might not have been able to explain satisfactorily, even to herself.  She had written Emily of her visit to Solomon Cobb’s “henhouse” and of the loan on mortgage which had resulted therefrom.  But she had neither written nor told all of the circumstances of that visit, especially of Mr. Cobb’s attitude toward her and his reluctance to lend the money.  She said merely that he had lent it and Emily had evidently taken it for granted that the loan was made because of the relationship and kindly feeling between the two.  Thankful, even now, did not undeceive her.  She felt a certain shame in doing so; a shame in admitting that a relative of hers could be so mean and disobliging.

“Why don’t you go to Mr. Cobb again, Auntie?” repeated Emily.  “He will lend you more, I’m sure, if you explain all the circumstances.  It would be a perfectly safe investment for him, and you would pay interest, of course.”

Mrs. Barnes shook her head.  “I don’t think I’d better, Emily,” she said.  “He’s got one mortgage on this place already.”

“What of it?  That was only for fifteen hundred and you have improved the house and grounds ever so much since then.  I think he’ll be glad to let you have another thousand.  The mortgage he has is to run for three years, you said, didn’t you?”

Again Thankful did not answer.  She had not said the mortgage was for a term of three years; Emily had presumed that it was and she had not undeceived her.  She hesitated, and Emily noticed her hesitation.

“It is for three years, isn’t it, Auntie?” she repeated.

Mrs. Barnes tried to evade the question.

“Why, not exactly, Emily,” she replied.  “It ain’t.  You see, he thought three years was a little mite too long, and so—­and so we fixed up for a shorter time.  It’s all right, though.”

“Is it?  You are sure?  Aunt Thankful, tell me truly:  how long a term is that mortgage?”

“Well, it’s—­it’s only for a year, but—­”

“A year?  Why, then it will fall due next spring.  You can’t pay that mortgage next spring, can you?”