“Of course you should.  He is rich and he doesn’t need it.  What have you done with that receipt?  Put it away somewhere and in a safe place.  He is frightened; that—­that something, whatever it was, last night—­frightened him so that he will give away anything now.  But, by and by, when his fright is over he may change his mind.  Lock up that paper, Aunt Thankful.  If you don’t, I will.”

“But what was it that frightened him, Emily?  I declare I’m gettin’ afraid to stay in this house myself.  What was it he heard—­and we heard?”

“I don’t know, but I mean to find out.  I’m a sensible person this morning, not an idiot, and I intend to lay that ghost.”

When they went back into the dining-room they were surprised at what they saw.  Solomon was still sitting by the window, but Georgie was sitting in a chair beside him, exhibiting the pictures in one of his Christmas books and apparently on the best of terms with his new acquaintance.

“I’m showin’ him my ‘Swiss Family Robinson,’” said the boy.  “Here’s where they built a house in a tree, Mr. Cobb.  Emmie told me about their doin’ it.”

Solomon groaned.

“You better take this child away from me,” he said.  “He came to me of his own accord, but he hadn’t ought to stay.  A man like me ain’t fit to have children around him.”

Thankful had an inspiration.

“It’s a sign,” she cried, clapping her hands.  “It’s a sign sent to you, Solomon.  It means you’re forgiven.  That’s what it means.  Now you eat your breakfast.”

He was eating, or trying to eat, when someone knocked at the door.  Winnie S. Holt was standing on the step.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Barnes,” he hailed.  “Ain’t drowned out after the gale, be you?  Judas priest!  Our place is afloat.  Dad says he cal’lates we’ll have to build a raft to get to the henhouse on.  Here; here’s somethin’ Mr. Kendrick sent to you.  Wanted me to give it to you, yourself, and nobody else.”

The something was a long envelope with “Mrs. Barnes, Personal,” written upon it.  Thankful read the inscription.

“From Mr. Kendrick?” she repeated.  “Which Mr. Kendrick?”

“Mr. John, the young one.  Mr. Holliday’s comin’, though.  He telephoned from Bayport this mornin’.  Came down on the cars far’s there last night, but he didn’t dast to come no further ‘count of bein’ afraid to drive from the Centre in the storm.  He’s hired an automobile and is comin’ right over, he says.  The message was for John Kendrick, but Dad took it.  What’s in the envelope, Mrs. Barnes?”

Thankful slowly tore the end from the envelope.  Emily stood at her elbow.

“What can it be, Auntie?” she asked, fearfully.

“I don’t know.  I’m afraid to look.  Oh, dear!  It’s somethin’ bad, I know.  Somethin’ to do with that Holliday Kendrick; it must be or he wouldn’t have come to East Wellmouth today.  I—­I—­well, I must look, of course.  Oh, Emily, and we thought this was goin’ to be a merry Christmas, after all.”