He threw his arms about her and literally lifted her from the chair.

“I don’t care a durn what they say,” he shouted, exultantly.  “You’ve said what I was waitin’ for.  Or you’ve looked it, anyhow.  Now then, when shall we be married?  That’s the next thing for you to say, my girl.”

They sat there in the gathering dusk and talked.  The captain was uproariously gay.  He could scarcely keep still, but whistled and drummed tunes upon the chair arm with his fingers.  Thankful was more subdued and quiet, but she was happy, completely happy at last.

“This’ll be some boardin’-house, this one of ours,” declared the captain.  “We’ll build the addition you wanted and we’ll make the city folks sit up and take notice.  And,” with a gleeful chuckle, “we won’t have any ghost snorin’ warnin’s, either.”

Thankful laughed.  “No, we won’t,” she said.  “And yet I’m awfully grateful to that—­that—­that pig ghost.  If it hadn’t been for him that mortgage would still be hangin’ over us.  And Solomon would never have been scared into doin’ what he promised Uncle Abner he would do.  Perhaps he’ll be a better man, a more generous man to some of his other poor victims after this.  I hope he will.”

“So do I, but I have my doubts.”

“Well, we’ll never kill old Patrick Henry, will we?  That would be too ungrateful.”

Captain Obed slapped his knee.

“Kill him!” he repeated:  “I should say not!  Why, he’s your Uncle Abner and Rebecca Timpson’s sister Medora and old Laban Eldredge and I don’t know how many more.  Killin’ him would be a double back-action massacre.  No indeed, we won’t kill him!  Come on, let’s go out and have a look at him now.  I’d like to shake his hand, if he had one.”

“But, Obed, it’s rainin’.”

“What of it?  We don’t care for rain.  It’s goin’ to be all sunshine for you after this, my lady.  I’m the weather prophet and I tell you so.  God bless you, Thankful Barnes.”

Thankful smiled.

“He has blessed me already, Obed,” she said.