His offer was accepted and so far he had proved a competent and able helmsman.  Now, Miss Howes having been started on her homeward way, the next port of call was to be the office of Mr. Solomon Cobb at Trumet.

During the first part of the drive Thankful was silent and answered only when spoken to.  The parting with Emily and the sense of heavy responsibility entailed by the project she had in mind made her rather solemn and downcast.  Captain Obed, noticing this, and suspecting the cause, chatted and laughed, and after a time his passenger seemed to forget her troubles and to enjoy the trip.

They jogged up the main street of Trumet until they reached the little three-cornered “square” which is the business center of the village.  Next beyond the barbershop, which is two doors beyond the general store and postoffice, was a little one-story building, weather-beaten and badly in need of paint.  The captain steered his “craft” up to the sidewalk before this building and pulled up.

“Whoa!” he ordered, addressing the horse.  Then, turning to Thankful, he said: 

“Here you are, ma’am.  This is Sol Cobb’s place.”

Mrs. Barnes looked at the little building.  Its exterior certainly was not inviting.  The windows looked as if they had not been washed for weeks, the window shades were yellow and crooked, and one of the panes of glass in the front door was cracked across.  Thankful had not seen her “Cousin Solomon” for years, not since she was a young woman, but she had heard stories of his numerous investments and business prosperity, and she could scarcely believe this dingy establishment was his.

“Are you sure, Cap’n Bangs?” she faltered.  “This can’t be the Solomon Cobb I mean.  He’s well off and it don’t seem as if he would be in an office like this—­if ’tis an office,” she added.  “It looks more like a henhouse to me.  And there’s no signs anywhere.”

The captain laughed.  “Signs cost money,” he said.  “It takes paint to make a sign, same as it does to keep a henhouse lookin’ respectable.  This is the only Sol Cobb in Trumet, fur’s I ever heard, and he’s well off, sartin.  He ought to be; I never heard of him lettin’ go of anything he got hold of.  Maybe you think I’m talkin’ pretty free about your relation, Mrs. Barnes,” he added, apologetically.  “I hadn’t ought to, I suppose, but I’ve had one or two little dealin’s with Sol, one time or ’nother, and I—­well, maybe I’m prejudiced.  Excuse me, won’t you?  He may be altogether different with his own folks.”

Thankful was still staring at the dubious and forbidding front door.

“It doesn’t seem as if it could be,” she said.  “But if you say so of course ’tis.”

“Yes, ma’am, I guess ’tis.  That’s Sol Cobb’s henhouse and the old rooster is in, judgin’ by the signs.  Those are his rubbers on the step.  Wearin’ rubbers winter or summer is a habit of his.  Humph!  I’m talkin’ too much again.  You’re goin’ in, I suppose, ma’am?”