His wife said once in the bitterness of her spirit that he
always marched the quarter-deck and kept his boys in the forecastle.
"You don't weigh more than that bag of flour yourself, not as much, and
that weighs one hundred pounds."
"I weigh ninety pounds," said Marjorie.
"And how old are you?"
"Almost fourteen," she answered proudly.
"Four years younger than I am! Now, are you comfortable? Are you afraid
of spoiling your dress? I didn't think of that?"
"Oh, no; I wish I was," laughed Marjorie, glancing shyly at him from
under her broad brim.
It was her own bright face, yet, he decided, with an older look in it,
her eyelashes were suspiciously moist and her cheeks were reddened with
something more than being lifted into the wagon.
Marjorie settled herself among the bags, feeling somewhat strange and
thinking she would much rather have walked; Hollis sprang in beside his
father, not inclined to make conversation with him, and restrained, by
his presence, from turning around to talk to Marjorie.
Oh, how people misunderstand each other! How Captain Rheid misunderstood
his boys and how his boys misunderstood him! The boys said that Hollis
was the Joseph among them, his father's favorite; but Hollis and his
father had never opened their hearts to each other. Captain Rheid often
declared that there was no knowing what his boys would do if they were
not kept in; perhaps they had him to thank that they were not all in
state-prison. There was a whisper among the country folks that the old
man himself had been in prison in some foreign country, but no one had
ever proved it; in his many "yarns" at the village store, he had not even
hinted at such a strait.
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