A day came, however, when “that woman’s” reign was over and she and the old captain bade each other good-bye. They had become fast friends even in spite of their frequent clashes of opinion, so the parting, which took place in Billy’s presence, was a most affectionate one.
“I may have spoken roughly to you, my dear,” Captain Saulsby said, apologetically, “but I was sure, even at the time, that you were forgiving me right along. And there’s no one that can deny that you spoke roughly to me many a time, and good cause you had to do it, too. I’m that spoiled that, now I’m to be my own master again, I really don’t know how to hand myself my chicken broth.”
“I’m truly sorry to leave you, Captain,” the girl answered; “you are quite the worst patient I ever tried to manage, but I think you have done me the most credit.”
She went away down the path, Captain Saulsby looking after her with a very grave face. Then he turned and hobbled into the house to kindle a fire in his little stove.
“It’s too bad she’s gone,” he said solemnly to Billy, “but—the way I’ve longed for fried onions!” He heaved a mighty sigh of relief
