"It does seem too bad," sighed Prudence. "She was a pretty baby, as
you say, Ira."

"Sarah was nice as she could be to you," was the old man's
thoughtful comment.

"Yes. But her husband, Bostwick, was only a mechanic. Of course, he
left nothing. Them city folks are so improvident," said Prudence. "I
wish't we was able to do something for little Ida May, Ira. Think of
her workin' behind a counter!"

"I am a-thinkin'," growled the old captain. "See here, Prue. What's
to hinder us doin' something for her?"

Prudence looked at him, startled.

"Why, Iry, you say yourself we can scurce help ourselves."

"It's a mighty ill wind that don't blow fair for some craft,"
declared the ancient mariner, nodding. "We do need help right here,
Prudence, and that gal of Sarah Bostwick's could certainly fill the
bill. On the other hand, she'd be a sight better off here on the
Cape, living with us, getting rosy and healthy, and having this old
place and what we've got left when we die, than she would be slavin'
behind a counter in any city store. What d'you think?"

"Ira!" exclaimed his wife, clasping her hands, potato knife and all.
"Ira! I think that's a most wonderful idea. It takes you to think up
things. You're just wonderful!"