“Now, you be still, Ira,” admonished Prudence, smiling comfortingly at the blushing girl.

“You better sing small, Cap’n Ira,” said the skipper of the Seamew hoarsely.  “It’s mebbe just because we’re good-natured and forbearing that you are keeping your cook for a while.”

“Ha!  So that’s the way the wind blows, eh?” croaked Cap’n Ira.  “You talk big, young man.  But we know Sheila better than you do, p’r’aps.  Don’t we, Prue?”

His little old wife, with her winter-apple face wrinkled in a smile of utter confidence, leaned nearer Sheila to pat her hand.  The girl seized the wrinkled claw suddenly and pressed it with both of hers—­pressed it gratefully and with a full-charged heart.

“Don’t be disturbed.  Don’t fear,” she whispered so that the old woman only might not hear.  “I will not leave you.”

The two men looked deeply into each other’s eyes and with a great understanding.  They are not demonstrative, these Cape men, not as a rule; but Cap’n Ira and Tunis Latham understood all entailed in that promise so softly given, and they subscribed to it.  Sheila was to have her way.

Hours later Tunis lit the lamp in his bedroom and then stood before his window, gazing out into the driving snow.  Almost immediately he saw the gleam of another lamp, far up the slope, showing from that north window of Sheila’s chamber in the old Ball house.

This was the signal they had agreed upon—­their good-night symbol whenever he was at home.  He stood there a long time, looking out.

Although the wintry wind raved across Wreckers’ Head and the snow scurried wildly before it, there was springtime in the hearts of Tunis Latham and Sheila—­the springtime of their hopes.

THE END