WILLIAM JOHN 
 HOPKINS
 
 43 P H^ tilt am 3folm I) optima 
 
 OLD HARBOR. Crown 8vo, 1.25 */. Post 
 age 14 cents. 
 
 THE CLAM MER. izmo, #1.25. 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK
 
 OLD HARBOR
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM JOHN HOPKINS 
 
 Author of " The Cla.mm.er " 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 :be tfibcrsiDc press Cambri&se 
 1909
 
 04- 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY WILLIAM JOHN HOPKINS 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVE 
 
 Published November 7-909
 
 OLD HARBOR
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Miss JOYCE was dusting the old china, the china that 
 was used only on state occasions. For it had been her 
 great-grandmother s china, and her wedding china, at 
 that; wherefore it was considered sacred, it was 
 regarded with reverence. It had always been sacred, 
 as far back as Miss Joyce could remember, and that 
 was beginning to be a good while. 
 
 As she took up the platters, one after another, care 
 fully wiped them, and put them back, she became 
 thoughtful. With the plates, her thoughtfulness grew, 
 so that she stopped now and then, clasped her gloved 
 hands upon the spotless apron, and contemplated her 
 possessions gravely. The little frown below the hair, 
 that was smoothly parted and already streaked with 
 gray, grew deeper; then, in an instant, the frown had 
 vanished, and she laughed. 
 
 "Well, there!" she said aloud, nodding her head 
 emphatically. "I ll do it. What fun! I ll do it. And 
 there s all the silver, too. Oh, what fun! And what 
 a fool I ve been not to do it before!" 
 
 And she laughed again, sitting there all alone, her 
 gloved hands clasped against her apron. Somehow it 
 
 I
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 was not just the kind of laugh that one would have ex 
 pected from a gentlewoman who was beginning to be 
 middle-aged, as she thought, and who always dressed 
 in black unless one chanced to notice her eyes. 
 They were pleasant eyes, kind eyes that seemed ever 
 to have a laugh just behind them; and so it bubbled 
 out now in little ripples, very pleasant to hear, but low 
 and well-bred. You did not expect anything that was 
 not well-bred from Harriet Joyce. 
 
 She rose and went at the cups like a loving whirl 
 wind, a very gentle whirlwind, wiping them care 
 fully and putting them back tenderly. Suddenly she 
 stopped. 
 
 "Well, I never!" she cried. "I m losing my seven 
 senses or is it five ? They have to be washed, of 
 course, and I ll do it now." 
 
 She went into the dining-room, moving with quick 
 decision, but silently, and came back with a tray. . For 
 the china was in the closet of the back parlor, which 
 is not to be thought strange. Where else should one s 
 great-grandmother s wedding china be ? And no sooner 
 was she back and setting the tray down, than she heard 
 the great front door boom gently. It always boomed 
 like that, even when it was shut carefully. She half 
 turned her head to listen ; then, with a smile, she turned 
 back again and began to take out the platters one by one. 
 
 "Abbie," she said. "She ll find me." 
 
 Presently she heard somebody in the next room. 
 She called softly:
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Here I am, Abbie, in the back parlor." 
 
 " Oh! " answered a relieved voice. The door opened 
 and Abbie Mervin came in. "I wondered where you 
 could be, Harriet. I ve been nearly all over the house. 
 What in the world are you doing? Dusting your an 
 cestral china?" 
 
 "My ancestral china," replied Miss Harriet, "is 
 about to enter upon a new career. I ve decided to 
 use it." 
 
 "Why," said Miss Mervin, wondering, "you always 
 have used it on occasions." 
 
 " Yes. But, Abbie," Miss Joyce spoke in subdued 
 tones, "I am going to use it every day." 
 
 Miss Mervin was silent for as much as a minute, 
 taking in the full meaning of this announcement. Then 
 she laughed. "Oh, Harriet! what would your great- 
 grandmother say to that?" 
 
 "My great-grandmother," said Miss Joyce, decid 
 edly, " has nothing to say about it. Besides, judging 
 from what I have heard of her, she would be the last one 
 to want it kept in the back -parlor closet, and dusted 
 every week. She would probably think it was a sin 
 and a shame that it was n t all broken fifty years ago. 
 Anyway, / think it is better to use it, even if it does 
 get broken, than to keep it put away to be taken care 
 of; and it s what I think about it that s important." 
 
 Miss Mervin was still smiling. "That is all true 
 enough, Harriet," she said. "No one but you has a 
 right to say a word. But they will," she added. 
 
 3
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Let them," Miss Harriet retorted. "It was borne 
 in upon me, Abbie, as I sat here, that we have too many 
 things. A new thought quite new." She smiled. 
 " Why, I spend days, every week, in keeping things in 
 order that I don t use. I ve got through doing that. 
 And I ve got through cleaning a lot of old silver it 
 is beautiful old silver, too, you know that I don t 
 use. It takes me a whole morning long, every week." 
 
 Miss Mervin was not smiling now. " Why, Harriet ! " 
 she cried. Her voice held a hint of horror. " Just think 
 how it will get to looking all black and horrid. No 
 body will see it, to be sure 
 
 Miss Harriet turned suddenly. "Ah, Abbie," she 
 said, "but they will the whole of it. I am going to 
 use it every identical piece. It will not be half the 
 trouble to clean. As for stealing, why, it is better stolen 
 than put away. That is rank heresy, I know ; but it s 
 what I think." 
 
 "Well," said Miss Mervin, sighing, "it s of no use 
 to argue with you, Harriet 
 
 " No use at all," broke in Miss Harriet. 
 
 Miss Mervin went on, calmly, as though she had not 
 been interrupted. "It would only strengthen your de 
 termination. And I am not sure that I want to argue 
 with you. Perhaps it would be better to help you wash 
 your china ; that is, if you think I am to be trusted not 
 to break it." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Miss Harriet, "will you help? Take 
 off your hat and gloves, then oh ! you have n t got 
 
 4
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 them on and come into the dining-room. It will be 
 a great deal easier for two." 
 
 Miss Mervin was already taking off her hat. She 
 deposited it carefully on a high shelf in the closet, 
 above those occupied by the china a shelf devoted 
 to hats and already occupied by two of Miss Harriet s. 
 Having thus settled matters to her satisfaction, she fol 
 lowed Miss Harriet to the dining-room. 
 
 Miss Mervin was not a beautiful woman. She was 
 not even a pretty woman. But little older than Miss 
 Joyce, an age about which one does not inquire too 
 closely, she had little of that lady s daintiness and 
 charm, although her nose and her eyes betokened a 
 pretty wit and a sense of humor which was sometimes 
 a cause of embarrassment to its owner, if not to her 
 friends. The two things in which she would have had 
 a right to feel a certain pride were her beautifully clear 
 complexion and her small, close-set ears. Not that 
 Miss Mervin did have any feeling of pride in her com 
 plexion ; a good complexion was no more than every 
 lady owed to her position. She certainly would not 
 have been willing to discuss the question, and if it 
 had been alluded to in her presence, she would have 
 dismissed it with as few words as possible, and with 
 a fine air of contempt a contempt which she really 
 felt. As to her ears, well, if she felt pride because 
 they were her ears, the only regular feature which a 
 kind Creator had vouchsafed her, she was to be ex 
 cused, perhaps. They were very dainty, beautiful ears. 
 
 5
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Some such thoughts as these were stirring in Miss 
 Harriet s brain as she stood behind Abbie Mervin, 
 wiping the pieces of china which Miss Mervin had 
 washed. It was necessary to be quick about it, 
 and quite natural for Miss Harriet to be quick, for 
 Miss Mervin washed dishes with a thoroughness and a 
 speed which would have put the ordinary maidservant 
 to shame. She had before her a tiny wooden tub, which 
 had been reserved for the silver and the precious china 
 of the Joyce household since the beginning of time; 
 and pinned about her dress was a rubber apron of 
 Miss Harriet s. Miss Harriet, having in view only the 
 back of Miss Mervin s neck and the aforesaid ears, was 
 surprised to see a crimson flush rise from somewhere 
 below the ruching, neither Miss Mervin nor Miss 
 Joyce had ever acquired the taste for shirt-waists, 
 and spread until even the tips of her ears were glow 
 ing red. 
 
 "What is the matter, Abbie?" asked Miss Harriet, 
 quietly. 
 
 Miss Mervin turned a flushed face for a moment. 
 "These platters, Harriet," she said. "They won t go 
 into the tub." 
 
 Miss Harriet laughed. "Is that all? Leave them 
 out, then." 
 
 Miss Mervin was redder than ever. "Of course, 
 Harriet Joyce," she said, " I shall have to, if they won t 
 go in. But I guess I can manage them well enough " 
 
 Miss Harriet did not laugh again. She knew better. 
 6
 
 But her eyes were merry. Abbie could not see her eyes. 
 They washed and wiped in silence for some minutes, 
 Miss Harriet still wondering. At last Miss Mervin 
 spoke again. 
 
 "Harriet," she said, bending low over a platter, 
 "have have you ever heard anything of Eben?" 
 
 Miss Harriet s eyes were no longer merry, but in 
 them was a great pity. 
 
 "No," she said, "no. Not in these fifteen years, 
 Abbie. It is fifteen years to-night, since he went 
 away. Poor Eben!" She sighed as she laid down the 
 dish she had been wiping. 
 
 " I know," said Miss Mervin, softly. " I remembered. 
 I sometimes think that your father was unnecessarily 
 hard toward Eben. Yes, Harriet," Miss Mervin 
 stopped washing platters and faced Miss Harriet, a 
 round red spot in each cheek, " he was he was 
 positively harsh. You know he was. Why, the very 
 idea of " 
 
 Miss Joyce was smiling as she raised her hand and 
 interrupted Miss Mervin. "Don t say it, Abbie. I d 
 rather say it myself, if it has to be said. Father thought 
 he was only doing his duty by Eben. It was harder for 
 him than for Eben. I think he was wrong, and I always 
 did, but he seemed to take it very hard that he had 
 to to " 
 
 "Thrash him ?" asked Miss Mervin, quietly. "Why 
 don t you say it, if you prefer to? Oh!" She turned 
 back to her platter again. " It makes me nearly sick to 
 
 7
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 think of it. Harder for him than for Eben ! Just think 
 how a man of twenty, almost a man, just think 
 how he must have felt to have to submit to that ! I don t 
 wonder that he ran away at once. I don t wonder that 
 your father never heard from him again. And I don t 
 blame Eben not one mite." She moved quickly away 
 from the tub. "It s no use, Harriet Joyce. You ll 
 have to wash that platter, yourself. I shall smash it if 
 I try to. I d just like to smash something!" 
 
 There was nobody else who would have been allowed 
 even to hint as much as that against her father in Miss 
 Joyce s presence; but with Abbie Mervin it was differ 
 ent. They had been close friends since before they wore 
 pinafores. So Miss Harriet laughed; and there came 
 upon the face of Miss Mervin an unwilling smile. 
 
 "I don t care," she said. "I meant it." 
 
 "I agree with you," said Miss Harriet, "even to the 
 occasional desire to smash things. But as all the things 
 that happen to be conveniently at hand are mine, I 
 restrain that impulse. You d better try it, Abbie. It is 
 a great builder of character." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" replied Miss Mervin, returning to 
 her duties. 
 
 When the last of the great-grandmother s china was 
 washed, Miss Harriet set it out in the china-closets 
 displayed it. For there were two china-closets, one 
 on either side of the fireplace, and they had great glass 
 doors, the glass in diamond panes. And there was the 
 silver to be got out. There was a great quantity of silver 
 
 8
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 altogether too much, one would think, for a maiden 
 lady who habitually dined alone. To be sure, she fre 
 quently had company for tea, the company usually con 
 sisting of Miss Abbie Mervin and a certain William 
 Ransome ; or of Colonel and Mrs. Francis Catherwood 
 and their daughter Constance, with their son Jack 
 whenever he was to be had, with or without Miss 
 Mervin. 
 
 Mrs. Francis Catherwood was Miss Joyce s sister, so 
 that it is not to be wondered at that she should be asked 
 to tea; and in Colonel Catherwood s title Miss Har 
 riet felt an inordinate pride, which she flattered herself 
 she did not show although all of her friends were 
 well aware of it, and would have laughed at her for it 
 if they had not held Miss Harriet in such sincere af 
 fection. Colonel Catherwood himself would have been 
 the first to laugh at Miss Harriet s reverence for a title, 
 and would have dropped his if Miss Joyce and his other 
 friends and relatives would have let him, although it 
 had come to him honorably from years of service in 
 the Civil War. For her nephew, Jack, Miss Harriet had 
 a great affection and admiration, which that young 
 man had done little to deserve, if he had done nothing 
 to forfeit either affection or admiration. He was but 
 ten years younger than Miss Harriet herself. 
 
 As for William Ransome well, he was just William 
 Ransome; a convenient person to have about and to 
 be able to depend upon. He was obliging and consid 
 erate, even self-sacrificing, Miss Harriet would have 
 
 9
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 acknowledged it, if unimportant. At least, that ap 
 peared to be the view Miss Joyce took of him. She 
 realized his virtues, but failed to appreciate them. They 
 did not seem to be very virtuous virtues ; not positive 
 enough to impress her strongly. He had reached the 
 age of forty a convenient age, be it said without 
 having accomplished anything in particular. He was 
 not even a captain ; which was certainly no fault of his, 
 for he was but ten years old when the war ended. But 
 if and Miss Harriet was wont to sigh as she thought 
 upon the matter if he had only been a captain, or, 
 at least, a lieutenant! 
 
 William Ransome, well knowing her views upon the 
 subject, smiled quietly to himself. He did not enter the 
 militia; a captaincy in the militia would not have ap 
 pealed to Miss Harriet. And there were certain things 
 ambitions, hopes, if unacknowledged what you 
 will which he no longer confided to her. Of course, 
 she knew it, and she knew the reason; and she was 
 sorry. 
 
 It happened that she was thinking about William 
 Ransome as she took the silver out of the trunk in which 
 it had reposed, with weekly interruptions, for so long. 
 She often thought of him, vaguely, much as one thinks 
 about a brother or a sister or a cousin who is seen 
 almost daily, and she was aware only of a feeling of 
 pity for his failure to do things. A man cannot expect 
 to be called anything but a failure when he has reached 
 the age of forty without accomplishing something in 
 
 10
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 particular something tangible. What Miss Harriet 
 really meant by something tangible was probably some 
 thing that one could brag of, in a quiet way. But what 
 ever William Ransome might have done, he certainly 
 never would have bragged of it and it is to be hoped 
 that Miss Harriet would not, either. Indeed, one may 
 be sure that she would not; it was something that 
 could be bragged about that she wanted something 
 braggable. 
 
 " Abbie," she said, coming into the dining-room with 
 her arms full of ancient pieces of silver, " I was won 
 dering what do you suppose William will think?" 
 
 Miss Mervin glanced up. She had been engaged in 
 arranging an old silver tea-set on the great mahogany 
 sideboard, and the arrangement did not please her, 
 and she was frowning. 
 
 "What did you say, Harriet?" she asked, taking a 
 moment to get the full import of the question. " Oh, 
 what will William think ? " She laughed " It does n t 
 matter what he will think, does it ? I did not suppose 
 that you considered his opinions, on any subject, im 
 portant." 
 
 Strangely enough, Miss Joyce seemed to resent this 
 view of the matter. She colored quickly, and was about 
 to say something ; then she thought better of it and said 
 something else. 
 
 "I don t consider William s opinions on most sub 
 jects of value of any great value," she added, correct 
 ing herself. " But he has excellent taste, you know. I 
 
 11
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 should be inclined to give some weight to his opinion 
 on this subject." 
 
 "Well," said Miss Mervin, stepping back to regard 
 the tea-set from a distance, "I suppose that, if Wil 
 liam knew that you had arranged that tea-set, for 
 instance, he would perjure his soul and say that the 
 arrangement was admirable. The queen can do no 
 wrong, you know. But if he knew that Abbie Mervin 
 had arranged it, he would feel free to say that it looked 
 like fury. It does, Harriet. There is too much of 
 it. It spoils that sideboard, and the sideboard is too 
 handsome to be spoiled by such trumpery." 
 
 "Don t be absurd, Abbie." Miss Harriet smiled in 
 spite of herself. "William would be as likely to be 
 pleased with any arrangement of yours as with mine. 
 That trumpery, as you call it, is an extremely hand 
 some set, and very old." 
 
 "Oh, I know. And I know the history of it quite 
 well, so you need not trouble. But, on the sideboard, 
 it looks like trumpery. With its tray, it covers too much 
 of that top. It might do on the table," she said doubt 
 fully. "The sideboard, Harriet, needs a few handsome 
 things things that will show it off and not conceal 
 it." 
 
 Miss Harriet smiled again, quietly. "You were ar 
 ranging it, Abbie, not I." 
 
 "So I was." Abbie Mervin laughed. "And I was 
 talking for my own benefit. If you will take that side, 
 Harriet, it s pretty heavy and awkward." 
 
 12
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Together, they moved the offending tea-set to its 
 place upon the table. Miss Joyce stood looking at it 
 thoughtfully, for some minutes. 
 
 " It looks well there, I think," she said, at last. " I m 
 going to ask William to tea this evening. You 11 come, 
 won t you, Abbie ? It will be a sort of anniversary ; 
 not altogether a cheerful one. I d ask Mary, but I 
 know she is going out with the colonel." 
 
 "You flatter me, Harriet," replied Miss Mervin. 
 " But I 11 come, so long as there is no one else avail 
 able. It would be simply disgraceful for you to have 
 William in to tea alone." 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Harriet, "it would." 
 
 And Miss Harriet went off to write her note, which 
 she dispatched by the hand of her only maidservant. 
 She did not ask for an answer; it did not occur to 
 her to doubt William s acceptance of her invitation. 
 Indeed, it was rather of the nature of a summons. 
 William had not failed to heed invitations of that 
 nature in the past twelve years, not once. Why should 
 Miss Harriet doubt his joyful response now?
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 WILLIAM came ; and if there was no evidence of his 
 joy in coming, at least there was no reluctance which 
 was apparent to Miss Joyce. If he felt any reluctance, 
 he succeeded in concealing it under an admirable man 
 ner, quiet and deferential. But Miss Mervin looked 
 at him queerly, smiled the very least bit, and looked 
 away. William wondered at that smile. He was a little 
 afraid of Miss Mervin just a little; he felt that 
 he did not understand her. But he understood Miss 
 Harriet, or he thought that he did. She seemed less 
 complex. 
 
 William thought that he understood, too, why he 
 was there. He admired duly, saying something com 
 plimentary, in his quiet way, about everything that, 
 as he judged, was brought to his attention ; which he 
 could do with no undue strain on his conscience. 
 There was an air of finality in his utterances which 
 pleased Miss Joyce. She was set up. 
 
 "There, William," she said, smiling happily, "that 
 will do nicely. .1 only hope that you have meant it all, 
 and I believe that you have. For I am going to use 
 these things every day." 
 
 " A wise decision, Harriet," replied William. " Things 
 are meant to be used, even silver things and china 
 
 14
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 things. I assure you," he added, smiling in his turn, 
 "that I have meant it all, every word of it much 
 more than I said. A man must approve your decision, 
 whether his approval be asked or not." 
 
 " Very worthy sentiments, William," observed Miss 
 Mervin ; at which William, not knowing how to take 
 this remark, said nothing, but looked puzzled and 
 rather helpless. 
 
 Immediately Miss Harriet foresaw a silence which 
 would be embarrassing to William and annoying to 
 herself. Apparently such silences gave Miss Mervin 
 some pleasure. They were usually caused by some 
 remark of hers. Miss Harriet did not approve. 
 
 "William," she said hastily, "do you know that it is 
 just fifteen years to-night since Eben ran away?" 
 
 She said it bravely, for she well knew that Abbie 
 would say it if she did not. She would have preferred 
 to put it differently. 
 
 William dropped the spoon with which he was eat 
 ing, rather daintily, some of Miss Harriet s excellent 
 gooseberry preserve. 
 
 "No," he cried, in a low voice. His sincerity could 
 not be doubted. "Is it possible! Poor Eben! It was 
 immediately after an er an interview with his 
 father, if I am not mistaken. You have had no word 
 from him since?" 
 
 Abbie Mervin broke in before Miss Harriet could 
 speak. "No, she has not, and we can t blame Eben 
 or I can t. You should not call it an interview, William. 
 
 15
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 His father gave him an unmerciful thrashing, and he 
 submitted. Think of that, William. He submitted!" 
 
 William seemed to be in some distress of mind, be 
 tween what he considered that loyalty to Miss Harriet 
 demanded and his natural feelings. 
 
 "Very painful!" he murmured. "A very painful 
 affair. It seems," he continued, gathering courage as 
 he proceeded, " to have been a most unfortunate thing 
 most unfortunate in its results : unfortunate for 
 Eben, and equally unfortunate for his family." 
 
 Miss Harriet was grateful. "Thank you, William; 
 Abbie is too hard on father. His intentions were as 
 good as any father could have had." 
 
 "Yes," said William, sympathetically. "Nobody 
 who knew your father could doubt that. But there seems 
 to have been some fault in their application, as we see 
 it now. It is easy to judge of wisdom after the event." 
 
 Miss Mervin laughed. " One cannot doubt that they 
 were well applied, or, at least, thoroughly." 
 
 William smiled in his quiet way, and even Miss Har 
 riet could not forbear. 
 
 William hemmed a little. "I should like, Harriet," 
 he said, "to propose Eben s health, if you can spare 
 a little of your excellent sherry for the purpose. One 
 hardly likes to drink a health in tea, however good it 
 may be ; and water, I believe, is fatal." 
 
 Miss Harriet, beaming, was about to ring; then she 
 thought better of it. "I ll get it, myself," she cried. 
 
 She rose and took from the sideboard a decanter, 
 16
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 it was one of the heirlooms, come out for daily service 
 with her great-grandmother s china, and she pro 
 duced from one of the mysterious recesses of that 
 ancient piece of furniture some thin old glasses. 
 
 "There, William!" said Miss Mervin. "Now you 
 may deliver your soul." 
 
 William stood, and raised his glass on high, and, as 
 he spoke, he looked over the heads of those other two, 
 and the look in his eyes was as if he saw far and as if 
 the walls of that room had not been. Abbie Mervin 
 wondered at his face. It was transformed. This was 
 not the William that she had known all her life. 
 
 "Here s to you, Eben Joyce, wherever you may be," 
 he said softly. " If you have life, God grant that it is 
 a life of peace and content, and bring you back to us. 
 If you have not, may God rest your soul." 
 
 Miss Harriet s eyes filled, but she said nothing ; and 
 Abbie Mervin s eyes were very hard and bright, but 
 she said nothing, either. They drank their sherry in 
 silence and very solemnly. 
 
 "There!" cried Miss Mervin, with a little laugh that 
 sounded forced. "Now let s not say any more about 
 him." 
 
 William smiled understandingly, and sat down again ; 
 and Miss Harriet, furtively wiping her eyes, mean 
 while, with a diminutive handkerchief, made a re 
 mark. This was partly to change the subject, and 
 partly because she felt deeply grateful to William Ran- 
 some. 
 
 17
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "William," she said, "why don t you ever read me, 
 now, the things you write?" 
 
 " Because," replied William, quietly, " you would not 
 be interested in them, Harriet." 
 
 " How do you know that I would n t ?" insisted Miss 
 Harriet. "You still write them, don t you?" 
 
 William ignored the first question. It would not have 
 been an easy one to answer, although it is to be sup 
 posed that he did know. "Yes," he said modestly, 
 "I write them on a very limited scale." 
 
 "Well," remarked Miss Harriet, turning to Abbie, 
 "they were very nice things, I am sure; about I 
 don t seem to remember what they were about. What 
 was it, William ? " 
 
 Miss Mervin laughed at that, with uncalled-for 
 glee. 
 
 "Come, now, William, what were they about?" she 
 asked gayly. 
 
 William smiled as if he enjoyed it. "They were 
 about er a little of everything." 
 
 "Mercy!" cried Abbie Mervin. "What a wide 
 range!" 
 
 "Yes," said William, "rather wide." 
 
 " Well, anyway," said Miss Harriet, " they were very 
 pretty things, and quite grammatical. I remember 
 that distinctly, because so many things that are writ 
 ten now are not grammatical at all ! " 
 
 "Thank you," said William. "You are very 
 kind." 
 
 18
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Miss Harriet looked at him suspiciously. "Well," 
 she said, rather sharply, "they were grammatical, 
 were n t they?" 
 
 " I hope so," William answered. " I meant that they 
 should be." 
 
 "Well, William," asked Miss Harriet again, her sus 
 picions allayed, "why don t you or why won t you 
 read me some of them ?" 
 
 William would have sighed if he had dared. "I 
 don t because I thought you would not be interested, 
 Harriet. But if you wish it, I will, of course." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Abbie Mervin, her eyes sparkling, " and 
 may I be there to hear?" 
 
 To which question W r illiam made no reply, but he 
 found himself smiling again at Miss Mervin. He had 
 smiled at her rather often in the last few minutes. He 
 would have been astonished, and perhaps a little afraid, 
 if he had realized that fact. 
 
 So that matter was settled to Miss Harriet s satis 
 faction, and she felt that she had done a good deed. 
 Indeed, she was pleased to find that there was a little 
 glow at her heart. She had an indefinable sense of 
 gratitude to William, she could not, for the life of 
 her, have told why, and she wished to do something 
 which would give him pleasure. She could not imagine 
 anything more likely to give him pleasure than the 
 reading of his own creations to an audience consisting 
 of Miss Joyce : a cultivated and a sympathetic audience. 
 That she was sympathetic, she had not a doubt; but 
 
 19
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 why, oh, why, did William waste his time in writing 
 such such stuff ! 
 
 All of this may have represented William s point of 
 view, too, or it may not. At least, he did not say that 
 it did not. He probably would have forgotten the mat 
 ter completely, but for Miss Mervin, who seemed to 
 have an interest in listening to some of his productions. 
 He was surprised to find that he looked forward, with 
 some degree of pleasure, to reading to an audience con 
 sisting of Miss Joyce and Miss Mervin, an audience 
 cultivated and sympathetic, at least half of it would 
 be sympathetic, he felt reasonably sure. That com 
 forted him for the rest of the short evening. 
 
 "Now, William," said Miss Harriet, solicitously, 
 herself going to the door with her guests, "you will 
 see that Abbie gets safely home, will you ?" 
 
 It was rather a command than a question. William 
 smiled. "Yes, Harriet." 
 
 Abbie Mervin laughed. "How absurd, Harriet!" 
 she said. "As if I could n t go two steps alone, after 
 dark! But I want to talk to William, so he may go 
 home with me." 
 
 They went, and Miss Harriet watched them as far 
 as she could see, which was not far. It was very dark 
 on the front walk, and a long way to the street. And 
 she shut the door, not without misgivings as to her wis 
 dom in sending them off together. If Abbie wanted to 
 talk to William, why could n t she have said what she 
 had to say before she went ? 
 
 20
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Pshaw!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What a fool 
 lam!" 
 
 As for William and Abbie, they heard Miss Harriet 
 shut the door and missed the faint gleam of light ; then 
 heard nothing but the soft crunch of the gravel under 
 their feet. 
 
 "My!" cried Miss Mervin, softly. "It is dark, 
 under these trees, isn t it, William? Oh! What s 
 that?" 
 
 For a form had crept out from behind a tree close 
 beside them : a strangely grotesque, misshapen form, 
 with a big head and curious wobbly legs and long arms 
 which waved about. Of course they could not see all 
 that clearly, for it was almost as dark as pitch, but 
 they saw enough to recognize the familiar figure. Miss 
 Mervin heaved a sigh of relief. And the figure gave a 
 harsh, clattering laugh. 
 
 "Man in there," it cried, waving its long arms. 
 "Man in there." Again it laughed harshly. 
 
 " It s Clanky Beg," said Miss Mervin ; " only Clanky 
 Beg. I never came nearer being scared out of my 
 wits in my life. Clanky," she went on kindly, "you 
 must n t creep out at people from behind trees, that 
 way, in the dark. It would be sure to scare them. You 
 won t, any more, will you?" 
 
 "No, ma am," said Clanky Beg. Then he laughed 
 again, harshly, and touched William familiarly on the 
 arm. "Man in there!" he cried, with an evident relish 
 of something, though it was impossible to guess what. 
 
 21
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Man in there." Once more he gave his clattering 
 laugh, and vanished in the darkness. 
 
 "Now, which way did he go ?" asked Miss Mervin. 
 "Could you tell?" 
 
 William laughed shortly. "Not I," he answered. 
 " Clanky has a most mysterious way of disappearing. 
 You call good-night to him, and see whether you can 
 tell where the answer comes from. He probably would 
 not answer me at all." 
 
 "Good-night, Clanky Beg," called Miss Mervin. 
 
 "Good-night, ma am," came the answer, instantly; 
 but where it came from, whether from before, behind, 
 or from either side of them, neither William nor Abbie 
 had the least idea. 
 
 "That s a curious thing," said William. 
 
 " Yes," assented Abbie. " Clanky seems to have an 
 idea that you go to Harriet s too often." 
 
 Oh!" said William, stopping short. "So that is 
 what he meant." He again took his place at Abbie s 
 side. " Well, now," he murmured gently and reflec 
 tively, "I wonder if I do."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 CLANKY BEG was the son of a drunken father; a 
 brute, who had amused himself, when in his cups, by 
 keeping the boy under the table and kicking out of his 
 head what little sense God had put into it. Clanky was 
 a very small boy during this period of his existence, and 
 the casual kickings by his loving father, merely to ease 
 his mind, were mostly about the head; which is not 
 generally recommended as a pastime, in bringing up 
 boys or girls, either, for that matter. 
 
 They were frequent enough, these kickings, if casual ; 
 and it is not strange that they resulted in a condition 
 of partial idiocy, and in a consequent abnormality of 
 growth, which will account sufficiently for Clanky s big 
 head and wobbly legs, although it may not explain the 
 unusual length and strength of his arms. Indeed, he 
 would undoubtedly have died of the kickings to which 
 he was subjected, if his father had not been killed first, 
 providentially, in a street fight. As his mother had 
 died some months before, from injuries inflicted, also 
 in a casual way, by his father, she had made an ill- 
 advised attempt to prevent him from abusing the boy, 
 Clanky was left as a legacy to the public. 
 
 He was the only legacy, as it happened, and he natu 
 rally fell when he was found, which was only two 
 
 23
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 days after the sad demise of his father (two days of 
 starvation, which did not materially improve his con 
 dition) he naturally fell to the Overseers of the Poor ; 
 who, being overjoyed to get hold of such a promising 
 citizen, relegated him to the Poor Farm with all possible 
 speed and with many shrugs and wry faces, and thus 
 washed their hands of him completely. They never 
 visited the Poor Farm. 
 
 It was during the first year of his stay at the Poor 
 Farm that he got the name of Clanky Beg. He in 
 sisted that that was his name, and seemed to know 
 no other, though what was the association of ideas 
 in his poor misshapen head, it was impossible even to 
 guess. But nobody took the trouble to guess about 
 Clanky Beg ; and Clanky Beg it was, from that time 
 on, and his real name, if it ever had been known, was 
 forgotten. 
 
 The years at the Poor Farm were, on the whole, 
 happy years for Clanky. To be sure, he became the 
 drudge of the place, at the beck and call of every old 
 woman and every boy, he had not the wit to avoid 
 imposition, or even to recognize it. He was made to 
 fetch and carry for the other inmates when he had done 
 his hard day s work for the farm ; which was as much 
 as the superintendent thought he could get out of him ; 
 much more than he could have got out of any man in 
 his senses, and Clanky was a boy. But he was happy, 
 though chronically tired. Poor boy, he knew no easier 
 life. And so he stayed there until he was nearly twenty 
 
 24
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 nobody knew his age exactly and Mrs. Loughery 
 chanced to see him. 
 
 Mrs. Loughery was a poor woman with troubles of 
 her own and a kind heart ; which was not the least of her 
 troubles, for it would not let her pass lightly by the 
 troubles of other people. So, no sooner had she seen 
 Clanky Beg and realized what his life must be at that 
 institution of a free people, than she tried to get him. 
 In this she had not much difficulty. The Overseers of 
 that time were easily persuaded that she was a woman 
 of sufficient means to support one more, although one 
 would have thought that she had enough on her hands 
 already. But the Overseers of the Poor did not offi 
 cially know that she had a worthless son to support who 
 contributed nothing and an invalid son who could do 
 little he did what he could, poor boy! So Clanky 
 went with Mrs. Loughery and began a life full of joy to 
 him ; fuller of joy than any he had ever known. That is 
 not to say that it was a life of ease. Very little joy had 
 Clanky Beg known up to that time. He did the chores 
 for Mrs. Loughery, which were light, compared with 
 the chores at the Poor Farm ; did cheerfully anything 
 else that she would let him do ; and had many hours to 
 himself. And he wandered wide and free, tolerated, 
 even liked. For he was pleasant and obliging and good- 
 natured to a fault, and there was no harm in him. 
 
 Miss Mervin s explanation of what Clanky Beg had 
 said did not seem entirely satisfactory to William 
 Ransome, and the more he thought about it, the less 
 
 25
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 satisfactory it seemed. He was more troubled than he 
 would have been willing to acknowledge, and his replies 
 to Abbie Mervin s remarks were so random and wide 
 that she laughed at him. 
 
 " What is the matter, William ?" she said. " Do you 
 know what it was that I asked you, just now?" 
 
 He flushed quickly and smiled, although she could 
 not see either the flush or the smile, in that darkness. 
 "Well, no," he answered slowly, "lam afraid I don t. 
 What was it?" 
 
 " I asked you," she continued, " whether you had ever 
 tried to get any of your writings published." 
 
 "Oh, did you ?" he said, chuckling. "And what did 
 I say?" His answer must have been very far from 
 answering that question, he knew. 
 
 "You said," she replied, " No, he couldn t have 
 meant me, I think/ Now I submit, William, that that 
 is not an answer not a proper answer to my ques 
 tion." Abbie laughed again, gayly. William laughed, 
 too, softly. " I m afraid," Abbie went on, " that Clanky 
 Beg troubles you." 
 
 "I m afraid he does," he acknowledged. 
 
 " I won t press you for an answer a proper answer 
 now," she said. "But you have to tell me all about 
 it, some time. For I am interested, William." 
 
 " Thank you, Abbie. I am glad. Now Harriet 
 He spoke hesitatingly, and did not finish. 
 
 "I understand perfectly exactly," she said hastily. 
 "Harriet well I am really interested, William, 
 
 26
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 and Harriet is is not, to put it plainly. You could 
 not reasonably expect it. We need not say more. So, 
 be prepared." 
 
 "Thank you," he returned gratefully. "I will." 
 
 "Now," she said, "here I am, quite safe, at my own 
 door. So I will release you, William. Good-night." 
 
 Having bidden her good-night, he started briskly 
 home. He was thinking, as he walked under the shad 
 ows of the great elms, of Miss Harriet and of Abbie 
 Mervin and of Clanky Beg. He had not known Abbie 
 Mervin well enough, it seemed. Suddenly he became 
 aware of another shadow, stealing from trunk to trunk, 
 sometimes behind him, sometimes at his side, but never 
 very near. 
 
 " Clanky Beg," he called softly, " please come here. 
 I have something to say to you." 
 
 Clanky came up, readily enough, and as he came, 
 he laughed his clattering laugh. 
 
 " Clanky," said William, when the laugh had stopped 
 for a moment, " did you say there was a man in Miss 
 Harriet s ? " 
 
 Clanky laughed again. Evidently he thought it a 
 good joke. 
 
 "Do you know who it was?" 
 
 Clanky made no reply, but there was a cunning gleam 
 in his eyes. It was a pity that William could not see it ; 
 for, not seeing it, he concluded that Clanky did not 
 know. 
 
 " Will you show me where you saw him go ?" 
 27
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered Clanky, and started off at once. 
 
 William had great difficulty in following him, in the 
 darkness, for Clanky had reached that stage of develop 
 ment where he had his greatest joy in " playing Indian," 
 and he devoted all of his spare time to cultivating the 
 art. He slid from tree to tree with consummate skill, 
 which completely baffled William, and Clanky s skill 
 accomplished no useful purpose whatever, for they were 
 some distance from Miss Joyce s. William tried to 
 follow him at his usual dignified gait, but found that he 
 caught only an occasional glimpse of Clanky s shadow 
 flitting from tree to tree. Then he began to run ; but 
 he saw no more of the flitting shadow. Clanky had 
 evaded him. He stopped, laughing. 
 
 "I shall be taken for a burglar," he said to himself; 
 "or I should be, if anybody were about." 
 
 He went on, quietly, until he was at the Joyce gate. 
 All was quiet and all was dark ; very dark, except for a 
 dim light in an upper room, which was probably from 
 Miss Harriet s bedroom candle. And here was he, 
 at her gate, gazing up at it. If he were not taken for 
 a burglar, he might be taken for a lover; and at the 
 thought he laughed again, quietly. Ten years before, 
 he might have done such things from a lover s motives ; 
 but now his laugh died and he sighed. He wished 
 that he knew. If only he knew ! 
 
 "Clanky!" he called softly. 
 
 Clanky stood before him ; but where he had come 
 from, it was impossible to guess. William did not try. 
 
 28
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Keep still, Clanky," William commanded; and 
 Clanky choked off one of his laughs. It would have 
 been a horrible noise in the quiet night. 
 
 "Now, please go on, "said William, "and remember 
 that I am not as skillful as you are in tracking. Don t 
 lose me." 
 
 Clanky grinned with pleasure and led him up the 
 walk, then around by the piazza taking care to 
 walk on the grass of the terrace, for it would not be 
 stealthy enough, for an Indian, to step upon the piazza 
 to the side door. It was easy to look into the dining- 
 room windows from this point, and William noticed, 
 with something of a shock, that one of the shades 
 was not pulled completely down. He tried to remem 
 ber whether it had been so during supper, but failed. 
 Clanky had stopped, and had made a motion with his 
 long arms to indicate that here was the place where the 
 man should be. William began a search, which would 
 have been thorough, but there was the sound of a win 
 dow being raised, and Miss Harriet s voice came down 
 to them. Judging from the voice, Miss Harriet was not 
 afraid. 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 William smiled, there in the darkness. His discovery 
 meant so many things. " It is only I, Harriet. Clanky 
 Beg said there was a man in here, and I thought 
 that I had better come and investigate." 
 
 Miss Harriet s voice was softer as she answered. 
 Such devotion touched her. " Oh, William," she said, 
 
 29
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "you are very good, I am sure. But I am equally sure 
 that it is unnecessary. There can t be any man there. 
 I looked around most carefully before coming up. 
 Thank you, William, and good-night." 
 
 With these words, delivered with an air of kindly con 
 descension, at least, so William thought, the win 
 dow was closed again. He stood there for a moment, 
 grinning like any fool. 
 
 "Well, William," he murmured, at last, "you ve put 
 your foot in it now." He turned. "Come, Clanky, go 
 home now, like a good boy. You don t want Mrs. 
 Loughery worrying about you." 
 
 "Oh, no, sir," said Clanky, somewhat anxiously. 
 
 When William would have bidden him good-night, 
 he could not find him. 
 
 "Slipped away," he muttered. "Would that I had 
 done the same before well William, you are a 
 fool." 
 
 He laughed grimly and went home, making as much 
 noise by the way as he pleased, which was nearly as 
 much as he could. The man was but a creature of 
 Clanky s disordered brain, after all. Hereafter, he 
 would try to mind his own business. 
 
 And the man for whom William had been looking 
 for there was a man had been cowering in his hiding- 
 place all this time, trembling, filled with fear. It was a 
 good place that he had chosen to hide in an excellent 
 place. One would think that he must have been very 
 familiar with hiding-places about that house to hit upon 
 
 30
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 this at once and in the dark. The chances were that 
 lie would not have been found if the search had been 
 allowed to continue. But the man did not consider that ; 
 nor did his trembling stop when William and Clanky 
 had gone away. For three hours he lay there and trem 
 bled he seemed to have spasms of shaking until 
 he thought that surely the rattling of his teeth must 
 wake the woman who slept above him the rattling of 
 his teeth and the knocking together of his knees. 
 
 If there had been any one to see him, that one would 
 have concluded that it must be something more than 
 fear that made him tremble so ; that, perhaps, the man 
 was more in need of a doctor than of the police and 
 the doctor was more accessible, in Old Harbor, than 
 the police. When the three hours were up he thought 
 it was five hours when the three hours were up, and 
 he tried to get out of his hiding-place, that opinion 
 would, perhaps, have been strengthened. He seemed 
 pitiably weak. 
 
 He was out, at last, with many groans. He tried not 
 to groan not to make a noise of any kind ; and when 
 a groan was forced from him, in spite of all he could do 
 when he felt it coming, he tried to stifle it. In this 
 he succeeded only indifferently well ; and he stood upon 
 the ground and looked about him and listened intently, 
 fearing, he did not know what. 
 
 " Good thing she has n t a dog," he muttered; and, 
 stealthily, he drew near to a window of the dining- 
 room. 
 
 31
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 It was hidden from the street, that window, around 
 the corner of the house. For that matter, he might as 
 well have chosen a front window. They were all in 
 visible from the street, in that darkness, even if there 
 had been any one abroad to see ; and the house was set 
 well back, and there were many trees, which would 
 have hidden him well enough. He drew his knife from 
 his pocket, a stout knife with a thick blade, and, choos 
 ing his place just where the catch showed dimly, he 
 jabbed it into the wood. 
 
 "Now," he muttered, "if they haven t fixed this 
 catch, it will ah!" 
 
 For, with a quick pry on the knife, the window moved 
 slightly sidewise and was free. It was loose in its casing. 
 He raised it slowly, an inch a half inch at a time. 
 It responded, not without objection, but it did not make 
 so very much noise, not enough to wake a maiden lady 
 with a clear conscience and in her first sound sleep. 
 Now it was high enough to admit a man, if he were 
 careful. He drew out the knife blade and slipped the 
 window back, and the catch caught with a click. 
 
 He let up the shade carefully. "Now for it." He 
 sighed. "I wish I had more strength." 
 
 He struggled up into the opening, pulled himself 
 through, slowly and with great effort, it brought per 
 spiration out in great beads upon his forehead, and 
 fell in a heap upon the floor.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Miss HARRIET had been smiling to herself as she 
 blew out her candle and got into bed. It was so good 
 of William to take all that trouble for her. Of course 
 it was useless, but William was forever doing useless 
 things, and it was like him to do this. His intentions 
 had been good ; of that she felt sure. Well, William was 
 yes, he was a dear. And with an unaccustomed 
 warmth for him in the region of her heart, she com 
 posed herself to sleep. 
 
 It was some hours later, although it seemed to her 
 the next minute, which may be taken as proof of the 
 clear conscience already alluded to, and of some other 
 things, that she suddenly started wide awake. She 
 had no idea what it was that had wakened her. She half 
 rose upon her elbow and listened. There was no sound 
 except the ticking of the tall clock in the hall, and that 
 was a friendly sound which she was well used to hear 
 ing. With a low exclamation of impatience she put her 
 head back upon the pillow and once more composed 
 herself to sleep. To her surprise, sleep would not come. 
 After a half hour of vain effort, she began to get angry. 
 She rose upon her elbow again, turned her pillow and 
 pounded it, then sank back upon it. She was wider 
 awake than ever. She turned over upon her other side, 
 
 33
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 and in the course of fifteen minutes she turned back 
 again ; and after ten minutes more of wakefulness, she 
 sat up. 
 
 "It s no use," she said. "I ll just look around once 
 more. Then I shall go to sleep quick enough." 
 
 She slipped her bare feet into her bedroom slippers 
 and put her wrapper on. She always kept that on a 
 chair, with the candle, by the side of the bed. Then 
 she felt for a match and, having found it, she lighted 
 the candle. They were sulphur matches, which made 
 no sound ; and there had been nobody to hear it, of 
 course, if it had exploded like a cannon. And with 
 the candle in her hand, her slippered feet making no 
 sound, she went downstairs. 
 
 There was a light shining under the crack of the 
 dining-room door. It seemed to be quite a bright light. 
 "My silver!" thought Miss Harriet; and she hurried. 
 She grasped the knob and turned it noiselessly; then, 
 slowly, she opened the door. 
 
 Her first impression was that the room was afire. 
 Then, as she stood there looking in, and as her eyes 
 got used to the light, she saw that the illumination was 
 caused by six candles, there were no more than that 
 number of candlesticks in that room, and four of 
 them were upon the sideboard and two of them upon 
 the table; and all of her brightly polished silver was 
 spread out upon the sideboard or upon the end of the 
 table nearest it. It shone bravely. How it shone ! She 
 realized it with a little thrill of pride, even then. The 
 
 34
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 two candlesticks that were upon the table stood one 
 on either side of the place William had occupied the 
 head or the foot, as you prefer. In that place was 
 not William Miss Harriet would have been glad 
 enough of his presence at that moment and in that place. 
 It was a man, a strange man, with clothes that were 
 threadbare and worn, and with a week s beard upon his 
 face. There seemed to be a certain refinement in his 
 features, so far as Miss Harriet could see them. The 
 man had his face turned away from her. But he was 
 strangely familiar. Miss Harriet found herself puzzling 
 over that, wondering where she could, by any possibil 
 ity, have seen him before. The man was standing, 
 apparently gazing at the silver so temptingly arrayed 
 before him. Miss Harriet suddenly realized that, and 
 she realized that it was very tempting. No doubt 
 he would be putting it into his bag in a minute ; they 
 always carried bags, these men, great gunny-sacks for 
 just such occasions. A vision came to her of a huge 
 melting-pot and all her beloved silver going into it, 
 piece by piece. She would have cried out, but the man 
 himself, strangely enough, began speaking before she 
 could make a sound. 
 
 He raised his hand on high, and in his fingers was 
 one of those thin old glasses. 
 
 " Here s to you, Eben Joyce, wherever you may be," 
 he said softly. " If you have life, God grant that it is 
 a life of peace and content, and bring you back to us. 
 If you have not, may God rest your soul." He drank 
 
 35
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 his sherry at a gulp. "A life of peace and content!" 
 He laughed low and harshly. "Ha! That s good. A 
 life of peace and content ! I wish to God I might have." 
 
 Miss Harriet had got over her wonder. She had 
 got through puzzling about him. She knew. " Eben," 
 she said. 
 
 He turned, at the sound, as if he had been shot. He 
 seemed stricken with fear. He still kept his hold on 
 the little glass, and it waved about as he spoke. 
 
 "Harriet!" he whispered hoarsely. "Harriet!" 
 His voice failed him, apparently. He could not seem 
 to raise it above that hoarse whisper. "Harriet," he 
 repeated pleadingly, "I didn t mean to steal. I 
 was n t going to steal your things. I was going to put 
 everything back, just as I found it. Truly, I was. I 
 only only wanted to see them once more 
 the old place things once " 
 
 His voice died out and he swayed and fell where he 
 was, a crumpled heap. The little glass splintered on 
 the edge of the table as he fell. 
 
 Harriet Joyce was not one of those women who are 
 accustomed to scream and clasp their hands and gaze 
 with wide-eyed horror, when anything happens 
 when there is anything to be done. Doing things was 
 her strong point. She did them now; did what was 
 necessary, what was best, until she had Eben lying 
 there on the floor of the dining-room with his eyes 
 open and with sense in them. 
 
 " Now, Eben," she said, " you lie here for a few min- 
 36
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 utes while I call my maid. I m going to get you 
 upstairs into your own room, and to bed. I can t lift 
 you, alone." 
 
 "No, Harriet, no! Let me go. Please let me go." 
 
 He struggled to raise himself, but Miss Harriet held 
 him down with one hand ; did it easily. 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" she said, and smiled. "You re ill, 
 Eben. Why, I can hold you there with one hand. You re 
 not in condition to be trusted to go anywhere. You d 
 faint again before you reached the gate. Then we d 
 have the trouble of bringing you all the way in again. 
 No." Eben found her smile a comfort. " You re going 
 to your own room, to your own bed. I ve kept your 
 room in order, and I have only to make the bed. That 
 won t take me a minute." 
 
 Eben s eyes filled with tears and he turned his head 
 away. He was very weak, poor man ! 
 
 "You re very good, Harriet," he whispered; "very 
 good to me. But, please, I don t want any one else 
 to I can manage to get upstairs with a little help 
 a very little help." 
 
 Harriet spoke quickly. "Well, Eben, well, if you 
 wish. We will try it. Only go slowly, and rest when 
 ever you feel tired. Or wait! I will go up and have 
 the room ready in a jiffy and leave a light. Then I will 
 come back for you. Will you promise to wait here?" 
 
 Eben smiled faintly. "Yes, I promise. Never fear." 
 
 Harriet rose and started towards the door. Then she 
 came back and shut the window. There was a flicker 
 
 37
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 of amusement in Eben s eyes, but he said nothing, 
 only watched her. She found him in the same place 
 in the same position when she came back. Then, 
 together, they started up the stairs. Eben was stronger 
 than she had thought. He had to rest only twice on the 
 way ; then, withher help,hegot to his room and to bed 
 the bed that he had not been in for fifteen years. How 
 well he remembered his feeling, that night, fifteen years 
 ago! He had felt very bitter, then; he remembered 
 thinking that he should never lie in that bed again. He 
 had been glad to believe that he should not. But now 
 
 He shut his eyes, and the tears slowly trickled from 
 under the lids and down his cheeks. Harriet saw them. 
 
 "What is it, Eben?" she asked gently. "Are you 
 feeling badly? Have you any pain?" 
 
 Eben opened his eyes. " No, Harriet," he whispered, 
 "no pain. A little light-headed, perhaps." He smiled 
 at her, and the corners of his mouth quivered as he 
 smiled. " Harriet, I have dreamed of this. It is heav 
 enly. But I did n t expect I did n t hope for it." 
 
 Harriet s own eyes felt hot. " I don t know why not, 
 I m sure. It s been yours for the asking for a long 
 time, Eben." 
 
 She turned away quickly, and began to put the little 
 things in the room to rights. Not that they needed to be 
 set to rights they were right enough, already ; but she 
 felt safer so. Miss Harriet had all a man s dislike to 
 being seen crying, and there was a great lump in her 
 throat. She could feel Eben s eyes upon her, following 
 
 38
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 her as she went about the room, moving the things on 
 the washstand a fraction of an inch, then going to the 
 dressing-table and performing the same useless task 
 there. There was an old pincushion that she, herself, 
 had made, twenty years before. It was fat and hard. 
 She had thought it lovely when she made it. She lifted 
 it and held it for Eben to see. It had suddenly come 
 over her that she was doing useless things, and she 
 thought, with a pang, of William Ransome. Just what 
 sort of a pang it was that she felt, one can only guess. 
 But the pincushion did not matter, and she knew it. 
 Neither she nor Eben said anything. Eben smiled 
 again at her, and she put the pincushion down again, 
 before the old Dutch mirror, where it had been these 
 twenty years. At last she could trust herself to speak. 
 
 "Now, Eben," she said, without a tremor, "I must 
 go down to the dining-room and put out the candles. 
 You go right to sleep. If you need me, call. My door 
 will be open, and I wake easily. Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night," returned Eben, softly, "and bless 
 you, Harriet." 
 
 She blew out his candle quickly, for she felt the lump 
 in her throat again. Then she went down to the din 
 ing-room and put out the candles there. The silver 
 she left till the morning. 
 
 Miss Harriet did not go to sleep immediately. Once 
 she heard Eben talking in his sleep an uneasy sleep, 
 apparently and she went in to him. She could not 
 make out what he was trying to say, but he seemed to 
 
 39
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 be in fear of something, and his hands were working 
 uneasily together and he moved his head from side to 
 side. Harriet laid her cool hand upon his forehead and 
 found it somewhat hot. He had a little fever, then. 
 At her touch his head stopped its uneasy rolling and 
 he half woke, and reached up and grasped her hand 
 with both of his. 
 
 "It s only I, Eben," she said; "it s Harriet. You 
 were talking in your sleep, and I came in to see if you 
 were all right." 
 
 He was wide awake now. "Talking in my sleep?" 
 he cried apprehensively. "What did I say, Harriet? 
 What did I say?" 
 
 " I could not make out," she replied gently. " You 
 seemed to be afraid of something. I suppose it was 
 only a bad dream." 
 
 He laughed shortly. Harriet could scarcely hear it. 
 " A bad dream ! " he exclaimed. " I have a great many 
 of them. I am afraid, Harriet, afraid of everything." 
 
 "Well, go to sleep now," she said soothingly, as 
 if he were a sick child. "There is nothing to be afraid 
 of now. You are in your own room, in your own bed. 
 Go to sleep, Eben." 
 
 He sighed contentedly and turned over, and she left 
 him. But in the morning his eyes were dull and listless 
 and he scarcely spoke. Harriet stood looking down at 
 her brother and thinking. 
 
 "I don t know what s the matter with him," she 
 murmured finally. "It might be anything, anything 
 
 40
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 at all, or nothing but excitement. He needs the 
 doctor." 
 
 So she sent for the doctor, summoning the surprised 
 maid from the preparation of her breakfast for the 
 purpose. Having sent, she went back to Eben s room 
 and sat down in a low rocker that stood by one of the 
 windows, a window through which the sunshine poured 
 in a great flood. And there she sat and rocked noise 
 lessly except for the slight creaking of the old chair, 
 and she thought. The measured, rhythmic creaking of 
 the chair, with the flooding sunshine, seemed to soothe 
 Eben, and, gradually, he fell asleep again.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 HARRIET JOYCE did not seem to belong in a rocking- 
 chair; there was something incongruous about the 
 combination, especially if the chair was being rocked 
 regularly and methodically, as it was now. She would 
 have said so herself, at once, and perhaps with unne 
 cessary vehemence. Indeed, she believed, in her own 
 private heart, although she might not have been so 
 ready to say that, that the rocking-chair was a device 
 suited only to invalids, nurses with babies to care for, 
 and persons of an inferior intellect; such a person as 
 William Ransome, for example. She could think of him 
 in a rocker, rocking quietly, although she had never 
 known him to be guilty of that offense or she could 
 have thought of him so, within a very few days. Now, 
 the fact that she found it harder to think of William 
 rocking, with his feet banging on the floor with every 
 forward swing, was evidence that her opinion of Wil 
 liam was undergoing some subtle change, of which she 
 may not have been aware. 
 
 None the less, she sat there and rocked gently, and 
 found the motion and the rhythmic creaking very 
 soothing, as Eben had. She may have needed to be 
 soothed, for she had had an exciting night, although 
 she would not have acknowledged that it had excited 
 
 42
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 her. As she sat rocking and looking out of the window, 
 watching for the doctor, her thoughts her musings, 
 rather, for she was not thinking passed uncon 
 sciously from Eben to William and back again. 
 
 She remembered Eben best as a half -grown boy. She 
 had always rather looked up to him, she could not 
 quite tell why. Handsome, well-bred, with distin 
 guished manners, even as a boy, she said it to herself 
 with some pride in him, and weak ! What could you 
 expect ? And he had gone to college and had done only 
 fairly well, when his father had expected great things of 
 him. To a man like her father, who made no allowances 
 for neglect of duty, it must have been a great disap 
 pointment. Then, in the middle of his junior year, he 
 had come home to stay, as he said. He did not stay 
 long, for his father, learning the cause, Harriet had 
 never known the cause, had considered it necessary 
 to give him a sound thrashing. Harriet recalled, even 
 now, her father s look of grief and sorrow. No one 
 could accuse him of acting in anger. She recalled, too, 
 easily enough, Eben s white, set face, his eyes like two 
 burning coals, as he followed his father out. He had 
 said no word to any one, did not open his lips to speak, 
 and in the morning they found that he had gone. Now, 
 here he was. Harriet looked long at the quiet form on 
 the bed, and the creaking of the rocker stopped; the 
 quick tears came to her eyes, and, with a shivering sigh, 
 she turned to the window. She saw the doctor s horse 
 just stopping at the gate. 
 
 43
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 It was an old white horse, that seemed to be clad in 
 furs and always made Miss Harriet think of a polar bear. 
 He was accustomed to stand before a house dozing, 
 perhaps, if it was warm, or looking about him with an 
 air of the most lively interest he would stand there 
 fora time, which was as long as he was quite comfortable, 
 and which varied in length with the weather. Then he 
 would proceed to investigate anything which aroused 
 his curiosity, and which seemed to him to be worth an 
 investigation. If he was cold with his standing, he 
 would walk up and down the street, turning carefully 
 at the ends of his beat, and stopping occasionally at the 
 gate and gazing in inquiringly to see if there were any 
 sign of the doctor. 
 
 Doctor Olcott himself was a man past middle age, 
 stout and afflicted with asthma, but active in spite of it. 
 Miss Harriet watched him now getting slowly out of his 
 low buggy and laboring briskly up the long walk. Then 
 she saw him wheezing up the steps. She rose quickly 
 and went out of the room. The front door opened and 
 boomed shut again, and the doctor sat down on the 
 settle in the hall to get his breath. Harriet started down 
 the stairs, and he heard her coming. 
 
 "Hang it all, Hattie," he called, "what s the matter 
 now ? Why," as she came within his view " why, 
 confound it, there s nothing ailing you. You ought to 
 be ashamed to send for me and make me walk this mile 
 uphill from your gate. There d be a great deal more 
 sense in your coming to see an old man whose heart is 
 
 44
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 skittish and who has n t any breath left. Come, why 
 did n t you?" 
 
 Miss Harriet smiled at him affectionately. "You 
 didn t send for me, doctor," she replied. "Send for 
 me, and see how quickly I ll come." 
 
 The doctor was standing now, and he patted her 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Yes, yes," he said. " I believe you would. I believe 
 you would. Well, what is it, Hattie? What did you 
 want ? For I know you would n t send for me for 
 nothing." 
 
 Miss Harriet sobered at once. " Doctor Olcott," she 
 said, looking earnestly at him, " Eben has come home." 
 
 "What!" he cried. " Eben come home ? Bless my 
 soul ! Is it good news good or bad, Hattie?" 
 
 " Good news, of course, doctor," Harriet answered, 
 somewhat indignantly. " How could it be anything 
 else?" 
 
 A smile of amusement flashed into his eyes. They 
 were merry eyes, and the wrinkles about them were 
 pleasant to see. 
 
 " Well, it is conceivable conceivable. But I 
 beg your pardon. Of course it would be good news 
 to you. Somebody to take care of. When did he come, 
 and where did he come from?" 
 
 " He came last night," said Miss Harriet, guiltily con 
 scious that she was telling less than the whole truth. 
 " I don t know where he came from. He has not been 
 well enough to talk about it." 
 
 45
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 The doctor s manner changed at once. " What s the 
 matter with him?" he asked brusquely. "But of 
 course you don t know. He has some fever, I suppose. 
 I d better see him. Where is he, in his old room?" 
 He moved toward the stairs. "No, Hattie, don t you 
 come, yet. If I need anything, I ll call you." 
 
 So Miss Harriet waited, with what patience she could 
 muster, there in the hall. The doctor was a long time 
 with Eben, and she opened the door and leaned against 
 the jamb, looking out. The air was cool, for it was 
 October ; but the sunshine was warm in the doorway, 
 and she basked in it, her eyes half closed. The trees 
 had not yet lost their leaves, which were well turned. 
 The elm leaves were not pretty, they never are, being 
 but a dingy yellow, but here and there along the 
 street, a maple showed gorgeous colors. The Polar 
 Bear had gone over to investigate, according to his 
 habit, a particularly brilliant clump of scarlet; but, 
 seeing what it was, and that it was well beyond his 
 reach, and probably not good to eat, anyway, he was 
 turning around with his customary care, looking up at 
 the houses, meanwhile, inquiringly. 
 
 Harriet watched him as he retraced his steps, and as 
 she watched, she saw Abbie Mervin just beyond, wav 
 ing frantically. At the same moment she heard Eben s 
 door shut and the heavy tread of the doctor coming 
 down the stairs. She waved to Abbie, but her waving 
 was far from frantic. She hoped that Abbie would not 
 come over. Somehow, she did not want to see her just 
 
 46
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 then. She turned to meet the doctor, and saw that 
 the tears were standing in his eyes. He was evidently 
 under considerable excitement, and when he was near 
 enough, he exploded. 
 
 " Damn it all, Hattie !" he cried. He spoke low, lest 
 Eben should hear. " Damn it all ! I beg your pardon 
 but you 11 want to swear when you hear. The only 
 matter with Eben is that he has been starved. He s 
 been underfed for the last six months or more, and the 
 least little thing wears him out. He d have had too 
 little clothing, too, but that it has been warm weather. 
 And now anything may get hold of him if he is not taken 
 care of any sickness. Resisting power all gone 
 his fighting power in mind as well as body. Feed him 
 up, Hattie." She started at once. " No, no, I don t 
 mean now. Nurse him up, and then feed him. I don t 
 know his story; it is n t necessary that I should. But 
 that s all he needs. There is no reason why it should 
 be difficult. You know well enough what to give him 
 now." He glanced out toward the gate. "Here s Abbie 
 coming in. You won t want me now. I ll drop in this 
 afternoon. Good-by, Hattie. You re a good girl." 
 
 The doctor was gone, lurching down the steps and 
 down the walk to the gate. Abbie Mervin would have 
 stopped; but the doctor did not stop, only calling a 
 cheery good -morn ing. Then he whistled for his horse, 
 got into the buggy, and drove away. Harriet waited at 
 the door while Abbie came up, somewhat anxious. 
 
 "Well, Harriet," she said, "I saw the doctor s horse 
 47
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 evidently anchored here with a long tether and it 
 worried me. You re not ill, are you ? Is it Bridget?" 
 
 "No," answered Harriet. There was a little pause. 
 "Abbie, Eben is upstairs." 
 
 Miss Mervin sank down upon the settle, overcome. 
 Words failed her. " Eben !" she gasped at last. "Eben? 
 Are you sure, Harriet?" She laughed unnaturally. 
 " But how absurd ! Of course you are. Eben!" 
 
 Abbie Mervin s feelings were in a strangely chaotic 
 state at that moment. For years, she had looked for 
 ward to such a moment as a remote possibility. 
 She had cherished an ideal had hugged it close ; 
 but now she felt a curious reluctance to act as she 
 had supposed she would act in these circumstances. 
 She was ashamed that she was glad of Harriet s next 
 words. 
 
 " You will excuse me, Abbie, I know. I have to see 
 about Eben s breakfast." 
 
 " Of course. Is he is he ill, Harriet ? " 
 
 "Not seriously, I think. But he is not well." 
 
 Abbie laughed again. "You I am upset, Harriet. 
 I will go as soon as I have had time to collect my 
 thoughts. Of course he can t see any one now, but 
 perhaps as soon as he is well enough you will let 
 me know?" 
 
 Harriet nodded and was gone. Abbie still sat there 
 on the hall settle. She had had it in mind yes, she 
 had meant to renew the old intimate relations with 
 Eben, if he came back when he came back; for, 
 
 48
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 with the years, the feeling that he might come had grown 
 into a certainty that he would come. She had even, 
 in her .own secret soul, meant to marry him, as she had 
 once been ready to promise to do, and as he had seemed 
 to be on the point of asking her to do. And if he would 
 not ask her now, she had thought it would be right 
 enough for her but she never followed that thought to 
 its inevitable conclusion. It frightened her. It seemed 
 unmaidenly. None the less, in spite of her reluctance 
 to confess to herself, she knew just what she meant to do. 
 Eben might well hesitate to ask that of any woman, 
 in the face of the failure he had made of his life. But he 
 was not old yet he was but thirty-five. What was 
 thirty-five ? Only half his life ; there would be plenty 
 of time plenty of time, if he began at once. 
 
 The tears stood in her eyes and she had a heightened 
 color, which showed under her clear skin like a tint 
 upon porcelain. She would not see Harriet again 
 now. She could not bear it. With a glance toward the 
 dining-room, she rose hurriedly and went out. 
 
 Slowly she walked down the path, beneath the trees, 
 and out at the gate. She held her head erect and her 
 eyes were wide open, but they told her brain nothing. 
 Her physical eyes saw well enough to guide her feet by 
 the old familiar places, but little of their message reached 
 her consciousness. She was trying to think and not 
 succeeding very well. She felt the need of adjusting her 
 self to the new circumstances ; though why there should 
 be need of adjusting herself to these circumstances she 
 
 49
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 could not have told. She had settled all that, time and 
 time again; or she thought she had. But she found 
 herself much disturbed upset. She did not like to be 
 upset. It did not happen to her often. 
 
 A man was approaching, and she turned out, al 
 though she was not aware of him. He stopped, and 
 smiled to see the look on her face. 
 
 "What s the matter, Abbie?" he asked. "Walking 
 in your sleep?" 
 
 Quite a different look came into her eyes, and again 
 the quick color flooded her cheeks. Again there was 
 that rose tint upon porcelain. 
 
 "Oh, William!" she cried. "I m afraid I was 
 walking in my sleep and dreaming. I didn t see 
 you at all." 
 
 "Evidently," said William. 
 
 "But I am particularly glad to see you now," she 
 continued. "Where are you going? Have you time to 
 walk a little way with me or I will walk with you, 
 if you are in a hurry." 
 
 Apparently William had time, for he turned at once. 
 "Well?" he asked. 
 
 Abbie regarded him for a moment. " I have been 
 into Harriet s," she said. "I saw the doctor s old 
 white horse apparently hailing from there, and I went 
 over." 
 
 William looked sympathetic. "I hope there s no 
 thing the matter." 
 
 "No," she returned, "not with Harriet." She was 
 50
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 silent for the space of two breaths. " I may as well out 
 with it at once. Eben has come home." 
 
 To her surprise, William laughed. " So that was it," 
 he remarked. 
 
 Abbie stopped short. " William," said she, " what 
 do you mean?" 
 
 William told her, as briefly as he could, his expe 
 rience of the night before. "And," he concluded, 
 " she took the pains to assure me that no man could 
 be there. So there was nothing left for Clanky and me 
 to do but to take ourselves off as fast as possible." 
 
 Abbie was looking at him intently. " Do you mean 
 to say," she asked, "that you believe that Harriet 
 knew it all the time knew that Eben was there ? For 
 I suppose it was he." 
 
 William nodded. "I suppose it was naturally. 
 But I distinctly do not mean to say that I have any be 
 lief about it. Those are the facts. You can draw what 
 inference you choose or what you must. Of course, 
 you or I would much rather not attach any importance 
 to the circumstance at all. The fact remains that I was 
 packed off very unceremoniously and finally. And," 
 he added, with some slight show of feeling, " I did n t 
 like it." 
 
 There was silence for a moment, and Abbie gazed at 
 him with wide eyes. " Of course you did n t like it," 
 she said. A laugh was growing in her eyes, and at last 
 she smiled. " It s too absurd, William, to think of Har 
 riet as a conspirator. She s the essence of truth. You 
 
 51
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 would be the last person whose feelings she would wish 
 to hurt " 
 
 William interrupted her. "That s just it," he said 
 earnestly. "Harriet does n t think about my feelings. 
 She seems to feel that I have n t any." 
 
 Abbie laughed. "Well," she returned, "it s just as 
 easy is n t it ? to consider the whole thing as just 
 happening so and of no importance. So let s." 
 
 William laughed out at that. "All right." 
 
 Meanwhile, Eben s fever had increased. He could 
 eat nothing of the breakfast which Miss Harriet had 
 prepared with such care, but tossed as he lay, and 
 babbled of something Harriet could not make out 
 what of which he seemed to be in great terror.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE street that Harriet Joyce s house was on had 
 been the highroad, and during the prosperity of Old 
 Harbor there had grown up on it many an old square 
 house. They were generous and dignified, these old 
 houses, standing well back from the street, high on their 
 terraces, the lawns shaded by noble old elms. In sum 
 mer, the cool winds blew through the wide halls, which 
 opened at front and at back ; and in winter, fires roared 
 in the great chimneys, and the firelight shone on queer 
 deep-sea shells, or on grotesque carven idols, or on 
 tables inlaid with ebony and ivory. 
 
 The prosperity of Old Harbor had been due to its 
 ships. Now that there were no ships, or next to none, 
 
 there was no prosperity worth mentioning. There 
 was nothing left but memories and these relics: the 
 shells and the idols and the inlaid tables. The sons 
 and daughters of the old shipowners would not have 
 had it otherwise since the ships were not. 
 
 The street that Harriet Joyce s house was on was the 
 highroad yet, although it had fallen from its high estate 
 when it bore on its hard back two express stages a day 
 
 two each way. Its back was as hard as ever ; but, 
 beyond the limits of the aforesaid old square houses, 
 it felt no greater burden than the occasional farmer s 
 
 53
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 horse, trotting heavily to a market, such as it was, with 
 his load behind him. 
 
 Out on this road, just where it forked, was the Old 
 Green the New Green being nearer the town, and 
 itself a century old, although it had been embellished, 
 more recently, with a curb of cut granite and a fence of 
 bronze, the result of the activity of the Improvement 
 Society. The Old Green was guiltless of any such 
 embellishment, and continued to mark, humbly and 
 unobtrusively, the dividing of the ways; and just be 
 yond the Old Green there stood, corner to the road, a 
 little old house with sagging roof and one big chimney 
 sticking up through the middle of it. It was a very old 
 house, planted there before the right fork of the road 
 was a road at all, which sufficiently accounts for its 
 position. It had a pleasant prospect: woods and fields, 
 
 more woods and less fields than had been, and it 
 must have had a good view of the stage for a half mile 
 in either direction, when there was a stage to see. 
 
 For the prosperity of the little old house was past, too. 
 Now, it looked tidy, to be sure, but decrepit ; there was 
 an occasional squawk from one of the hens that stood on 
 one leg in the sunshine no doubt much as it had been 
 in the day that was past ; strings of sliced apples hung 
 over the door and under the windows, drying in the sun 
 
 which was also, no doubt, much as had been ; and, 
 on a bench beside the door, and this w T as not at all 
 as it had been, on this bench, I say, sat Clanky Beg. 
 
 Clanky Beg sat on the bench, in the sun, blinking 
 54
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 and thinking upon nothing in particular after the man 
 ner of domestic animals, I say nothing about wild 
 animals, knowing nothing about them except what I 
 have seen, and I have no competent witnesses of that, 
 and he stretched at his length and had his great hands 
 slipped into the pockets of his trousers and his big 
 head leaned against the shingles of the house. He was 
 gazing out, with a look of content, over green fields and 
 pastures new no, not new, for things that were new 
 were not in fashion in Old Harbor, except with the 
 Improvement Society. They never had been in fashion. 
 And the fields were no longer green. What Clanky Beg 
 saw, as he sat there in the warm sunshine, were fields 
 that were sere and brown, with, here and there, patches 
 of bay and berry bushes spreading over them ; and they 
 stretched away until they met the woods, and they had 
 a fringe of smaller trees at the far side. Those smaller 
 
 O 
 
 trees ranged all the way from sturdy striplings of thirty 
 years to the slender red seedlings on the outer edge; 
 and somewhere within the fringe would be found an 
 old stone wall. Clanky smiled as he thought of that. 
 He loved those woods. 
 
 A little woman who seemed old as old as the house 
 
 opened the door and put her head out. " Clanky," 
 
 she called. It was no less than wonderful to hear her 
 
 voice. It sounded sweet as bells, but it was not a sweet 
 
 voice. 
 
 Clanky started up with an alertness that was pathetic, 
 it told so much of his story. 
 
 55
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Yes, ma am, mother Loughery," he answered 
 quickly, dog-like love showing in his shining eyes. 
 " What would you have me do ? I m a ready to do 
 an thing for you." 
 
 " Bless you, Clanky,boy," said Mrs. Loughery, heart 
 ily, "I know that. T is not much I d be askin of 
 you. T is only that you 11 look after Joe whiles 
 I m gone, and give him his medicine reg lar, and stay 
 within call of him. Joe 11 tell you when it s time for 
 the medicine. I ve to go down the road a bit, to sell 
 my yarbs." 
 
 " Yes, ma am, I will," replied Clanky, earnestly. " I 
 will, faithful." 
 
 " Bless you, boy," said Mrs. Loughery again, " you re 
 a comfort." She turned into the house and shut the door. 
 " It s warm in the sun, but there s the feel of winter 
 the feel of winter. My Joe must n t get it. Ah, well " 
 She stopped where she stood. "I w r onder, now, 
 would n t he be better for a breath of the air and a bit 
 of the warm sun. I ll ask him would n t he like it. I 
 know I d as soon die as be cooped up in the house." 
 She opened the door into the kitchen. A boy of about 
 twenty sat in a rocking-chair near the stove, with a 
 shawl about his shoulders and another about his knees. 
 His cheeks were hollow and his eyes were big. He 
 looked up as his mother entered and smiled at her. 
 
 "Now, Joe, dear," she said, "it s come to me that 
 mebbe you d like to go out where Clanky sits for a bit. 
 The sun s warm and there s no wind there. Would you, 
 
 56
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Joe ? He 11 take your chair out Clanky will and 
 see t you re wrapped snug." She spoke anxiously. 
 
 Joe was smiling still. "All right, mother. I ll go." 
 
 Mrs. Loughery opened the door again and called 
 Clanky Beg, who came at once and took Joe s chair 
 and bore it out, and set it carefully where there was not 
 the lightest breath of wind. Then Joe walked, rather 
 feebly, toward the door. His mother watched him 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Be good, now, Joe, dear. I ll only be gone a little 
 while." 
 
 Joe looked at her and smiled again. His mother was 
 tucking a clean white cloth in around the herbs that 
 filled the basket. " Yes, mother," he said. "I ll be" 
 Then he coughed. He had to stop, in his short journey, 
 and lean against the door until he was through. 
 
 She came over to him quickly. "There, now, 
 Joe," she said, putting her arm around him. "There, 
 there, now. The cough, Joe, darlin , it s easier than 
 it was?" 
 
 He nodded assent he could not speak, at once 
 and she kissed him. 
 
 "Bless you, Joe! Now, take my arm, and we ll go 
 out together." 
 
 Clanky ran to help her and, together, they settled 
 the smiling Joe in his chair. It was a brave Joe, for 
 he knew what he had to expect, and that soon ; almost 
 certainly before another winter, and he would be doing 
 well he would be lucky if he saw the spring again. 
 
 57
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 But he smiled and was cheerful. His mother knew, too, 
 although she was not ready to acknowledge it to herself. 
 
 When she had Joe well tucked in, she went into the 
 house again, and came out almost at once with her 
 basket on her arm. 
 
 "Now I ll be goin . Good-by, Joe, dear. Good-by, 
 Clanky, boy." 
 
 "Good-by, ma am, mother Loughery," called 
 Clanky. Joe only nodded, and watched her with wist 
 ful affection as she walked briskly down the road. 
 
 Mrs. Loughery was not an old woman, although her 
 face, lined and bronzed by sun and wind and weather, 
 made her seem so. It was a witch s face, or it would 
 have been but for the cheerful smile that was so ready. 
 Old Harbor was well used to Mrs. Loughery s cheeri- 
 ness, and as to her witch s face, why, it never once 
 thought of that. 
 
 It was a walk of nearly two miles that she had before 
 her, but she made nothing of it, although she was ready 
 enough to take a lift in a farmer s wagon, if one came 
 that way. There was no farmer driving to market on 
 that morning, it seemed perhaps the farmers went 
 earlier. It was early yet, too early, one would have 
 thought, to expect to be successful in an errand such 
 as hers. Mrs. Loughery knew better. She knew that 
 the less the women of Old Harbor had to do, the earlier 
 they seemed to think that they had to get up. Miss 
 Joyce breakfasted at seven, the year around; Mrs. 
 Catherwood, at half-past seven. 
 
 58
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 She came, at length, to that part of the road where 
 the road ceased to be a road and became a street ; where 
 the old square houses made an array of which Old 
 Harborites were inordinately proud. As she walked 
 along, under the elms, now bare of leaves, she glanced 
 up at each house that she passed, but she did not stop. 
 At last she was walking by a low fence of three rails, 
 with thick shrubbery behind it. She looked up, quickly, 
 at the windows of a house which she could just see 
 above the shrubbery. 
 
 "Mis Catherwood 11 want some, mebbe," she said. 
 "I ll just step in an see." 
 
 She passed the front gate and, a little farther on, 
 entered at a lesser gate. This opened upon a plank 
 walk, which led her up by the driveway, past the old 
 box-bordered garden, and up some steps to the terrace 
 at the side of the house. Here she set her basket down 
 and prepared, in a leisurely way, to knock ; but before 
 she was quite ready to do so, the door opened suddenly 
 and a girl darted out, almost knocking the old woman 
 over. 
 
 She was a slim slip of a girl, with merry eyes and 
 quantities of fair hair, which, doubtless, had been 
 smoothly confined in the braid that hung far down 
 her back. It was not smooth now, but the straggling 
 locks blew over her face and into her eyes. She brushed 
 them back impatiently with her hand. 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Loughery!" she cried. "I m very 
 sorry. I hope I did n t hurt you." 
 
 59
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 The old woman smiled affectionately. "Bless your 
 lovin heart, dear," she said, "you couldna hurt 
 me." 
 
 At this the girl smiled, too. "Now you know that s 
 flattery pure flattery, Mrs. Loughery. You d say the 
 same thing if I d knocked you down and trampled 
 on you. It s not my fault that I did n t. I m very 
 heedless. What have you got, to-day ? " 
 
 "Why, I ve got some yarbs," Mrs. Loughery an 
 swered. "Your ma don t want no yarbs to-day, do she, 
 dear? I just thought I d step in an see if mebbe she 
 did." She uncovered the basket, which was full, to 
 the top, of bundles of dried herbs. They gave forth a 
 pleasant, pungent smell. 
 
 The girl bent over them for an instant and inhaled 
 their fragrance. "They smell of all sorts of things," 
 she said, "and some of them are pleasant and some 
 of them are not. My last impression is of thorough- 
 wort and wormwood, and wormwood tea is not nice." 
 
 Mrs. Loughery laughed. "There s thoroughwort 
 and wormwood here, but there s a lot else. The worm 
 wood s clear to the bottom of the basket." 
 
 "Well," said the girl, "I ll call mother, but I hope 
 she won t get any wormwood. Will you come in ?" 
 
 " It s kind o nice an sunny out here," replied Mrs. 
 Loughery, hesitating. " I like to be out whiles I can be. 
 But if your ma d rather I ll just set right here on the 
 step, I guess, an then if your ma wants I should come 
 in, I ll come. An , dearie, wormwood tea s good for 
 
 60
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 you, in its season. I do know s I should call it nice, 
 though," she added thoughtfully. 
 
 "You couldn t call it nice," said the girl, "if you 
 are a truthful person that is, unless your taste has 
 been depraved." She went in, to the foot of the stairs, 
 and called softly. 
 
 "Mother, here s Mrs. Loughery with a basket of 
 yarbs. She just thought she d step in and see if you 
 wanted any, mebbe." 
 
 The girl s voice was low and musical, so that it was 
 a pleasure to hear her speak. Her mother must have 
 been of the same opinion, although mothers opinions 
 count for little, for she came to the head of the stairs 
 and she was laughing quietly. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Loughery there, dear ? I want to see her. 
 I have been meaning to send out to ask how Joe is 
 getting on. But you should n t mimic her, Constance. 
 She s very fond of you, and she has a great deal to bear. 
 She is wonderfully cheerful under it all. I only hope 
 that we should be able to do as well." Mrs. Gather- 
 wood, who had been coming down as she spoke, kissed 
 her daughter. "Now, run along, Conny." 
 
 Constance only lifted a smiling face and slipped her 
 hand through her mother s arm, and, together, they 
 went back to the waiting old woman. 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood had been a great beauty. She was 
 a beautiful woman still; indeed, she was more than 
 that. For, although there was a strong resemblance 
 between her and Harriet Joyce, Harriet, to be sure, 
 
 61
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 had never had such beauty, Mrs. Catherwood s 
 beauty was mellowed by the experiences which her 
 sister had not had; which, it was to be feared, Miss 
 Harriet had begun not to desire. 
 
 Mrs. Loughery was sitting on the step, but she jumped 
 to her feet as Mrs. Catherwood and Constance came 
 near. 
 
 "May Heaven bless ye, Mis Catherwood," she 
 cried, "an Miss Conny, too. Do ye want any yarbs 
 to-day, dear ? Do ye, now ? An do ye want I should 
 come in the house, or will it do ye out here ? It 11 be 
 just as you please, Mis Catherwood, dear, but but 
 it s nice an sunny out here, now, ain t it?" 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood smiled at Mrs. Loughery and at 
 the exuberance of her greeting. It was characteristic. 
 
 "Why, I ll just sit down on the step with you, Mrs. 
 Loughery," she said. "The herbs are more used to 
 sunshine." 
 
 "So am I," returned the old woman, quickly, "and 
 to rain and wind and weather. We like it well, so be 
 it s not shutting ourselves within four walls. The 
 yarbs 11 show better out here in the sun." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood sat down on the step, with Con 
 stance looking over her shoulder, while Mrs. Loughery 
 showed her wares and praised their virtues. She had 
 some skill at it, so that it happened that the pile of 
 herbs that were to be left included about all she had. 
 Mrs. Catherwood laughed, when she saw that. She 
 would take the rest. 
 
 62
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Mrs. Loughery beamed. "You ll not be sorry," 
 she said. "There s not many has such yarbs as mine, 
 if I do say it. Now I ll just take them in for you, 
 Mis Catherwood." 
 
 "I must get my purse." Mrs. Catherwood rose. 
 "How is Joe getting on, Mrs. Loughery ? I hope he is 
 better." 
 
 The old woman turned, her hands filled with the 
 herbs, and smiled. "Nicely, thank you, Mis Cather 
 wood. He don t cough much; leastways, not much 
 more n he did. If I wish t spring was comin , stid 
 o winter. It worries him t he canna work, an coal 
 to buy. But p r aps I can think o somethin for him 
 to do. I keep a-tryin ." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood looked upon the brave old woman 
 with pitying eyes. "Now perhaps I ve got some 
 things that belonged to my Jack. He can t wear them 
 again, but they re pretty good a coat or two, and 
 perhaps I can find something else. You might take 
 them in your basket.* 
 
 Tears came to Mrs. Loughery s eyes. "The Lord 
 be good to you, Mis Catherwood ! If you re sure you 
 don t want them things, I d be proud to take em." 
 
 So Mrs. Catherwood departed, with Constance, to 
 find the coat or two and the something else. There 
 was a trunk full of cast-off garments in the attic, 
 against just such occasions. 
 
 Mrs. Loughery was a widow ; so long a widow that 
 the memory of the late Michael had become idealized 
 
 63
 
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 out of all semblance to reality. No one who had known 
 Mike Loughery in the flesh would have recognized 
 the portrait which lingered in the mind of his loving 
 relict. He had been a pleasant, good-natured man, 
 rather inclined to shiftlessness. Many a time, in the 
 years gone by, Francis Catherwood had employed 
 him on small jobs about the place ; and many a time 
 he had smiled as he suddenly realized that, for hours, 
 he had been laboring with the spade and wheeling 
 the barrow and doing other things that he had had 
 no intention of doing the very things he had Mike 
 there to do. Mike, meanwhile, had stood in an attitude 
 of intense admiration, his arms akimbo, throwing 
 in his "Yis, sor," or an occasional "Look a that, 
 now"; all with the air of one who is eager to learn. 
 It was characteristic of Mike that he should let Mr. 
 Catherwood do his work that he expected to be paid 
 for. But that was when Mr. Catherwood was but just 
 married, and before he became Colonel Catherwood. 
 In the process of becoming a colonel, he had learned 
 better. Mike might have learned to do his own work 
 if he had lived and enlisted, as he surely would have 
 done. Mike would not have become a colonel. He 
 might have become a sergeant, and a good one; for 
 Mike Loughery dearly loved a fight. 
 
 He had been a good enough husband. He had always 
 treated his wife well, which, indeed, might have been 
 no more than a piece of nice calculation on his part, 
 for he was somewhat dependent on her industry, and 
 
 64
 
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 he was wise enough to know it. But Mrs. Loughery 
 did not look upon it in that light. If Mike indulged, 
 more or less frequently, in the cup that inebriates but 
 does not cheer, and invariably got into a fight there 
 after, it was never his wife who mentioned it. He was 
 meek and biddable during his recovery. And when the 
 time came that he was brought home from one of his 
 frays with a fractured skull, she took care of him, for 
 the few hours of life that were left to him, with an un 
 complaining devotion that was worthy of a better man. 
 After that, she devoted herself to his memory and to the 
 care of her two boys. It was for these same boys that 
 Mrs. Catherwood had opened that trunk in the attic. 
 
 Mrs. Loughery took the armful of garments and 
 stuffed them into her basket. " May heaven bless ye, 
 Mis Catherwood!" she said. "Mebbe one o these 11 
 do for Clanky, too, if you won t mind his wearin it. 
 He s a real good boy." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood smiled. "Do you really find him a 
 help, Mrs. Loughery?" she asked. "I was afraid you 
 might find him only an additional burden. I think you 
 had enough to do already." 
 
 "Lord bless ye, Mis Catherwood," answered Mrs. 
 Loughery, straightening up from her basket and 
 speaking earnestly. "Clanky s the greatest help. He 
 takes care o the chickens an splits all my wood for me 
 an clears up in the house. I have but to show him the 
 once an fix the day for it. Why, Clanky s real real 
 intellectual." 
 
 65
 
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 Mrs. Loughery laughed as she said it, and Mrs. 
 Catherwood laughed with her. "Where is Mike?" 
 she asked. "Why does n t he help with your chores? 
 Has he got work yet?" 
 
 "Oh, Mike s home, off and on. He has n t just to 
 say got work," replied Mrs. Loughery, with a sorrow 
 ful smile, " but he says he hopes for it that it s as 
 good as promised. Sometimes I think that mebbe he 
 don t want to find it, for he s said the same thing t me 
 a many times. But there! I won t doubt my Mike. 
 Work s hard enough to find for them as hasn t it." 
 
 "Mike ought to be ashamed of himself," said Mrs. 
 Catherwood, "to let you support him in idleness. 
 There must be a dozen different things that he could 
 do. He s a man, isn t he?" 
 
 "Yes, dear," answered Mrs. Loughery, "and a 
 strong, fine man, too. But he 
 
 Mrs. Loughery hesitated, and decided not to finish 
 what she had begun. Mrs. Catherwood smiled, for she 
 knew. 
 
 "You tell him to come here next week," she said. 
 "There s plenty of work to be done on the place. His 
 father was not ashamed to do it." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood smiled again, remembering how 
 his father had done his work. But the quick tears came 
 to Mrs. Loughery s eyes. 
 
 " Ah, his father ! " she cried. " His father ! If my boy 
 was like him! But it s not ashamed he d be of any 
 kind of work whatever. Never fear that. I 11 see that 
 
 66
 
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 he comes. He ll come," concluded Mrs. Loughery, 
 somewhat grimly. 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood nodded, but said nothing, and the 
 old woman bent to take up her basket. 
 
 "Well, Mis Catherwood, I ll be goin ," she said. 
 " T is good o you to be minded of us." She hesitated, 
 as though she wanted to say something else, but hardly 
 knew how. " Mr. Eben is he gettin on well ? Can he 
 be out yet ? The sun would do a body good to-day." 
 
 "Mr. Eben is getting along nicely now," answered 
 Mrs. Catherwood. There was very little use in trying 
 to make a secret of anything that happened in Old 
 Harbor. " He cannot go away from the house yet, but 
 he has been out in the garden every day for a week. 
 I have no doubt that he is there now." 
 
 " I d like to go into Miss Harriet s an pay my re 
 spects to him some day soon as soon s he s able 
 to see such as I," said Mrs. Loughery, almost shyly. 
 " It s many a long year since I ve seen Mr. Eben ; an 
 he such a handsome, likely boy. I hear t he hasna 
 been well for a long time before he before he came 
 back." 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Catherwood, "he does not seem to 
 have been, although we do not know what has been 
 the matter with him. But we hope he ll be all right 
 now. Harriet takes good care of him." 
 
 "Yes, bless her!" said Mrs. Loughery. She smiled, 
 still shyly, as she went on. " It was at the apothecary s 
 that I heard he d not been well. I go in there some- 
 
 67
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 times with my yarbs, though it s hard enough to sell 
 anything to MacLean. He s canny, MacLean. But 
 he always has the last word of gossip, an I get my 
 money s worth in that." 
 
 Constance s eyes had been dancing since the first 
 mention of MacLean. " Varra fine herbs, Mrs. Lough- 
 ery," she said, "varra fine herbs. But" here she 
 looked as cunning as Mr. MacLean himself, and made 
 a gesture that only he would have made " are ye 
 cerrtain that they re the true medeecinal herbs? An 
 our price that we pay is twa bunches for a penny." 
 With that, she kicked out her leg awkwardly. 
 
 Mrs. Loughery was laughing so that the tears stood 
 in her eyes. " Oh, dearie," she cried, " it s MacLean to 
 the life but that you re too large for the little man. 
 The way he kicks out with his leg, too. Did you ever 
 see the like of it, Mis Catherwood of Miss Conny s 
 taking him off?" 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood was smiling in spite of herself. 
 "Constance is a great mimic, Mrs. Loughery. She 
 can t resist every chance that offers. She does n t mean 
 anything ill-natured by it." 
 
 "Of course she does n t, the dear!" said Mrs. 
 Loughery. " She could n t mean anything ill-natured 
 if she wanted to." The old woman had had her basket 
 on her arm all this time. "Well, now I m really goin . 
 May the Lord be good to ye, Mis Catherwood ! May 
 you always be rollin in grandeur as you are now!" 
 
 Having delivered this parting benediction, Mrs. 
 68
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Loughery walked off briskly. Constance laughed 
 softly as she watched her go down the plank walk. 
 
 "Oh, mother!" she said. " Rollin in grandeur as 
 you are now ! But I see daddy coming and, if you 11 
 excuse me, I ll leave you to roll in solitary grandeur 
 while I go to meet him." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood walked slowly to the steps leading 
 to the piazza from the terrace. She was smiling to her 
 self, although she probably was not aware of it, and 
 there was a light in her eyes that any husband should 
 be glad to see in his wife s eyes after more than twenty- 
 five years; although she probably was not aware of 
 that, either. She watched the erect, youthful figure of 
 her husband, as he stopped and said a few words to Mrs . 
 Loughery, and she saw that prodigal old woman pour 
 forth a blessing; she could almost hear the words, 
 although it was not one of the "rollin 5 in grandeur" 
 kind. People were not apt to say that sort of thing to 
 him, no one could say just why. And she saw Mrs. 
 Loughery go on her way again, and Constance run to 
 meet him. He held out his arms to her, and she threw 
 her arms around his neck and kissed him. Shocking ! 
 Right there on the public street, with all the elms to 
 see ! Then he looked up at the great square house, and 
 he waved his hand to his wife as she stood waiting on 
 the piazza, and she waved back again. 
 
 "The dears!" she said. "The dears!" 
 
 She watched them both, as they opened the front 
 gate and came up the long walk, Constance hanging 
 
 69
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 on to her father s arm, and taking ridiculously long 
 strides in the effort to keep in step with him. They 
 were at the foot of the long flight of steps. 
 
 "I ll race you to mother, daddy," cried Constance, 
 and started running up the steps. 
 
 " What ! " he said. He took the steps three at a time. 
 " Constance, that was not fair. You " he 
 passed her "had a start. This is" he reached 
 the top "a most undignified manner in which to com 
 pel a gentleman to arrive at his house." Mrs. Cather- 
 wood was waiting for him, and he kissed her. " Con 
 stance, you forget that your daddy is getting on in 
 years, and is quite er decrepit. But your mother 
 is the goal, Conny. She is the goal." 
 
 Constance only laughed scornfully. 
 
 "Decrepit, Frank!" exclaimed Mrs. Catherwood. 
 "You decrepit!" 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I am not what I was, and if I am 
 not decrepit now, I shall be. A man who has a son 
 just back from England has a right to be; he has no 
 right not to be." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood was all eagerness now. "Jack 
 back! Is he back? Have you heard from him?" 
 
 Colonel Catherwood took a letter from his pocket 
 and waved it above his head. "Had this this morning. 
 Landed in New York yesterday. Home to-morrow. 
 That s what I m home for. Why did you think?" 
 
 And he placed the precious letter in the hands that 
 were so eagerly upraised.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 CLANKY BEG and Joe sat in the sun before the little 
 old house with the sagging roof. They spoke little. 
 Joe seemed well content to look up and down the old 
 turnpike and over at the pine woods, and to drink 
 in the fresh air and the sunshine. Clanky seemed well 
 content with doing the same thing, although, now and 
 then, he looked at Joe somewhat anxiously. Each time 
 he looked, the patient look of pain on Joe s face was 
 less and the peace and content was greater. His fits 
 of coughing gradually became less frequent and less 
 severe. Clanky smiled with pleasure and thought 
 but I do not know what or how a man thinks, afflicted 
 as he was; if he had been a normal man, he would 
 have been thinking that perhaps only perhaps Joe 
 would be really better if he could have more sunshine 
 and more air. He might actually come to love life again 
 and to cling to it; a love that he had insensibly lost 
 oh, completely some months before. As Clanky 
 thought his thoughts that must have been somewhere 
 near the equivalent of these, a change of wind, for an 
 instant, wafted to them the incense of the pines. 
 
 Joe sniffed it eagerly. "That s beautiful, Clanky," 
 he said; "it s lovely. I wish," he added wistfully, after 
 a little pause, " that I was able to walk as far as those 
 
 71
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 woods. Oh, I wish I was." He laughed softly and 
 sighed. "But I m not, and there s an end of it." 
 
 Clanky responded to the longing in Joe s voice. He 
 hitched nearer on the bench. " Joe," he said, in a low 
 voice, hardly more than a whisper, as though he was 
 fearful that some one would overhear the news, " Joe, 
 I got a house in those pines. Don t you tell, now don t 
 you ! Mother Loughery don t know it, and Mike don t 
 know it. There don t anybody know it but me and 
 you." He hitched still nearer to the chair and whis 
 pered, "I ll take you to it to my house." 
 
 "Oh, Clanky!" The eagerness in his voice brought 
 on a fit of coughing. When it was over, Joe knew that 
 it could not be. There was no eagerness in his voice as 
 he spoke again, low and slowly. The love of life that 
 had flickered up for an instant was gone. " Thank you. 
 Thank you. You could n t do it, Clanky. I can t walk 
 so far as that." 
 
 "Needn t walk," said Clanky, whispering again. 
 "I ll carry you." 
 
 Joe looked down at Clanky s legs they were 
 wobbly legs and gave no assurance of their per 
 formance of this duty. Then he looked at Clanky s 
 broad shoulders and powerful arms, and sighed once 
 more. 
 
 "No, Clanky," he said gently, "you couldn t. 
 Your arms and shoulders are strong enough. But 
 but your legs, Clanky, " 
 
 Clanky gazed sorrowfully down upon those offending 
 72
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 members gazed at them as if he had but just seen 
 them. He stretched them out and gazed again. Tears 
 came into his eyes. 
 
 "I m sorry, Joe," he said brokenly. "Clanky s 
 sorry sorry that his legs are so bad." 
 
 Joe put out his hands impulsively. "I m sorry, 
 Clanky very sorry. I should n t have spoken of it. 
 Never mind the legs. They re good enough to do all 
 kinds of things for mother, and they re willing." 
 
 Clanky looked up and smiled. "Yes," he said, 
 "they re willing, and they don t get tired as they did. 
 At the Poor Farm they used to get awful tired. They 
 were always tired always." 
 
 He spoke of it in a matter-of-fact way that would 
 have melted Mrs. Loughery s heart if her heart ever 
 needed to be melted. Joe looked away. Again the 
 gentle wind wafted to them the incense of the pines. 
 
 "Oh!" said Joe, almost crying with his longing. 
 He craved to be among those pines, although he could 
 not have told why. " Oh, just smell it, Clanky. I wish 
 you could. I wish you could!" 
 
 Clanky looked troubled and was silent. He was 
 silent for so long a time that, at last, Joe asked him 
 what troubled him. 
 
 "I been tryin to think of some way," Clanky re 
 plied, without looking up; "some way to get you there. 
 And I can t." 
 
 His eyes met Joe s and, at the look of helpless long 
 ing that he saw there, he began to cry. Suddenly he 
 
 73
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 stopped crying and beamed, though the tears were still 
 running down his face. 
 
 " I ve thought of a way, Joe. I ve thought of a way." 
 
 In his delight at it, he got off the bench and stood 
 on his hands. He often did so, now. Indeed, his 
 arms and shoulders were better fitted to bear him 
 than his legs were. Still standing on his hands, he 
 walked around Joe three times. Then he got upon his 
 feet and capered weakly. 
 
 "The old wagon-wheels in the shed," he said. 
 " They 11 carry you." 
 
 Joe smiled with pleasure. He and Clanky were like 
 two pleased children with a new toy. They began plan 
 ning how they should arrange the old pair of worn 
 wheels the fore wheels of some farm wagon, dis 
 carded before Joe was born. Suddenly Clanky stopped. 
 
 "Your medicine, Joe!" he cried. "Ain t it time? 
 An I clean forgot. I said I d do it, faithful, an I 
 clean forgot!" 
 
 Joe laughed aloud. "Bother the medicine! I don t 
 want it and I don t need it, while I can get this." He 
 looked about him and laughed again. " But I don t 
 know. I s pose I d better. Mother d be worried. It s 
 only half an hour past the time, Clanky. The bottle s 
 on the mantel in the kitchen with a spoon side of it." 
 
 So Joe had his medicine, which may have relieved 
 him somewhat, and would certainly hasten his end if 
 he kept on with it. 
 
 "Br-r-r-r!" he muttered, shivering involuntarily. 
 74
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "What s the matter, Joe?" asked Clanky, anx 
 iously. "Ain t it smooth? Can t I put somethin 
 into it to make it smooth ? Sugar or or somethin ?" 
 
 "It s smooth enough," answered Joe. "It s almost 
 too smooth. But I don t like the taste of it. It s too 
 too druggy. It don t taste clean." 
 
 Clanky still looked doubtful and anxious. Joe looked 
 up at him as he stood holding the bottle in one hand 
 and the spoon in the other, and again he laughed. 
 
 "You look too funny, Clanky," he said. "It s all 
 right. You can put them back, thank you." 
 
 " You did n t cough, Joe," cried Clanky, trium 
 phantly. " You ve laughed three times without cough 
 ing once." 
 
 Joe was suddenly thoughtful. "So I have," he said. 
 "So I have. I have n t done that before for I don t 
 know how long. It looks as if sun and air were good, 
 Clanky, does n t it ?" He was silent for some minutes, 
 leaning back in his chair, a smile of hope upon his 
 lips. "I ll tell you what, Clanky, I m going to try the 
 fresh air cure oftener. When you get those wheels 
 fixed " 
 
 "Yes," cried Clanky, "then I m goin to fix em 
 right off, Joe. I 11 bring em out here, where you can 
 see em. I don t know, though," he added, the anxious 
 look coming once more into his face, "I ought to do 
 my chores, now. There s some work to do in the house, 
 too, but it won t take me but a little while, Joe. Then 
 I 11 fix the wheels. I will, honest." 
 
 75
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 " I know well you will, Clanky," Joe responded, in 
 a low voice. "I wish t I was as sure of everybody 
 as I am of you." 
 
 At which Clanky Beg beamed again and, turning, 
 went into the house with the bottle and the spoon. A 
 few minutes later there was a great commotion among 
 the hitherto motionless hens, and they were all running 
 towards a point at the back of the house, their wings 
 helping them ; running as if their lives depended upon 
 it. Joe smiled quietly. It was only Clanky, he knew. 
 Clanky seemed to fascinate the hens, and they sur 
 rounded him while he was at his work, whatever that 
 work was. No doubt they would surround him as he 
 "fixed " the wheels, cocking their heads to this side and 
 to that, and stepping daintily, with a comical effect of 
 curiosity and without a shadow of fear. 
 
 Clanky did his work in the henhouse quickly, shut 
 the door, leaned his shovel against the shed, and car 
 ried into the house the solitary egg that he had found. 
 Then he put away the shovel and got the axe. There 
 was already a goodly lot of split wood piled near the 
 chopping-block, and a small heap of wood that was 
 sawed but not split. 
 
 "Ho!" said Clanky, as he contemplated this heap. 
 "Must cut some more wood for mother Loughery, 
 Clanky must." The hens were gathering about him, 
 as was their habit. "Hi! You yeller rooster, Absalom, 
 don t you come too near, or you ll get hurt. Shoo!" 
 
 With frequent shooing of the hens, he began the 
 76
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 splitting of the wood. He was not quite through when 
 he heard a voice give brief greeting not too affec 
 tionate greeting to Joe. 
 
 He paused in his work and his face darkened. 
 "Mike!" he muttered. Then the house door opened 
 and shut again. 
 
 "H m," said Clanky to himself. "Guess Clanky d 
 better do his work in the house." He struck the axe 
 deep into the chopping-block and went in. 
 
 He found Mike in the kitchen, beginning what 
 seemed to be a search among the crocks and cups on 
 the closet shelves. He looked up from his search with 
 an expression of impatience as Clanky entered. He 
 did not take the trouble to change that expression. 
 
 "Hello, Clanky!" he said, with unnecessary loud- 
 ness. "Thought you were chopping wood. Got it all 
 done, so soon?" 
 
 "No," replied Clanky. 
 
 "Well, then," Mike continued, "you d better keep at 
 it till you have. Go chop wood, there s a good boy." 
 
 "There s something to do in here," said Clanky. 
 "Clanky has to do it." He said no more, but he 
 looked at Mike. 
 
 Most people would have thought Mike was very good 
 to look at: tall, broad of shoulder and long and strong 
 of limb, with a dark, handsome face, and black eyes 
 that could be very frank and pleasant when Mike 
 wished. But Clanky was not one of those who found 
 Mike good to look at. He had taken a dislike to Mike 
 
 77
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 from the first, it is hard to say why ; perhaps only an 
 instinctive dislike, such as a dog or a child will de 
 velop, instantly, for some people ; a feeling more to be 
 trusted than one that is based upon a more mature 
 judgment. 
 
 Mike looked into Clanky s unwavering eyes and, as 
 he looked, he seemed to change his purpose. For his 
 eyes gradually took on that frank and pleasant and 
 friendly look that he knew so well how to assume. 
 The angry reply died on his lips. He smiled ingrati 
 atingly. 
 
 "I ll tell you a secret, Clanky." 
 
 Clanky drew back. He wanted to share no secrets 
 with Mike. 
 
 Mike saw the involuntary movement and his face 
 darkened ; but only for the briefest instant. Then the 
 smile was in his eyes again. It had not left his lips. 
 
 "I 11 tell you a secret," he repeated. "I ve had a 
 stroke of luck, Clanky, and I ve got some money here 
 five dollars." He patted his pocket. "I want to sur 
 prise mother put it with her savings, you know." 
 
 Clanky was almost convinced, and he reproached 
 himself for his ill opinion of Mike. He smiled doubt 
 fully and nodded. Mike went on. 
 
 "You tell me where she keeps em," he said, in an 
 eager whisper. "My! Won t she be surprised to find 
 it ? Just think ! Five dollars extra ! " 
 
 She would be surprised, undoubtedly. Mike found 
 it interesting to watch the conflicting emotions chase 
 
 78
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 each other over Clanky s face, which was like an open 
 book to him. Indeed, he found it easier to read than 
 most books. Clanky did not answer. 
 
 "Say, Clanky, where is it, now?" he asked again. 
 "Five dollars, Clanky!" 
 
 " She never told me, mother Loughery did n t," 
 said Clanky, at last. "You give it to me, Mike, and 
 I ll manage to put it with the rest." 
 
 Mike smiled a slow smile which grew into a low 
 laugh. "Oh, no, Clanky. Oh, no. I don t give it to 
 you." He saw the look of indignation growing in 
 Clanky s face, and he realized what caused it. "It s 
 only because I m afraid you might have to tell her. 
 Of course, I know you d mean to do it. But I want to 
 surprise her. Honest, I will, Clanky. Don t you know 
 where it is?" 
 
 Clanky dimly realized that Mike could hardly have 
 chosen a way that was more likely to surprise his 
 mother. His instinct for truth was great, and he had 
 been asked a direct question. But he hesitated ; he hesi 
 tated so long that Mike was considering other means 
 of getting out of Clanky the knowledge which he was 
 sure Clanky had. He did not have to use that other 
 method. There was considerable doubt of its success, 
 anyway. 
 
 "You promise to put it in, too, Mike, the five 
 dollars?" asked Clanky, at last. 
 
 " Sure, Clanky. Honest, I will. Do you know where 
 it is?" 
 
 79
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Yes, Clanky knows. He saw mother Loughery 
 putting money in it, once." 
 
 "Well, where is it, then ?" asked Mike, impatiently. 
 This idiot was a long time in telling him, and time was 
 of value to him, just then. "Out with it, Clanky." 
 
 Clanky s suspicions were stirring again at Mike s 
 impatience ; but not enough. He stooped and fumbled 
 in the corner of the closet and brought forth a porcelain 
 jar with a cover, which he meant to hold out to Mike. 
 Mike did not wait for him to rise, much less for him 
 to offer the jar, but almost snatched it. Having got 
 it, he turned his back to Clanky. 
 
 Clanky stood and regarded him doubtfully. " You 
 putting the money in, Mike ?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, sure," answered Mike, cheerfully, removing 
 what was in the jar as he spoke. There was more than 
 he had expected, and he was correspondingly pleased. 
 His hand went to his pocket. "See, I m getting the 
 money now." He was ; and, tickled by his own joke, 
 Mike laughed. 
 
 It was the wrong thing to do, and Mike was not apt 
 to do the wrong thing in such cases. He had only taken 
 Clanky for more of a fool than he was, that was all. 
 Clanky, his freshly aroused suspicions almost turned 
 to a certainty, became aggressive. 
 
 "You let me see it, Mike," he said, in a voice 
 that Mike was unaccustomed to hear from Clanky 
 Beg. " Show it to me. I don t believe you ve put 
 it in." 
 
 80
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Mike turned and tossed him the jar. "Take it, 
 fool," said he. 
 
 Clanky was not expecting that, and the jar crashed 
 to the floor, breaking in pieces. Nothing came out. 
 Mike laughed again, but not for long. Clanky s face 
 was convulsed with rage. 
 
 "Thief!" he cried. "Stealer of money! I kill you." 
 
 He sprang, throwing one long and powerful arm about 
 Mike s body and, with his other hand, feeling for his 
 throat. Both of Mike s arms were pinioned to his body 
 just above the elbows, and Mike struggled desperately 
 to free them and to keep that searching hand from his 
 throat. But he could not free his arms, struggle as 
 he would. Mike was afraid; for the first time in his 
 life he was afraid of the fool. 
 
 The struggle was a silent one, except for Mike s 
 muttered curses upon Clanky. Clanky was smiling. 
 
 " Going to kill Mike," he remarked pleasantly, " be 
 cause he steals mother Loughery s money." 
 
 Mike replied only with fresh curses, and thereafter 
 they fought silently like two wolves. The two writh 
 ing figures were all over the kitchen, but there was no 
 sound but Mike s labored breathing and the dull shuf 
 fling of their feet. Suddenly Mike bethought him of 
 Clanky s weakness, and Clanky felt his legs give way 
 beneath him; but he only clung the faster to Mike s 
 body. Mike had gained nothing; he had lost, rather, 
 for he had the two of them to hold up now, and Clanky s 
 hand was finding his throat. Clanky was still smiling. 
 
 81
 
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 The end was certain. Mike knew it well ; and, knowing, 
 he felt a dull, unreasoning terror overpowering him. 
 He managed to make some sort of hoarse noise in his 
 throat. It was a feeble sound, and could scarcely have 
 been heard outside the walls of that room. No doubt 
 Joe, if he heard at all, would think it of no moment. 
 Of no moment! It meant his life to him. As he still 
 struggled desperately, but ever more weakly, he heard 
 a clear old voice from the doorway. 
 
 "Boys, boys!" said that indignant voice. "What s 
 this all about ? " 
 
 At the sound of the voice, Clanky s arms dropped 
 from Mike s body. As for Mike, he never in his life 
 was so glad to hear that voice; that voice that had 
 soothed him through his babyhood; that had spoken 
 never a cross word to him all his life long, until long 
 after he had deserved it. He tried to speak, and if he 
 could not, it was not emotion that prevented him. 
 Mrs. Loughery turned to Clanky, who seemed ashamed. 
 
 "Well? "she asked. 
 
 Clanky pointed to the pieces of the porcelain jar at 
 her feet. The words came so fast that they choked 
 him. "Mother Loughery," he said, "the jar Mike 
 would he broke 
 
 Mike found his voice, at that, and in a hurry. " Clanky 
 was stealing, mother," he said thickly, "and I caught 
 him at it. Then he throttled me." 
 
 The utter astonishment on Clanky s face was some 
 thing to see ; so was the growing rage. Mike noted it, 
 
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 and edged towards the door. Clanky could not speak, 
 but he started from his apathy and moved slowly 
 towards Mike. Mike noted that, too. 
 
 "I ll fix you yet, Clanky, you fool," he muttered. 
 And Mike was gone. 
 
 " Stop him ! He s got it ! He s got it ! " cried Clanky ; 
 and started after him. 
 
 Mike had no notion of being stopped and, in spite 
 of the difficulty he had in breathing, he easily left 
 Clanky behind ; Clanky, with his poor wobbly legs, and 
 Mike, with his that were strong and well made, and that 
 should have been put to a better use. Clanky gave 
 up the pursuit before he had gone ten yards. He went 
 to the shed and threw himself down on some straw 
 in the corner and sobbed as though his heart would 
 break; as though it was already broken. 
 
 Here Mrs. Loughery found him. She sat down be 
 side him and took his poor misshapen head into her 
 lap. 
 
 "There, there, dearie! I know well you would n t 
 be stealin from me, Clanky, or from anybody. 
 You re a good boy, Clanky, an it s all right." 
 
 "But," he wailed, "Mike s got your money. He s 
 got it all. He promised to put in five dollars, an so" 
 here the sobs broke out afresh " an so I gave him 
 the jar. An he took it all, he did." 
 
 "Now, don t you grieve, dearie. Don t you, now. 
 It s small matter small matter the money. We ll 
 make some more, Clanky, dear. Did you think I d 
 
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 doubt you an I bringin up Mike from a baby ? I 
 know, dear, I know sorrow to me I done my best 
 wi him. God knows I done my best. Now tell me, 
 Clanky, what have you an Joe been cookin up be 
 tween you the morn ? What ve you been doin to 
 him ? I ve not seen him so well this many a day." 
 
 As Mrs. Loughery listened to the unfolding of 
 Clanky s vague plans and hopes, her face grew 
 brighter. 
 
 " Bless you, Clanky," she said, when he had finished. 
 " Bless you ! What s the money to me ? If Joe can be 
 better! You go on wi em."
 
 COLONEL CATHERWOOD S business was what Con 
 stance called a hand-me-down. She knew that it had 
 something to do with shipping, and that, at intervals, 
 very long intervals, sometimes, one of his coast 
 ing schooners stopped for a brief visit; and she knew 
 that, whenever she had been in his office, he had ap 
 peared to have very little to do. In fact, he was very 
 much at leisure ; a state of affairs which, it is to be sup 
 posed, suited him well enough. It gave him time for 
 many things : for rambling about the wharves, a form 
 of entertainment of which he was very fond ; for much 
 reading, which he did at home, for the most part; and, 
 the thing for which he valued his leisure the most, it 
 gave him time to devote to his family. He might very 
 well, one would have thought, give up a business that 
 was of so little importance. So he might, he never 
 would have missed the little that it added to his income, 
 but it was a matter of family pride that it should be 
 kept up. The whole history of the aristocracy of Old 
 Harbor was bound up in its shipping. 
 
 It was hard to see what he found of such interest in 
 the wharves, that he was so willing to spend his time 
 in wandering about them. They were tumble-down 
 affairs, most of them, that spoke loudly of decay. But 
 
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 he seemed to love them, and whenever he was not to be 
 found in his office, those who knew him well would be 
 take themselves to the wharves. There they would be 
 pretty sure to find him, sitting on a log or upon the top 
 of a pile, digging with his stick in the dust of years at 
 his feet, or gazing out absently over the pretty little 
 harbor to the sea beyond. At the sound of footsteps, 
 he would turn, with a smile that was ineffably sweet, 
 and with a look in his eyes as of one not yet awakened 
 from his dreams. " Well ?" he would say gently. 
 
 Colonel Catherwood s great-grandfather had begun 
 it, the shipping business, not the dreaming, and 
 had done well at it, even starting a shipyard, in a small 
 way, near at hand; had done so well that the great 
 square house, in which, now, five generations of Cath- 
 erwoods had lived, was built as a visible evidence of 
 his success. His son and his son s son had carried the 
 business on, through many vicissitudes. It was in the 
 time of Colonel Catherwood s father that it reached its 
 greatest prosperity. There were many ships, then, 
 built at his own shipyard, and the wharves were busy. 
 Then came the Civil War. It found him prepared ; for 
 he had sold most of his ships, and investment in gov 
 ernment bonds had been regarded as patriotic on his 
 part. It certainly was wise. 
 
 So it came to pass that Francis Catherwood, return 
 ing from his campaigns full of honors, found himself 
 not too heavily burdened with a business which made 
 but small demands upon his time and attention, and 
 
 86
 
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 with an income that was ample. He was thankful 
 for that, very thankful. He said it over to himself, 
 now, sitting in a sunny corner of the old wharf, dig 
 ging with his stick in the dust of years. There was a 
 sharpness in the air that morning and the sun was 
 grateful. 
 
 He heard a step and he turned. "Well, Jack," he 
 said, smiling. " I was just thinking about you or 
 about your ancestors. I should have got to you in 
 time." 
 
 Jack Catherwood was tall and broad-shouldered and 
 handsome ; wonderfully like his father but like his 
 mother, too. Indeed, Colonel and Mrs. Catherwood 
 had grown to look wonderfully like each other, as 
 seems often to be the way with married people who 
 are not only happy, but serene. I do not pretend to 
 explain it. 
 
 Jack smiled and seated himself beside his father. 
 He laid his hand, with a little gesture of affection, on 
 his knee ; but only for an instant. " I knew you would 
 be here to-day, dad," he said. "I didn t take the 
 trouble to go to the office." 
 
 He was silent. The whole atmosphere of the place 
 seemed to compel it. Two men, on the far shore, were 
 getting the sail up, on a dory. Near the edge of the 
 channel, half-a-dozen more dories were grouped, and 
 a man was standing in each one, doing something with 
 what looked like an immense pair of shears, holding 
 a handle in each hand and working them gently on the 
 
 87
 
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 bottom. Now and then the shears would be drawn in 
 and laid across the dory, and the man would appear 
 to be busy examining what had been brought up. 
 Jack watched these men for some time. 
 
 "Scalloping," he remarked finally. 
 
 " M-m," murmured his father. Colonel Catherwood 
 was not looking at them ; he was looking at two vessels 
 which were anchored out beyond. There was no sign 
 of life on them ; they seemed as if they might have been 
 anchored there for all time ; as if they might stay there 
 until they rotted. 
 
 There was the whistle of a distant train, and in a few 
 minutes it rose to the bridge and rumbled across, the 
 rumble sounding faintly and not disturbing the silence 
 and the serenity. It was almost a caress. 
 
 Jack roused himself. "Jove!" he said, under his 
 breath. " This gets hold of you !" 
 
 His father smiled quietly. "It does," he replied. 
 "It has had hold of me these twenty years. I like to 
 think," he went on, after a pause, "how it must have 
 looked sixty years ago. There were many ships, then. 
 Why, this very wharf was busy, though you would n t 
 think it now. The office was not the not the place 
 it is." He sighed. " I suppose it would not have ap 
 pealed to me then as it does now. There must have 
 been hurry and bustle; less of this serenity." 
 
 Jack gave inarticulate assent. 
 
 " You know there are still two of the old ships left," 
 Colonel Catherwood continued. "Your grandfather 
 
 88
 
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 could n t sell them or, at any rate, he did n t. Pos 
 sibly a touch of sentiment. They come in here some 
 times, and I like to have them. There is one of them, 
 now." The colonel raised his stick and pointed to one 
 of the two vessels lying at anchor. " I keep them here 
 until everybody is impatient." He laughed a depre 
 cating laugh. 
 
 Jack smiled understandingly. "For the sake of the 
 landscape?" 
 
 " For the sake of the landscape. They make a good 
 foreground, lying out there." 
 
 Again Jack was silent. "Dad," he said, at last, "I 
 came down here to talk things over with you. But 
 I this," waving a comprehensive arm, " does n t lend 
 itself to talk. Come into the office. Do you mind ?" 
 
 "All right, Jackie." Colonel Catherwood rose. He 
 took Jack s arm, affectionately, and they strode off 
 together; two fine figures of men, you would have 
 thought, if you had seen them. It was but a few steps, 
 for the office was at the head of the wharf. 
 
 As they shut the door of the office behind them, 
 another figure rose slowly from behind a pile of old 
 boards, sat up for a while, and looked about dully and 
 rubbed its bloodshot eyes. It was Mike Loughery, 
 who seemed to have inherited, in full measure, some 
 of his father s least admirable tastes, and who seemed 
 to be likely to make a less picturesque end than he. 
 Having sat up and rubbed some of the sleep out of 
 his eyes, and having sat thus for some while gazing at 
 
 89
 
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 nothing in particular, until, you would have thought, 
 he must have taken in every detail of what he was 
 gazing at, Mike rose to his feet, stretched himself, 
 looked cunningly at the closed door of the office within 
 which Colonel Catherwood and Jack had disappeared, 
 muttered something, and turned again to the harbor. 
 He looked long at the ship, lying there with no life 
 about her, as far as could be seen ; then made his way, 
 cautiously, to the edge of the wharf which could not be 
 seen from the office windows, supposing that any 
 body was watching, and lowered himself over the 
 string-piece. He did not intend to commit suicide, 
 more s the pity. He swung himself in to a stringer that 
 ran from pile to pile, caught it with his feet, and, at 
 precisely the right moment, let go his hand-hold and 
 took another. It was a perilous thing to do, for the 
 stringer was covered, top, sides, and bottom, with wav 
 ing green weed ; but it was no new thing to Mike. He 
 had done the same thing successfully many times be 
 fore, and he did not fail now. Under the wharf lay 
 an old dory with the oars in her. Mike got into the boat, 
 carefully, and, still carefully, poked her out at the end 
 of the wharf and rowed away. 
 
 Colonel Catherwood and Jack sat in the office, talk 
 ing in low tones, while the old clerk puttered about the 
 books. They paid little attention to the clerk, beyond 
 Jack s pleasant greeting to him when they came in. 
 He was as deaf as a post, anyway, and had long given 
 up all expectation of hearing anything at all, whether 
 
 90
 
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 it was meant for him or not. Jack was telling his father 
 something of his impressions of England. 
 
 Colonel Catherwood sat silent. He was leaning back 
 in his chair, his feet crossed like a crusader s, his elbows 
 propped on the arms of the old chair, and the tips of 
 his fingers together. His eyes, fixed on the far shore, 
 or farther yet, had the look of one who did not hear. 
 Jack grew impatient. 
 
 "Well, dad?" he said, at last. 
 
 His father turned to him, and again he smiled his 
 sweet smile. "Excuse me, Jack," he said. "I heard 
 you. I was attending. What you said reminded 
 me of my own impressions. They were much like 
 yours much like yours. You say nothing about 
 the larger matter. Did n t you get impressions of 
 of life? I hardly know how else to express what I 
 mean. Did n t it help you to decide what you wanted 
 to do?" 
 
 Jack hesitated, tilting his chair back and forth. " It 
 may have helped me," he said. "I think it did. But 
 it was n t an enabling act." He laughed, in embarrass 
 ment. "The truth is, dad, I don t know, yet, what I 
 want. Until I make up my mind, I want to come into 
 the office." 
 
 "The office," replied Colonel Catherwood, slowly, 
 "hardly furnishes occupation enough to keep another 
 busy. But it will serve as well as another thing, and 
 give you time. Failing anything better, the business 
 is highly respectable, oh, highly, and it has been 
 
 91
 
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 in the family a long time. I should be sorry to think 
 you would be contented with it." 
 
 Jack would have protested ; but Colonel Catherwood 
 went on. 
 
 " I don t want to hurry you, Jackie," he said. " There 
 is no need of it, and I believe it would be the worst 
 thing in the world for you. As far as need is concerned, 
 there is no real need of your doing anything. But I 
 should be sorrier still, to think you would be contented 
 with that. Your mother and I, Jackie, expect a good 
 deal of you very possibly too much ; but we shall not 
 be disappointed if you make an honest effort which 
 does not result in a glittering success. By success, I 
 don t mean making a lot of money." 
 
 Again Jack murmured something in the nature of 
 a disclaimer; but he looked pleased. 
 
 " I have known too many instances," continued 
 Colonel Catherwood, "in which men have had to 
 take up anything that they could do or that they 
 could n t without regard to their natural bent. It is 
 the usual way. Sometimes they find out, late in life, 
 what they might have done, often surpassingly well, and 
 it is too late, or their business will not let them, or they 
 cannot take the time for that apprenticeship which is 
 needed. Why," he lowered his voice, as if there 
 were any one to hear, " there is William Ransome. 
 He makes a good, honest, steady-going bank clerk 
 officer, they call him. He is nothing but a clerk. I think 
 that he has or had it in him to do better things. He 
 
 92
 
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 writes, you know, for his own amusement. If he had 
 begun soon enough, there is no knowing where he 
 might have got. For he writes very well, if I am any 
 judge. I don t want you to make that mistake. You 
 do not have to, as he did." 
 
 For some reason, Jack had grown very red. " Thank 
 you, dad," he said ; "I I saw " But he concluded 
 not to say it. " I will try not to make that mistake. If 
 there is anything that I have a natural inclination for, 
 I ought to find it pretty soon. Then I may consider it 
 settled that I come into the office with you for the 
 present?" 
 
 Colonel Catherwood nodded. Jack was looking out 
 at the harbor. Suddenly he saw a dory rowed swiftly 
 
 for a dory past the end of the wharf and past 
 the empty dock before them. 
 
 " Who is that man in the dory ? " he asked quickly. 
 "Is n t it Mike Loughery ?" 
 
 The colonel had seen. " Yes," he answered. " Mike s 
 a bad lot, I m afraid. I m sorry for his mother. Joe s 
 got consumption. I m afraid he won t last this winter 
 out. I would offer him a passage in the ship out there, 
 
 she takes a cargo for Rio next week, but it s too 
 late. I blame myself for not thinking of it in time to 
 do some good. Poor Mrs. Loughery ! She s had a hard 
 life of it." Strangely enough, he smiled. You would 
 not have thought it of him. "I was thinking of the 
 late Michael," he said, as if apologizing for his smile. 
 "He was a case." 
 
 93
 
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 Jack smiled back at him sympathetically, but said 
 nothing for some minutes. 
 
 "Dad," he said then, instinctively lowering his 
 voice, " how is Uncle Eben getting on ? Is it true, as 
 MacLean says 
 
 "Probably not," his father interrupted. "I beg 
 your pardon for interrupting you. I don t know, of 
 course, what MacLean says, but it is probably a gar 
 bled version of current gossip. I wish that MacLean 
 would learn to mind his own business." 
 
 "He can t," said Jack; "and he can t learn to. It 
 is too much to expect of him. Besides, his own busi 
 ness would not give him enough to occupy his mind. 
 He says, in effect, that Uncle Eben is a hopeless 
 wreck." 
 
 " No. No," replied the colonel, slowly, carefully con 
 sidering his words. "That is not true. Your uncle 
 Eben w r as in bad shape when he came, but Harriet has 
 nursed him back again Harriet and Doctor Olcott. 
 He is not a wreck, and I see no reason why he need to 
 be hopeless." He paused for a moment. "Your aunt 
 Harriet," he continued deliberately, " is a good deal of 
 a woman, Jack, in spite of certain er sharpnesses 
 which she can t help. They seem to come as natural 
 to her as breathing," he added. 
 
 Jack laughed. "Yes," he said, "I know. But she is 
 never sharp with me." 
 
 " She is very fond of you, boy," his father returned. 
 "I don t know why she should be. I can t imagine. 
 
 94
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 But she is. Why don t you drop in there this morning ? 
 You may see Eben, perhaps." 
 
 "I will, "said Jack. "I 11 go now. He rose. "Well, 
 dad, I ll be down in the morning for work." 
 
 "Hope you find it," said his father, smiling. "But 
 come along." Then, as the door closed behind Jack, 
 his expression changed. "I must get a keeper for that 
 ship," he muttered. 
 
 He rose and went over to the old clerk, who looked 
 up expectantly. " Get a keeper for the Susan, Hey- 
 wood," he shouted. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the clerk, in a gentle voice, the voice 
 of the very deaf; "I think we d better." 
 
 The colonel returned to the contemplation of the 
 harbor ; looking out over it without seeing it but 
 feeling it, perhaps; yes, without doubt, feeling its in 
 fluence, as he had felt it all his life and dreaming his 
 dreams. They were dreams of the past, as he liked to 
 imagine it, and of the future, also as he liked to imagine 
 it vaguely. It was Jack s future, for the most part. 
 He, Francis Catherwood, had no future to speak of. 
 For he had included himself among those who had been 
 compelled by circumstances to take up anything they 
 could do, and who were finding out, late in life, what 
 they might have done. Jack had not suspected it. Al 
 though he was not old, and although his business was 
 not exacting, and although he could well enough afford 
 two or three years of apprenticeship, he knew that he 
 should not do it. He had not the energy, he supposed. 
 
 95
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 He had passed that point. He acknowledged it to 
 himself, and was ashamed and sighed deeply. It was 
 humiliating. He wished but wishes are not horses. 
 At all events, Jack should not be compelled by circum 
 stances.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 NAN HEDGE was driving about town in a village cart. 
 How it happened that she was away down there among 
 the wharves, I don t know. Perhaps she, too, liked the 
 view of the harbor; perhaps she, too, got to dreaming 
 and the horse wandered down there of his own accord. 
 He was much more likely to wander toward his own 
 stable, one would have thought; but he was Nan s 
 horse, and it is to be supposed that he knew Nancy, 
 and that he knew that it was not well to wander home 
 before Nan expressed a wish to go there. A horse can 
 not tell what he knows. That is unfortunate, perhaps, 
 but it is so. Again, Nan may have been petulant and 
 out of sorts, if the truth must be told, Nan was often 
 petulant and out of sorts, and, being in that unhappy 
 condition, may have got it into her head that the 
 wharves were a place where she had no business to be. 
 Ergo, she was there. Q. E. D. There was another 
 reason which certain ill-natured persons, who disliked 
 Nancy Hedge, might have given for her presence there 
 at that time; but we, who are never ill-natured, will 
 not cast suspicion on her motives by giving that rea 
 son. 
 
 It happened that Jack Catherwood, coming out of 
 his father s office, saw Nan Hedge the very first thing. 
 
 97
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Strangely enough, she did n t seem to see him until she 
 had turned around and drawn up by the curb. Turn 
 ing around took all Nan s attention sometimes, and 
 she needed the width of the street sometimes. Then 
 she glanced up quite casually and, naturally, she saw 
 him, he being hardly six feet away at the time and 
 being quite visible. 
 
 He smiled, thinking but I do not know what he 
 thought. At all events, he smiled and raised his hat 
 and would have passed on. 
 
 She would not have it so. "Good-morning, Mr. 
 Catherwood," she said, in a sweet voice. Nan could 
 speak very sweetly, on occasion. She leaned out of her 
 cart and smiled at him. He came alongside the cart, 
 perforce, and anchored there. 
 
 "Good-morning," he said. "Have you come down 
 here to see the harbor to get a near view?" 
 
 When she saw that he was well anchored, she smiled 
 again, and spoke as if what she was saying was of the 
 greatest importance. 
 
 "So you have been getting this view" she waved 
 her whip gently toward the harbor " from the win 
 dows of your father s office. I think it is lovely, per 
 fectly lovely to-day. How your father must enjoy it, 
 having his office so near!" 
 
 Jack laughed. "Yes," he answered, "father enjoys 
 having his office handy. He might find it inconvenient 
 if it was far away. Father thinks this is lovely any day. 
 They would have to call him, you know, if any impor- 
 
 98
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 tant business came up that needed his attention, it is 
 so likely to, and Hey wood would have to have a boy 
 for that. He could n t put his head out of the window 
 and speak in his gentle voice; not with any prospect 
 of being heard, he could n t. That s all he has to do 
 now." 
 
 Nan laughed gayly. Not that she understood, in the 
 least, what he was driving at, but it would never do 
 to let him suspect it. "Who is Heywood?" she asked. 
 
 " Our old clerk," he answered. " He is very deaf, 
 and he speaks in a low and gentle voice in consequence 
 an admirable voice for turning away wrath." 
 
 " The poor man ! " said Nan, her low tones filled with 
 compassion. 
 
 "The poor man!" echoed Jack. "But I don t sup 
 pose he would want our pity. He would probably smile 
 at it at the idea of our thinking that he needed it." 
 He was silent for a moment, looking at the piece of 
 harbor that was visible through the end of the narrow 
 street. Then he looked up at Nan and smiled. "It is 
 a pity," he said. 
 
 Nan found this sort of thing very pleasant, and she 
 smiled back at him. "What is a pity?" she asked 
 softly. "Hey wood s deafness?" 
 
 "No doubt it is," said Jack, "although that was not 
 what I meant. Heywood probab ] y has compensations." 
 
 "What, then?" asked Nan again. 
 
 "Why," said Jack, "I meant tliat it was a pity that 
 you should have your horse with you. The view from 
 
 99
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 the wharf is much better. I m afraid," he added hastily, 
 seeing symptoms of speech in Nan, "that it would 
 not be safe to drive on it. The wharf is very old and 
 has not been kept in repair." For he reflected that his 
 father had his eye on that wharf a comprehensive eye, 
 a twinkling eye. If he went on the wharf with Nan 
 Hedge as he would have to 
 
 Nan laughed again. The horse would stand well 
 enough. They both knew that, and both knew that 
 both knew. But Nan wore very high-heeled shoes and 
 was well, why mince matters ? she was awk 
 ward and ungainly on her own feet. To be sure, Jack 
 did not know it, yet, but Nan did, although she was 
 not accustomed to put it that way. She rarely trusted 
 herself upon those members never, if she could help 
 it ; and why begin now ? In a chair, a well-upholstered 
 chair, reclining gracefully, not lolling, she did very 
 well ; or in any sort of a trap, especially if she was driv 
 ing, she cut an attractive figure, a stylish figure. She 
 knew her good points, did Nan, and she made the most 
 of them. So she laughed. Jack Catherwood was so 
 transparent. 
 
 "I m afraid we shall have to postpone the wharf, 
 then," she said, in her melodious voice. "If you are 
 going up the street, as I suppose you are, won t 
 you let me take you ?" 
 
 " Oh, thank you." Jack got in beside Nan with what 
 grace he could. He did not like village carts. He did 
 not altogether like the idea of being taken up the street 
 
 100
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 by Nancy Hedge, either. It was too too conspicu 
 ous. Suppose MacLean should be looking out at the 
 door of his shop. 
 
 Nancy Hedge was an enterprising young person, 
 possibly a year older than Jack Catherwood ; possibly 
 more. Who can judge a woman s age? She did not 
 look as old as he, this morning, with her brown veil 
 carefully disposed over her smart hat so that the smart 
 ness of the hat was not concealed from the eye of 
 the curious ; and the veil itself was of just the fineness 
 of mesh calculated carefully calculated to con 
 ceal any traces of age that there might be behind it. 
 Those ill-natured persons that I have mentioned would 
 have said that it was calculated to conceal, also, any 
 traces of paint and powder that Nan might have found 
 it wise to apply. But I I am not an ill-natured per 
 son I do not believe that Nan had yet found it wise 
 to apply any paint, although I am bound to confess 
 that she would not have hesitated for a moment, if she 
 thought it was needed. And I am convinced that she 
 used powder only in moderation and with great 
 skill ; she or her maid for Nan had a maid. So I am 
 forced to the conclusion that Nan did not need the veil, 
 whose mesh was so carefully chosen, at any rate for 
 the purpose for which the aforesaid ill-natured persons 
 averred that it was. But a veil is a harmless thing and, 
 as Nan would have said, it is necessary to keep off the 
 dust when one is driving. As for traces of age in her 
 face, why that seems absurd. There were no traces of 
 
 101
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 age in her face. Jack, who had heard some of the re 
 ports about the matter, looked very carefully, and he 
 could not see any. Nancy, quite unconsciously of 
 course, let him look as long as he cared to, and held 
 her chin up and only quivered an eyelash occasionally. 
 They were very long and beautiful eyelashes, and Nan 
 gave them every care; she positively cherished them. 
 
 Nancy Hedge had lately arrived in Old Harbor, and 
 an arrival of anybody was unusual enough to 
 attract a good deal of attention. Naturally, the arrival 
 of Nan completely absorbed the attention of the inhab 
 itants of Old Harbor for some time. This attention had 
 reached the flood while Jack was in England, and was 
 just beginning to ebb when he returned. Considering 
 Nan herself, and Old Harbor itself, it was not to 
 be expected that attention would be entirely withdrawn 
 from her, or even reach the normal proportions due 
 a mere inhabitant, for oh, a long time. 
 
 Jack, casting a nervous eye in the direction of 
 MacLean s shop, noted MacLean standing at the 
 door, his nose frankly flattened against the glass and 
 an expression of joy beginning to irradiate his features. 
 Jack, at the time, was in the middle of a remark of 
 the edifying sort already reported ; but he forgot what 
 he was saying and became completely muddled. 
 
 "What s the matter?" asked Nan, looking around 
 at him. Looking around, she caught sight of MacLean 
 at his door. His expression of entire joy was now com 
 plete. " Oh," said Nan, " is it the apothecary ? He is 
 
 102
 
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 amusing, is n t he ? " Her tones were cold and imper 
 sonal, as if Mac Lean were a mile-post or a snow-man 
 perhaps she might have spoken more warmly of a 
 snow-man; and she laughed lightly. 
 
 Jack had recovered himself by this time. "In this 
 case," he answered, " MacLean is being amused 
 apparently, very much amused. I wonder what at." 
 
 "Why," said Nan, laughing again, lightly, "at see 
 ing you driving with me, of course. He is likely to be 
 amused quite often. You don t mind, do you?" 
 
 Whereat Jack protested warmly, which, it is to be 
 supposed, was just what Nan wanted; and Nan made 
 some reply, it does not matter what. 
 
 Nancy Hedge, as I have remarked, was an enter 
 prising young woman, and bold enough to make a dif 
 ficulty serve her turn. She did not believe in letting 
 any opportunities slip by her, whether they were pro 
 mising or not. It is so easy to drop what you find you 
 do not want; much easier than to miss a good chance 
 when you have it. So it had happened that she had 
 been waiting at the station when Jack arrived, oh, 
 quite by chance, and had leaned out of her cart to 
 speak to Constance. Constance, to avoid an awkward 
 ness, had presented Jack; which may have been Nan s 
 object or may not. 
 
 Nan s father had bought the old Tilton place, not 
 very far from the Catherwoods . Indeed, it could not 
 be very far from the Catherwoods and still be in the 
 desirable part of Old Harbor in the part of Old 
 
 103
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Harbor that would have appealed to the Hedges ; and 
 that is as much as to say to Nan. For Nan s mother 
 was dead, and there was now another Mrs. Hedge, with 
 whom Nan found herself in frequent disagreement; 
 which, I believe, is not an unusual state of affairs, and 
 not necessarily discreditable to Nan, or to the second 
 Mrs. Hedge, either. So Mr. Hedge had come down, at 
 Nan s instance, had seen, had bought, and had promptly 
 gone back to New York again. The old Tilton place 
 was the old Tilton place no longer, but was duly re 
 corded with the Register in the name of Nancy Hedge. 
 Jack might have found it so recorded, if he had but 
 been minded to look it up. 
 
 The two Tilton girls of about seventy winters of 
 age had reluctantly found lodgings ; reluctantly, I 
 know, and with many regrets, but with great inward 
 relief, and with some outward relief, also. They had 
 lived, for thirty years, on the brink of poverty. Jack, 
 driving with Nan, found himself wondering how it 
 would seem, now, to go by the place and not to find the 
 fence all rotting and breaking down from age, and not 
 to see the lawn all littered with the broken branches and 
 the leaves which the Tilton girls, poor old ladies, had 
 not been able to clear up in their nightly scavenging. 
 Why, many a time, he had gone over before breakfast 
 and done what he could, piling the wood neatly by the 
 kitchen door. The Tilton girls had needed their wood 
 to use, and had never seemed to see him. 
 
 They were coming to the place now. There was a 
 104
 
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 new fence, a copy of the old one, and the lawn, under 
 the old trees, was swept and garnished. Jack s heart 
 warmed with gratitude to Nan. It was more than he 
 more than anybody had a right to expect of her. 
 
 "That s very nice of you, Miss Hedge," he said. 
 
 Nan looked surprised. "Why, I m going to take 
 you oh, you mean the fence," she replied. She 
 smiled sweetly. "The old fence was perfect in design. 
 We could n t do better than to have one just like it. 
 And see there, ahead of us ! There are the two Miss 
 Tiltons. They come by here every day, but I ve never 
 been able to catch them yet." 
 
 Jack made a movement which Nan interpreted, 
 rightly, as preparation for getting out; and she pro 
 ceeded to cut off his retreat. 
 
 "Not yet, Mr. Catherwood," she said. "I m going 
 to take you home if that s where you want to go." 
 
 She went to meet the two Miss Tiltons. They, poor 
 old ladies, were coming to make their daily inspection 
 of their old home, in which they had been born, and in 
 which they had lived all their lives; coming to see 
 whether Nan was doing or had done anything, since 
 their visit of the day before, which they could reason 
 ably criticise ; an event which they expected, as a mat 
 ter of course, and of which they were in daily fear. 
 Miss Hitty walked stiffly, in her new black stuff dress 
 and her new black bonnet, and Miss Susie pattered 
 along beside her, also in a new black stuff dress and 
 a new black bonnet. All Old Harbor knew how it 
 
 105
 
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 happened that they had those new dresses and those 
 new bonnets. They had not had more than one new 
 thing at a time, between them, for oh, for a long 
 time years. Miss Hitty, defiantly, did not care who 
 knew; Miss Susie was content to abide by Kitty s 
 opinion in this matter, as she did in everything else. 
 
 "Really, sister," Miss Susie had said timidly, "it is 
 very nice, I think, outside. The fence, now, just like 
 the old one, just like it. We could n t have done 
 better, ourselves if if we could have done it." 
 
 "Of course it s nice, Susie," said Miss Hitty, de 
 cidedly. " Nancy Hedge could n t do better, and she 
 had sense enough to know it. That s what surprises 
 me." 
 
 "Yes, of course," assented Miss Susie, in haste; 
 " that would surprise one. But but the lawn she 
 has n t cut any of the trees down and it s so so 
 neat. I I wish we could have managed to keep it 
 as neat as that, sister." 
 
 "Well, we could n t," snapped Miss Hitty. "We did 
 the best we could with it. You know we did. I only 
 wish," she sighed, "we could see the inside of it. I d 
 like to see whether she had the sense to leave the inside 
 of it alone, too. But I won t call on Nancy Hedge. 
 I won t!" 
 
 " Oh, sister !" gasped Susie. "Don t say that so 
 so decidedly. Not if she asks us especially ? Think 
 how much we want to see it." 
 
 " Well," answered Miss Hitty. They did want to see 
 106
 
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 the inside of the house; they wanted it very badly. 
 They had set their hearts on it. "Well," answered 
 Miss Hitty, slowly, thinking of the room that had been 
 their mother s, the room that they had always reli 
 giously kept closed, "well, if she should beg us to 
 go, as a favor, perhaps I Why, there she is now ! 
 Susie ! she s almost here. Right opposite." 
 
 Miss Susie, trembling, tried to focus her near-sighted 
 eyes upon the thing in the road which she supposed 
 must include Nan. 
 
 "Now!" whispered Miss Hitty, sharply. "Bow!" 
 
 Miss Susie bowed, with a sweet little smile; a much 
 sweeter smile than her sister could have managed if she 
 had tried. Miss Hitty had not tried. 
 
 " Susie," whispered Miss Hitty again, " Jack Gather- 
 wood s with her driving with her." 
 
 Miss Susie gave a little cry of delight and fumbled for 
 her glasses. They were stuck in the bosom of her dress, 
 and she found them in time and stuck them on her nose 
 at an absurd angle. Miss Susie s glasses always looked 
 absurd on her delicate nose. They had broad black 
 rims, and were always set on at an angle which made 
 them look as if they were about to tumble off ; which 
 they invariably did, at the slightest provocation, falling 
 to the limit of their black ribbon. Nan was just draw 
 ing up beside them. 
 
 " Jack ! " cried Miss Susie, giving him both her hands. 
 Then she remembered. Her glasses fell off, of course, 
 but she recovered them, and set them on at an angle 
 
 107
 
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 even more absurd than before. "I I beg your par 
 don, Miss Hedge. I have not seen Mr. Catherwood for 
 nearly a year." 
 
 It was not necessary for Miss Susie to say that she 
 was very fond of him, and she did not say it. 
 
 Nan smiled. " Of course," she said. " I understand 
 how glad you must be to see him." 
 
 She waited, silent and smiling a little perhaps at 
 the very evident joy of the two old ladies ; perhaps at 
 but I do not know what she was smiling at. Nancy 
 Hedge was an inscrutable young person. Miss Hitty 
 smiled at Jack, too, and was evidently as glad to see 
 him, in her way, as Miss Susie was. 
 
 "You will come to see us, Jack?" asked Miss Susie, 
 relinquishing his hands at last. 
 
 "I ll come, right away," said Jack. 
 
 Nan thought it was time for her turn. 
 
 "Miss Tilton," she said to Miss Hitty, in her most 
 gracious manner, Nan s manner could be very gra 
 cious, " won t you both go into the house for a few 
 minutes ?" She saw Miss Hitty hesitate. She thought 
 she might be about to refuse. "I beg that you will," 
 Nan went on. "I shall be back in a very few minutes 
 - 1 have only to leave Mr. Catherwood at his door." 
 
 Jack seemed to see a chance, and protested that he 
 would get out there. Nan turned to him. 
 
 "I m going to take you home," she said, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 The use of that low voice by Nan well, Jack 
 108
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 did n t know what impression it would convey to Miss 
 Hitty and Miss Susie. It is to be supposed that Nan 
 knew. She turned to Miss Hitty again. 
 
 " Just for a few minutes," she continued, " as a favor 
 to me." Miss Susie looked at her sister triumphantly. 
 " Mrs. Haight will receive you. Please tell her that I 
 will be right back." 
 
 She nodded to both the old ladies, smiling brightly, 
 and drove on. 
 
 " She did n t give me a chance to refuse," said Miss 
 Hitty, grimly, "and I suppose we had better go in." 
 
 "But, sister," said Miss Susie, "she asked us as a 
 favor to her and you know you said " 
 
 "Well, I m going," said Miss Hitty. 
 
 Nan, driving on, was explaining. "Lest you should 
 be curious, Mrs. Haight is a widow, not too young, 
 who is staying with me indefinitely an old friend," 
 she added, with one of her smiles. 
 
 Jack laughed. 
 
 "Now," continued Nan, "shall I leave you at your 
 house ? I have discovered which it is." 
 
 Jack laughed again. "I was going to my aunt s," 
 he said; "but if it is out of your way " 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Nan, "Miss Joyce s?" 
 
 Jack was accordingly driven, in state, and in great 
 discomfort of mind and of body past his own 
 house. Nobody was in sight there, to his very con 
 siderable relief ; although it did not follow, from that, 
 that nobody happened to observe him. As Nan ap- 
 
 109
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 preached the Joyce gate, he saw Doctor Olcott s old 
 white horse ambling away from it. 
 
 Nan stopped at the gate, and Jack jumped out. 
 "Thank you very much, Miss Hedge." 
 
 For some reason, Nan seemed much amused. 
 "Have n t you had a pleasant drive, Mr. Cather- 
 wood?" she asked, leaning out towards him. 
 
 "Very pleasant," he answered, smiling. "How can 
 you ask?" 
 
 "Well, then," said Nan, "you must say so." She 
 laughed gayly. " Come and see me, Mr. Catherwood," 
 she went on, gathering up the reins. "You will find 
 it perfectly safe. Mrs. Haight will be there to protect 
 you." 
 
 Jack laughed. "I will," he said; and Nan drove off 
 to meet the Miss Tiltons. 
 
 Jack was still laughing to himself as he let him 
 self in and started up the long walk. After all, there 
 was something very attractive about Nancy Hedge. 
 He did n t quite understand her, but there was some 
 thing distinctly attractive about her. He said it over 
 to himself, and he knew that he had never more fully 
 meant anything than he meant that last " I will."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 JACK was still half smiling as he mounted the steps. 
 He had come slowly up the long walk, that was liber 
 ally sprinkled with sunshine now that there was no 
 thing but the bare bones of the trees to stop it, his mind 
 filled with pleasant thoughts. There was the harbor 
 itself, to give the atmosphere of peace and antiquity 
 that was best suited to Old Harbor; there was his 
 father s office, of which he would be a part. It did not 
 undo what the harbor had done, but rather strengthened 
 the impression of peace and serenity. And there was 
 Heywood, who seemed to be of the past, rather than 
 to remind him of it. Heywood was content. 
 
 There was Nan Hedge, who was far from content, 
 no doubt, and who had little of the serenity that was 
 characteristic of Old Harborites. But she would ac 
 quire it, if she stayed long enough; it might be truer 
 to say that she would not stay unless she found con 
 tent. She might not find it. Stranger things have 
 happened. There was something very attractive 
 about her; she was even charming, in her way, even 
 if one did not understand her fully. It did not 
 occur to Jack that her attractiveness lay in that very 
 fact, and that Nan knew it very well. He smiled, 
 none the less, as he thought of Nan. And there was 
 
 111
 
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 MacLean, but the less thought wasted on MacLean, 
 the better. 
 
 And there were the Tilton girls. Old Harbor was 
 a pretty good place to live in, if you were old, and not 
 so bad if you were young. And there was his aunt 
 Harriet, she reminded him of Miss Hitty Tilton, in 
 spite of the difference in age, who was eminently 
 suited to Old Harbor and to no other place in the 
 world, unless there were some other place just like 
 it. And there was his uncle Eben. Jack had been so 
 used to thinking not at all of his uncle Eben that 
 it was with something of a shock that he realized 
 that his was now an actual presence to be reckoned 
 with. He wondered how he should manage that; 
 what sort of a man his uncle Eben was now. It was 
 hardly likely - 
 
 To him, mounting the steps and wondering, and half 
 smiling at his pleasant thoughts, the door opened. 
 There was Miss Harriet in the doorway, looking as 
 pleased as Punch and smiling down at him affection 
 ately; and, in the half darkness of the hall behind 
 her, Jack thought he saw another figure dodging to 
 and fro, shy, wishing to be pleased, seemingly, but not 
 knowing whether to be or not. 
 
 "Well, Jack!" cried Miss Harriet; and stepped out 
 of the doorway and presented her cheek, which Jack 
 saluted, laughing. "I m glad to see you. I thought 
 it was about time you came to see me and Eben. The 
 few minutes that I saw you the other day don t count." 
 
 112
 
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 She turned to the other figure, which had retreated 
 towards the library door. "Eben!" she called. 
 
 Eben obeyed the implied command, and came 
 back. Nearly everybody obeyed Miss Harriet. Jack 
 advanced quickly, with his hand outstretched. 
 
 " Uncle Eben," he said, " I m glad to see you 
 glad we re all glad that you have come back." 
 
 Eben took Jack s hand allowed Jack to take his, 
 rather. Jack was conscious of delicate fingers that lay 
 in his hand without response to his slight pressure. 
 
 "Thank you, Jack," answered Eben, in a gentle 
 voice that shook a little. "You re very good; every 
 body is very good to me." 
 
 "I know that Aunt Harriet would be," said Jack, 
 heartily, with an affectionate look at that lady. " She s 
 always good ; the rest of us don t count much." 
 
 The delicate fingers pressed his ever so slightly 
 before he let them go. Eben smiled tremulously and 
 the tears started to his eyes. He was still weak. 
 
 "Nonsense! "he said. "Nonsense! You don t know. 
 It means a great deal to me." 
 
 He laughed awkwardly and turned away. 
 
 Jack was sorry for him ; far too sorry to say anything 
 then. They went into the library, and Miss Harriet 
 seated herself on the sofa in the corner, the sofa cov 
 ered with faded green rep ; and she patted the seat 
 beside her. 
 
 "Come," she said; "you sit down here beside me, 
 and tell me about yourself. First, what in the world 
 
 113
 
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 do you mean by driving about town with that Hedge 
 girl ? England can wait. " 
 
 Jack laughed. Even Eben smiled sympathetically. 
 Eben had seated himself in a low chair that was drawn 
 into a sunny corner, between two windows, and had 
 laid his head back, as though it was an effort for him 
 to hold it up. Through the long window behind him 
 the sunshine streamed, enveloping him and lapping 
 him in its comforting warmth. Falling on his face, so, 
 it seemed to accentuate the gentle delicacy of his fea 
 tures. Jack found himself wondering; marveling that 
 it should be so. He wondered what could have been 
 his experiences in the past fifteen years; how it was 
 possible that he could have fallen so low as he must 
 have fallen, and yet show no signs of coarsening. Eben 
 did not talk about his experiences. Even to Har 
 riet he had not alluded to them. As far as any one 
 in Old Harbor was concerned, he might have died, 
 that night, fifteen years ago, and have been but just 
 resurrected. Indeed, so far as Old Harbor was con 
 cerned, he had been dead for those fifteen years, to 
 all intent. 
 
 "England can wait, no doubt," Jack returned. " It 
 has waited for a good while, so that a quarter of an 
 hour, more or less, will make no difference to it. What 
 is the matter with the Hedge girls?" 
 
 " Did I say there was anything the matter with her?" 
 asked Miss Harriet, smiling. 
 
 "Not in so many words, Aunt Harriet," said Jack. 
 
 114
 
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 " Your manner implied it. However, that is of no con 
 sequence. There may be or there may not be. I don t 
 hesitate to say that I find her rather attractive." 
 
 Miss Harriet sighed, still smiling. "I was afraid 
 you did." 
 
 Jack laughed again. "She must be very terrible," 
 he said, "to inspire fear in the breast of Miss Harriet 
 Joyce. I thought you were n t afraid of anything, Aunt 
 Harriet." 
 
 "Well," she answered slowly, "I don t know that 
 I m afraid of any person ; but I m not so very brave, 
 after all. The very thought of but you have not 
 answered my question, Jack." 
 
 "It s not because I have the least objection to an 
 swering it," said Jack. "Why was I driving about 
 town with that Hedge girl ? " A smile, which Jack could 
 not wholly repress, started and grew as he recalled his 
 feelings at the time. "Well, to tell the truth, I did n t 
 go for to do it. In fact, I well, I happened to 
 meet her in front of the office just as I came out, and, 
 of course, I had to stop 
 
 " Of course ! " cried Miss Harriet. "There s no of 
 course about it. You did n t have to stop unless you 
 wanted to." 
 
 Jack was well aware that he had stumbled and 
 blundered badly in saying what he had said, just as 
 he might have been expected to do if there were any 
 reason for his being embarrassed. He knew, too, that, 
 if there had been any reason for it, he would not have 
 
 115
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 been embarrassed in the least. He was sorry that he 
 was giving the impression that he particularly did not 
 want to give. But after all, it was rather amusing. 
 Why should he care ? 
 
 " That is sufficient evidence, Aunt Harriet," said he, 
 "that you have had no intimate relations with Nan 
 Hedge " 
 
 "Intimate relations!" sniffed Miss Harriet, scorn 
 fully. "I should think not, indeed. Have you had in 
 timate relations with her?" 
 
 "Well, no," laughed Jack. "Not yet. But I may 
 have. I give you fair warning." 
 
 "Thank you for the warning," replied Miss Har 
 riet, "but I hope you won t." 
 
 "The family is safe for the present," Jack continued. 
 "I was unfortunate in my choice of words. What I 
 meant was that you could n t know Nan Hedge if you 
 thought that I did n t have to stop and speak to her, 
 whether I wanted to or not; although," he added 
 slowly, " I don t know that I had any rooted objection 
 to doing it." 
 
 "No," said Miss Harriet; "I believe that." 
 
 " She has a way of making it very awkward for you 
 to do anything that is not in accordance with her plans. 
 At last, she offered to drive me up the street, and," 
 Jack went on, rather lamely, "so, of course, there 
 did n t seem to be anything for me to do but to accept. 
 I did so, as gracefully as I could. It was n t very 
 graceful." 
 
 116
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 " Oh, Jack ! " cried Miss Harriet. " As if you were n t 
 a free agent." 
 
 Jack leaned back in a corner of the sofa. "Well, 
 I was n t. It would have been extremely rude and 
 pointed if I had not. I don t know of any reason for 
 being rude to Nan Hedge, except that there seems to 
 be a general dislike of her. That is no reason." 
 
 "N-no," admitted Miss Harriet. "In fairness, I 
 acknowledge that it is n t." Justice and fairness could 
 always be counted on, from Miss Harriet. " But I 
 should like to know what she was doing, away down 
 there by the wharves, and just as you were coming 
 out of the office." 
 
 " I did n t ask her," Jack replied. " I should have 
 been no wiser if I had. She may have been waiting for 
 me to come out, but I don t believe it. All the girls I 
 have ever met, apparently by accident, may have been 
 waiting for me. I don t believe that, either. Nan 
 Hedge," he went on, musing, "is a very handsome girl 
 and extremely she dresses very handsomely, too." 
 
 "She does," said Miss Harriet, very snippily. 
 " Her dress is altogether too striking for this quiet old 
 town." 
 
 Jack was playing with a paper-cutter. 
 
 "You can hear her presence? Well, perhaps. It is 
 not to be expected that everybody will come up to the 
 standards of Old Harbor." 
 
 Miss Harriet sighed. " I do hope, Jack, that you are 
 not going to be smitten with Nancy Hedge." 
 
 117
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "You never can tell, Aunt Harriet," said Jack, 
 solemnly. "I have known such things to happen. In 
 in fact, I think I feel it coming on at this moment, 
 in the region of my heart." He looked over at Eben 
 Joyce and winked. 
 
 Miss Harriet had seen it. "You absurd boy!" she 
 cried, laughing. 
 
 There was one touch yet to come ; Jack added it with 
 a triumph which was well concealed. 
 
 "Aunt Harriet," he said, "you must have noticed 
 that Miss Hedge has not done anything to the Tilton 
 place which anybody can reasonably find fault with. 
 The lawn, now, is irreproachable, as Miss Hitty, her 
 self, would have liked to keep it; and the fence, 
 surely, she gets a white mark for that?" 
 
 Miss Harriet gave a grudging assent. "But," she 
 added, "the fence was exactly in keeping, anyway, if 
 it only could have been kept in repair. Its design was 
 classic." 
 
 "Well, give her credit for sense enough to recognize 
 that." 
 
 " I suppose," said Miss Harriet, grimly, " that Nancy 
 Hedge has been abroad enough and seen enough to 
 know that, even if she does n t believe it. Her father 
 is very rich. There s one thing she d like to have that 
 her money won t buy," she added, with satisfaction. 
 " I m sure she would like to have the Tilton girls call 
 there. I can t imagine why she should want them to, 
 but she does. Perhaps I suppose it would be a tri- 
 
 118
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 umph for her, but it would be mean to gloat over 
 them. Miss Hitty said that she just would n t" 
 
 Jack smiled. "It seems to me," he said, "that it 
 would be as easy to suppose that she would like to 
 show them that the house was unchanged." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" said Miss Harriet. It seemed to 
 settle the matter. "Do you know it, Jack?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, I don t believe it," remarked Miss Harriet, 
 with emphasis. "I would as soon believe that Miss 
 Hitty Hilton had called on Nancy Hedge." 
 
 Jack smiled again and leaned toward her. "She 
 has," he said. "The Tiltons are, at this moment, 
 drinking Miss Hedge s tea and sitting, I have no 
 doubt, in her back parlor." 
 
 Miss Joyce almost collapsed. " Jack!" she cried. It 
 was a calamity. Miss Harriet s sky had fallen. She 
 gave a long sigh. " Well!" she said. "I never did, 
 in all my life. How in the world did she do it?" 
 
 " I told you that she manages to make any way but 
 her own impossible. She caught the Tiltons while she 
 was driving me up here. They could n t get out of it, 
 and they went, as I did. I do not doubt that they are 
 having a very good time." Again he winked at his 
 uncle. " Oh, my path is being made clear." 
 
 Miss Harriet laughed, in spite of herself. " I m afraid 
 your path would be only too clear," she said. She 
 sighed again. " Oh, Jack, I wish you would n t." 
 
 " Don t you worry, Aunt Harriet," said Jack, reas- 
 119
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 suringly. "There s no danger" here he paused 
 and smiled at his thoughts "yet." 
 
 Miss Harriet put out her hand and took his. " Oh, 
 Jack, Jack!" she cried, and then she laughed. It was 
 Miss Harriet s own laugh, bubbling out in little ripples 
 as though she could n t help it. She could n t. It was 
 all the pleasanter to hear for that. Jack laughed, too, 
 and so did Eben, low and gently. 
 
 Indeed, Eben had been smiling all the time. He had 
 evidently been glad to see Jack; had rejoiced in his 
 youth and health and strength as in things that he no 
 longer hoped for, for himself. His delicate, sensitive 
 face lighted up in momentary self-forgetfulness. He 
 was happy, for the time, in listening to the talk that 
 seemed to flow so readily ; happy in merely being there, 
 in the sunshine, and in not being spoken to. Eben was 
 only thirty-five. Miss Harriet did not see the pathos 
 of it. It had never once occurred to her to think of 
 Eben in that way, but it would have made Abbie 
 Mervin want to cry, if she had seen it. Miss Mervin 
 did not like to cry or to want to. Eben had succeeded 
 in avoiding her, so far. But Jack saw and, seeing, he 
 said nothing; which was just what Eben wanted. 
 
 The great front door clicked open and boomed shut 
 again, and instantly the light was gone from Eben s 
 face. He had remembered, and he was afraid. He 
 showed it plainly as he started up and made hurried 
 flight to the door. There he stopped, his hand almost 
 upon the knob. That was not the way he wanted to 
 
 120
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 go, right into the arms of their visitor. He knew well 
 who their visitor was. He turned and fled toward 
 the other door, meaning to sneak quietly up by the 
 back stairs sneak is the word. Miss Harriet s face 
 showed some annoyance. It even showed exaspera 
 tion, which, I take it, is more than annoyance. 
 
 "Eben," she said, somewhat sharply, "where are 
 you going ? Must you run from everybody who comes 
 into the house?" 
 
 Eben stopped again, arrested in his flight. He 
 teetered back and forth, undecided. "Why why 
 I thought I would go upstairs. It is time for me to 
 go up, Harriet." 
 
 " Fiddlesticks ! " said Miss Harriet, decidedly. " Doc 
 tor Olcott has just said that 
 
 "Oh, let me go, Harriet," Eben pleaded. His time 
 was short, for he already heard steps just outside, in 
 the hall. He threw his arm up before his eyes, as if 
 to ward off something, an involuntary action, and 
 spoke in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. 
 " I don t want to see any one. Please let me go." 
 
 The involuntary action and the pleading voice 
 touched Jack. His uncle Eben must have been what 
 could he have been subjected to, to make him do so ? 
 But Miss Harriet did not seem touched by the action 
 nor by the voice. 
 
 "Nonsense!" she said. "Sit down, Eben. Will you 
 please to sit down ? It s only Abbie." 
 
 "I know," whimpered Eben. He turned to his cor- 
 121
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 ner again and sat down like a sulky child, just as Ab- 
 bie s voice was heard at the door. 
 
 "Shall I come in, Harriet?" 
 
 She had heard voices, and, at Harriet s impatient 
 "Of course, Abbie," the door opened slowly and she 
 looked in. She saw only Harriet and Jack sitting on 
 the sofa. 
 
 "Why, Jack!" she cried; and she came in swiftly, 
 smiling and holding out her hand. She was glad to 
 see him and she showed it. Why should she not? 
 Jack rose and took the outstretched hand. "It is 
 good to see you again, Jack," she said heartily. " Don t 
 you be running away from us for so long again." 
 
 Jack made some reply, he hardly knew what; but, 
 no doubt, it was well enough, for Abbie did not notice 
 anything wrong with it. Jack s eyes were on his uncle 
 Eben. The sulkiness was gone had seemed to drop 
 from him like a garment. He had managed to pull 
 himself together, and now he rose, too, and stood, with 
 the sunshine from the window behind him lighting his 
 figure, which had lost its slight stoop. His face, in the 
 luminous shadow, showed all its delicate lines and all 
 its native refinement. He seemed to have become, once 
 more, the well-bred, distinguished boy of fifteen years 
 before. Those fifteen years were as if they had not 
 been. Even Miss Harriet saw it and marveled at it. 
 It seemed to deprive her of the power of speech. 
 
 "Abbie," said the gentle voice, "I hope you have 
 not forgotten " 
 
 122
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 She had turned at the very first sound, her hand in 
 stinctively raised to her heart, and the quick color 
 surging into her cheeks. They were porcelain, but it 
 was not rose-tint, now; it was crimson. Then the 
 color left her face as quickly as it had come. She was 
 very white as she answered him. 
 
 "Eben!" she said, low and softly. "Eben! I have 
 forgotten nothing, Eben nothing." 
 
 And she went to him, standing there in the sunlight, 
 and held out both her hands.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 WHAT Abbie Mervin s feelings were when she found 
 herself face to face, at last, with Eben, and the Eben 
 of her dreams, as it appeared, not the Eben of her ex 
 pectations, I do not know. Indeed, it is to be sup 
 posed that she did not know, herself, if one can judge 
 from her actions. She was not bothering, then, even to 
 try to analyze her feelings, the attempt at an analy 
 sis would come later, but it was evident that she felt 
 a good deal, and that unexpected emotion was strong 
 upon her. It was rather a chaotic emotion. 
 
 She held his hands tightly in both of hers. 
 "Eben!" she said softly, over and over. "Eben!" 
 
 As she said it, she was dimly conscious of a wish 
 that Harriet and Jack would go away and let her have 
 her talk with Eben. They might be expected to have 
 much to say to each other after fifteen years. Harriet 
 might know it ; she must know it. In fact, Harriet did 
 know it ; she knew it very well. Knowing, she made no 
 move to go. For she saw that Abbie was in a very exalted 
 frame of mind, and she knew that, in that state, one 
 is hardly responsible. Abbie might easily commit her 
 self to a course she would regret. There was no hurry. 
 Miss Harriet did not make the mistake of considering 
 herself responsible for Miss Mervin s actions, but 
 
 124
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 there was no hurry. Let them get over the first sur 
 prise. Then well, they could make fools of them 
 selves if they must. At least, they would do it with 
 their eyes open. Miss Harriet was not so sure that 
 they would be making fools of themselves. After all 
 
 Eben stood and looked and said nothing. What 
 could he say ? Her eyes were very gentle and friendly, 
 oh, very friendly, if nothing more. As he looked into 
 them they grew softer yet, as though tears were coming. 
 They were very soft, gentle, friendly eyes, that had 
 always looked kindly at him. Now, in spite of those 
 years, and all that they meant, and none of them 
 all knew quite what they meant to him, the eyes 
 were as friendly as ever. The thoughts that raced 
 through Eben s mind, as he stood there, looking into 
 Abbie Mervin s eyes, were tumultuous but not comfort 
 ing; no, not comforting; distinctly not. His shoul 
 ders once more took on their slight stoop and his face 
 the expression of resignation and of hopelessness. It 
 was only for a moment. He shook them off again, 
 resolutely. What made him, it was impossible to say. 
 Perhaps Abbie lifted him out of the slough of despond 
 into which he had fallen ; perhaps she lifted him out 
 of it merely by the force of her faith in him. It was 
 more an apparent faith than a real faith, although it 
 was real enough at the time. 
 
 He smiled. It was not his tremulous, hesitating 
 smile that Miss Harriet had got to know although 
 his mouth quivered a little, too. 
 
 125
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 " Abbie," he said, and his voice was gentle and wist 
 ful and gracious, all at once, " Abbie, I hope you 
 are as glad to see me as I am to see you as glad 
 as you seem to be. Are you?" They were still hold 
 ing each other s hands. 
 
 Abbie smiled, too. "I am glad, Eben," she an 
 swered. "I am." 
 
 It would not be difficult for her to carry out her 
 intention, after all, carry it out completely, that 
 intention that she had clung to all these years. She 
 might have done it then, if only Harriet and Jack had 
 had the sense Miss Harriet stirred uneasily. She was 
 beginning to fear that Abbie, at least, might forget 
 that she was there. 
 
 Abbie flushed a little and dropped Eben s hands. 
 It was not yet time. 
 
 "It is so good to see Eben again," she said, turning 
 to Harriet with a little laugh of delight ; " to see that 
 he is not changed, not one mite. I thought, from what 
 you said" - She stopped, then went on again. "I 
 almost forgot you and Jack, Harriet." 
 
 "Yes," replied Miss Harriet, dryly. "I was afraid 
 you had." 
 
 Abbie laughed again and turned to Eben. " It would 
 have been terrible, would n t it, Eben?" 
 
 Eben smiled at her in response ; affectionately, Har 
 riet thought. "Awful," he said. "Frightful to con 
 template." 
 
 Harriet again stirred uneasily. Jack was smiling 
 126
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 broadly. She knew there was some pleasantry afoot, 
 and Miss Harriet did not feel at home with pleasantries. 
 She did not have a speaking acquaintance with them. 
 
 " Doctor Olcott has just been in," she said, "perhaps 
 a half hour ago. He says that it will do Eben good to 
 see people now." 
 
 " Why not, to be sure ?" asked Abbie. " Of course, 
 you would n t want to get the whole town in to-mor 
 row, Harriet no surprise parties. But why not, a 
 little at a time?" 
 
 Eben looked grateful for so much. He seemed to 
 have had his doubts of Harriet s intentions. 
 
 "Why, of course not, Abbie," said Miss Harriet, 
 disgustedly. " Surprise parties ! Do you take me for a 
 fool?" 
 
 Abbie did not smile. " I beg your pardon, Harriet," 
 she said. "I ought to have known. Well, why not 
 begin with William, and Jack, of course, and me to 
 tea ? It is a long time since you have had William." 
 
 Miss Harriet did not seem to welcome the suggestion, 
 from Abbie, of having William to tea. Abbie seemed 
 to have altogether too much of William s society. She 
 seemed to think first of William too naturally. But 
 Harriet could think of no good reason why she should 
 not ask him, no reasonable reason. 
 
 "William has not been here for a long time," she 
 replied slowly; "not since Eben came back. I don t 
 feel sure " Miss Harriet flushed as she said it 
 "that he would care to come." 
 
 127
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Why, Harriet!" cried Miss Mervin. "What an 
 idea ! As if he did n t always come when you asked 
 him! I will ask him, if you don t want to write a 
 note. I m sure I can persuade him, if he needs per 
 suasion. I m sure he won t need it." 
 
 This suggestion seemed to meet with even less favor 
 than the first. But again Miss Harriet could think of 
 no reasonable reason against it. 
 
 "You may not happen to see him, Abbie." 
 "Oh, I shall see him this afternoon." 
 Abbie had spoken before she thought. Her fore 
 thought came afterwards, and she blushed furiously, 
 and was angry with herself for it. But she went on 
 as if there was no reason for it, as there was not, 
 she told herself, or as if she had done nothing 
 unusual. "Harriet, you remember that you asked 
 him to read something of his. Why would n t this 
 be a good time ? He would be glad to do it, I should 
 think." 
 
 "Very well," said Miss Harriet, looking hard at 
 Abbie ; " you ask William when you see him this after 
 noon. Ask him for a week from to-night. He might 
 as well bring something to read, if he will. I hope he 
 won t choose a long thing. Can t you help him to 
 choose ? " Miss Harriet sighed. " If you see him so often, 
 you will have plenty of opportunity. I don t see why you 
 need get so red about it." For Abbie was blushing 
 again, and only got the redder when she found she was 
 blushing. Harriet had no business to misconstrue her 
 
 128
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 motives to be so so obtuse. Harriet was obsti 
 nate, very. It made her angry. 
 
 "Harriet Joyce," she began sharply; then she hesi 
 tated. She saw Harriet smile in what she chose to think 
 was a disagreeable way. Whatever Abbie s intention 
 had been, she thought better of it. There was no use in 
 having a quarrel with Harriet. "Well, I ll ask him, 
 but I think I ll not try to influence his choice." 
 
 Jack had seen Abbie flare up before; he never had 
 seen her get over it so quickly, and he smiled quietly. 
 Eben had seen, too. "A soft answer, Abbie," he mur 
 mured. 
 
 It is to be supposed that Harriet had noted behavior 
 that one would not have expected of Abbie Mervin; 
 and Harriet knew very well what one would naturally 
 expect of her. She gave no sign. Harriet must have 
 heard Eben s remark, too, even although it was mur 
 mured, one would have thought. Her hearing was 
 excellent. She gave no sign of that, either. 
 
 "I can t see why not, Abbie," she said. "You 
 know very well that William has no sense about such 
 things." 
 
 " He is quite capable of making a good choice of his 
 own writings," answered Abbie, a round red spot ap 
 pearing in each cheek; "much more capable than I 
 am. William is not such a fool as you seem to think, 
 Harriet." 
 
 " Oh," Miss Harriet protested, in some surprise at 
 the tone of the reply, " I don t think William is a fool." 
 
 129
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "You appear to," Abbie retorted, "and that s what 
 I said." 
 
 Miss Harriet sighed. Perhaps she did appear to; 
 but that was no reason for Abbie s coming to William s 
 defense. William had been her own property for so 
 long, she was beginning to realize that, possibly, he 
 might be her property no longer. She sighed again. 
 
 Jack, hearing the sighs emitted by Miss Harriet, 
 looked at her carefully. She seemed thinner than when 
 he had seen her last, and careworn ; yes, unmistakably 
 careworn. Probably, if he had been seeing her every 
 day, he would not have noticed it. No doubt the care 
 of Eben it was possible 
 
 He turned to his uncle. "Uncle Eben," he said, 
 "it occurs to me that you might like to come into my 
 father s office occasionally. There is very little doing 
 there and people seldom come in; and," he laughed, 
 " there is a very pretty view of the harbor. I start in 
 there to-morrow, to work, if there is any work to do. 
 Why don t you come down to-morrow ? I think that 
 I shall have time to show you what there is to see, if 
 you want me to." 
 
 Eben looked pleased. "Perhaps I will," he replied, 
 "I thank you, Jack. Perhaps I will." 
 
 Then he began to be troubled. How should he get 
 there ? How should he get there, without going through 
 the streets the principal streets, and meeting 
 Heaven knows who it might be anybody in Old 
 Harbor that he had n t seen for fifteen years, even 
 
 130
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 MacLean ? He shuddered. MacLean would want to 
 know everything that had happened; he would not 
 hesitate to cross-question him upon the happenings of 
 those years. MacLean would learn nothing. He would 
 fight first, he, Eben, or run. Yes, running was eas 
 ier, and would not attract more attention than a fight 
 with MacLean. There were those in Old Harbor 
 who would have been glad of an excuse for fighting 
 MacLean, the harmless little man. But running was 
 easier. Eben was frightened again; he was rapidly 
 working himself into a panic. 
 
 Harriet and Abbie had been talking to Jack, and 
 now Jack and Abbie were going. Eben rose and 
 followed them into the hall. 
 
 " Don t forget, Uncle Eben," Jack called, as he 
 was about to shut the door, "to come down to-mor 
 row." 
 
 Eben smiled mechanically. "I won t forget," he 
 said. He was surprised to hear his own voice and to 
 know that he could speak so calmly ; surprised that he 
 could speak at all. 
 
 "Good-by, Eben," said Abbie. "I shall see you 
 again soon." Her voice was almost confidential, and 
 she smiled as she spoke. 
 
 "I hope so," he answered graciously and gently. 
 "Good-by." 
 
 Then the door shut. Eben turned to Harriet, his old 
 manner once more fixed upon him. He even raised 
 his arm before his face. 
 
 131
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "No, no, Harriet," he whimpered. "No, no. I 
 don t want to see anybody." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" said Harriet, sharply. "It will 
 do you good. And it s only Jack and Abbie and 
 William." 
 
 "I don t want to see anybody," repeated Eben, 
 plaintively. 
 
 Harriet sighed. "We can t help it, now, Eben," 
 she said patiently. "You ll have to do the best you 
 can." She turned and went swiftly upstairs. 
 
 She almost ran along the upper hall to her own room, 
 went in, and locked the door. When she was safe, 
 she had been afraid of doing it before, she burst out 
 crying, and threw herself into the old armchair that 
 stood at the head of the bed. She did not forget that it 
 was covered with figured blue chintz, and she took 
 good care that no tears should fall upon it. When 
 she had wept, violently but silently, for as much as 
 fifteen minutes, an unheard-of thing for Miss Joyce 
 to do, she stopped as suddenly as she had begun, 
 and wiped her eyes repeatedly. 
 
 " Harriet Joyce," she said, as though she was speak 
 ing to a naughty child, "you are a fool !" She paused 
 while she dried her eyes thoroughly. " I guess I m 
 tired," she said then. "I ll speak to the doctor about 
 it, when I think of it. There s no hurry." 
 
 She smiled, and got up and smoothed her hair and 
 went down to Eben again.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 DOCTOR OLCOTT was on his rounds with the Polar 
 Bear. It is hard to see how he would have got along 
 without that valuable fur-bearing animal, for he was 
 giving no attention whatever to his driving, and it is 
 to be doubted if he knew even what road they were 
 taking together. He had one leg out of the low buggy, 
 his foot on the step, and his mind seemed to be wan 
 dering taking a vacation, perhaps, although, judging 
 from the way he was frowning, he was worried about 
 something. For the good doctor did worry, on occasion, 
 over his patients. They were not mere cases to him; 
 and although he was well aware that it was considered 
 bad form, and fatal to the doctor concerned, to worry 
 about them, they were human beings and his friends, 
 most of them, and he did worry over them. He could n t 
 help it. He did n t seem to be getting thin with his 
 worry. There are other things to be feared than getting 
 thin. 
 
 The Polar Bear had it all his own way, and he knew 
 it ; and he jogged along with his customary care, turning 
 out for any carriage that they met, while the occupant 
 of that carriage hailed the doctor heartily and the doc 
 tor replied as heartily, coming back, momentarily, to 
 his surroundings for that purpose. The Polar Bear 
 
 133
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 knew well enough where the doctor was going, and 
 he was to be trusted to take him there safely and to 
 stop before the right gate; and then, if the doctor 
 had not come to himself by that time, to look around 
 inquiringly. 
 
 "Well, doctor," the look said, as plainly as if he 
 had spoken, "here we are! Why don t you get out? 
 It s your move." 
 
 Indeed, he always said it plainly enough. If what 
 he said was not always understood, it was no fault of 
 his. 
 
 So the old white horse jogged on, dragging the buggy, 
 that sagged hopelessly on one side, under the not in 
 considerable weight of the doctor. The doctor was 
 aware that it sagged permanently, and that the top 
 was stained and weather-beaten. The fact did not 
 trouble him. He was not a city doctor, with fees that 
 would enable him to keep an automobile and a chauf 
 feur, or a sanitarium, and a sanitarium, I should 
 have said, and which would have made it necessary 
 for him to dress the part. He did not regret the auto 
 mobile and the chauffeur nor the dress. He would have 
 found all of them but a burden ; but he had longings 
 for the sanitarium. He would put Miss Wetherbee 
 in it and make her work like like ahem other 
 women, Mrs. Loughery, for instance. And he would 
 put Joe Loughery in it, and would not let him work. 
 But Joe seemed to have found a better sanitarium in 
 the pine woods than any ever made by the hand of 
 
 134
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 man. It was simply marvelous. As the doctor thought 
 of it, he sighed. 
 
 The Polar Bear veered to the side of the road, turned 
 his head inquiringly, and hesitated slightly. The doc 
 tor came to himself. 
 
 "No, no, Sammy," he said. "Not to-day. She 
 has n t sent for me to-day. Go on, Sammy." 
 
 The old doctor chuckled as the old horse took the 
 middle of the road again. "You didn t know, did 
 you, Sammy? You thought that Miss Wetherbee 
 might have sent for me at any time, did n t you ? 
 Well, so she might. She may even have sent since 
 we started. You are brighter than I am, Sammy. 
 I ll look." 
 
 The doctor turned and looked through the little win 
 dow in the back of the buggy. He saw a great house, 
 almost too great a house for one poor old woman ; for 
 Miss Wetherbee was a poor old woman, in spite of her 
 being one of the richest in Old Harbor and inclined to 
 be miserly, a great house that stood nearer the street 
 than was the fashion, and a board fence about shoulder- 
 high. The board fence was surmounted with two feet 
 more of pickets. The pickets were at just the height 
 to make it most trying for any one walking by the fence 
 when the sun was low, so that such persons involun 
 tarily and invariably closed their eyes; and, in con 
 sequence, involuntarily and invariably ran into Miss 
 Wetherbee emerging from her own gate. It was incon 
 venient; possibly as inconvenient for the aforesaid 
 
 135
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 persons as it was for Miss Wetherbee. And it was 
 annoying to have Miss Wetherbee berate you for run 
 ning into her when it was rather more than half her 
 own fault. She had no business to have such a fence, 
 especially about sunset. At any other time it was 
 well enough, for you could see, through it, the very 
 formal little garden with its high and full borders of 
 box. The box alone was sufficiently remarkable, every 
 plant almost a tree. 
 
 The doctor saw all this. At least, if he did not see the 
 garden behind the board fence, he was conscious of 
 it. He saw more than this ; for, leaning far out of a 
 window just over the door, was an old woman. The 
 old woman was frantically waving a handkerchief and 
 calling " Doctor ! Doctor Olcott ! " 
 
 The doctor chuckled again. "You re right, Sammy. 
 She has. But go on. We ll stop on our way home. 
 That ll give her time to get well. If she gets mad about 
 it, so much the better. It ll do her good. I wish, I 
 wish I had Sanborn s nerve." 
 
 Sanborn was a well-known specialist, who lived at 
 the hotel at which Miss Wetherbee had chanced to stay 
 during one of her visits to Boston. Miss W 7 etherbee, 
 who, as you may have gathered, was a hypochondriac, 
 knew that he lived there and but that may not have 
 been her reason for going to that hotel. It would not 
 be any part of her reason for going there in the future. 
 For Miss Wetherbee had been taken, in the night, with 
 one of her ill turns, and had summoned Doctor San- 
 
 136
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 born in some haste, as was her custom with any doctor 
 who happened to be handy. The doctor, after much 
 grumbling and many objections to getting up for that 
 purpose, had appeared. He cut Miss Wetherbee short 
 in her exposition of her symptoms, and asked her if 
 she felt as if she was dying, which question made her 
 properly indignant. Then he prescribed some of his 
 pills and went back to bed. The next day he sent her 
 a bill for seventy-five dollars. 
 
 The indignation which Miss Wetherbee had felt at 
 Doctor Sanborn s question the night before was as a 
 summer zephyr to that which she felt upon receipt of 
 this bill. She immediately threw his pills out of the 
 window, declaring that they were made of brown bread, 
 which they were, and got well at once. Sanborn 
 told Olcott about it, when they met at the convention 
 that year, with much chuckling. He did n t care an 
 old copper whether his bill was paid or not; but he 
 did n t mean to be routed up in the night again. He 
 was n t; not by Miss Wetherbee. 
 
 All that Miss Wetherbee needed was something to 
 do. Doctor Olcott had told her so, bluntly; and 
 Miss Wetherbee had scoffed at him and as much as 
 called him an old fool. Doctor Olcott had smiled 
 and gone away, which was not what might have 
 been expected. Yes, if she got mad with him now, 
 why, so much the better. He sighed, but he did wish 
 that he might have that sanitarium. He could make 
 a good beginning at filling it right away. For, besides 
 
 137
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Miss Wetherbee and Joe Loughery, there was Mrs. 
 Houlton. 
 
 Mrs. Houlton did not have Miss Wetherbee s com 
 plaint. She never complained. She had no time for 
 complaining, even if she had been inclined to it. In 
 deed, a widow with eight children and next to nothing 
 a year has barely time to eat and not enough to sleep, 
 and Mrs. Houlton was working herself to death. There 
 was no manner of doubt about that, and the doctor 
 had told her so, as nearly as he dared, and that was 
 pretty near. He had urged her to rest; completely, if 
 possible, but if she could not do that, then as much 
 as she could. 
 
 Mrs. Houlton had smiled at him cheerfully. "Don t 
 you think I ought to have a piece of the moon for break 
 fast, doctor?" she had asked, somewhat irrelevantly. 
 
 The doctor had growled out some reply about feeble 
 minded persons doing as they were told, at which Mrs. 
 Houlton had laughed outright. 
 
 Then the doctor had gone home, leaving Mrs. Houl 
 ton in the kitchen, darning stockings while she got 
 dinner for nine. The stockings were mostly darns ; and 
 he knew very well that she would sit up far into the 
 night, after the children were all in bed, mending the 
 clothes that the eight were to wear the next day. So 
 the doctor swore softly to himself and sent her some 
 work. She had been asking for work that she could 
 do, and she embroidered beautifully; or so the doctor 
 thought. And although the doctor was, probably, no 
 
 138
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 judge of embroidery, there was reason to think that, 
 in this instance, he was right. He had asked her, 
 in Miss Joyce s name, to embroider the table-linen 
 which he inclosed. What should the doctor do with 
 embroidered table-linen ? He had some trouble in 
 selecting the linen ; but he did it, 
 
 "I 11 see Hattie to-morrow," he said to himself, 
 "and make it right with her." 
 
 Now he remembered, with a shock, that he had not 
 mentioned the table-linen to Hattie. It would be con 
 venient, in some respects, if he were married. He would 
 not be buying table-linen for widow ladies to em 
 broider if he were married, and he was much more 
 likely to be wrong, in his choice of linen, than right. 
 He would stop in at Hattie s on his way home and 
 consult her ; not about his marriage, and the doctor 
 chuckled once more, but about the table-linen. 
 Doctor Olcott was in danger of forgetting Miss Weth- 
 erbee. When he had settled that little matter of the 
 linen, he might be able to get in a word about Miss 
 Harriet herself. She was looking poorly run down 
 and tired out with nursing Eben, no doubt. A vacation 
 would do her a world of good. She might manage it, 
 if she would. 
 
 Suddenly the Polar Bear drew in to the curb as if 
 he would stop. The doctor was annoyed. 
 
 "Damn it, Sammy," he said, without looking up, 
 "go on. What you stopping for?" And he slapped 
 him with the reins. 
 
 139
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Sammy paid no attention to the doctor s evident 
 wishes in the matter of going on, but continued on his 
 way to the curb, his spirits no more ruffled than his 
 thick fur by so small a thing as a slap of the reins. He 
 did not lay it up against the doctor. It seemed to amuse 
 the doctor, and it did n t hurt Sammy; but Sammy s 
 intentions were quite as evident as the doctor s, and 
 Sammy was in a position to carry them out. 
 
 "Well, you old skate," remarked the doctor, affec 
 tionately, "if you will, you will; and there s an end 
 on t." He sighed, and roused himself and looked 
 around. "Hitty Tilton must want me," he said. "She 
 would n t send till the last gun fired. But Sammy 
 knew." 
 
 He got out of the buggy with some difficulty, and 
 went wheezing into the house ; from which he presently 
 emerged with a look of great satisfaction. 
 
 "You knew, Sammy, did n t you?" he said, as he 
 slowly climbed in. " It s a mystery to me how you did, 
 but you certainly did. We settled Hitty s hash. She d 
 have been a sick old woman if we had n t, with the cold 
 weather due any day ; and pneumonia, Sammy. Hitty s 
 not in the first flush of youth, as you and I are, Sammy, 
 but we settled her. We 11 get no thanks from her, either. 
 But we could n t neglect the Tilton girls, could we ? 
 Bless em! They re the real old sort." He gathered 
 up the reins. "Now go on." 
 
 Sammy seemed unwilling to start, and the doctor 
 looked up and down the street. He saw a shrinking, 
 
 140
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 furtive figure slinking along by the fence. There was 
 nobody else in sight. The doctor leaned out of the 
 buggy. 
 
 "Hello, Eben !" he cried. "Glad to see you out, at 
 last. It ll do you good. Where you going ?" 
 
 At that, Eben pulled himself together and ceased to 
 slink. He seemed the man he was not. 
 
 " Good-morning, doctor," he said, in his gentle voice. 
 "I was going down to Colonel Catherwood s office." 
 He had come nearer the buggy as he spoke. 
 
 The doctor looked him over for a moment, disgust 
 and scorn in his gaze. The state of being afraid, the 
 chronic state of Eben, was one which he could not 
 understand. Then he roared. 
 
 "Good heavens!" he cried. "Why, why, damn 
 it, this is n t the way to the office." He sobered again, 
 for Eben had begun to shrink once more. " I beg your 
 pardon, Eben. Do you mind telling me why you chose 
 to go this way ? " 
 
 " Why," replied Eben, smiling sheepishly, "I 
 you know this is the first time I have been out. I I 
 thought that, perhaps, I should not meet people, if I 
 went a roundabout way. I know this way must seem 
 ridiculous but but, doctor, you can t know" 
 Eben was not smiling, now " people will ask ques 
 tions, and I can t answer questions, doctor. I can t 
 and won t!" 
 
 "Well, well," returned the doctor, kindly, "I can t 
 blame you, Eben, for feeling so. If people would only 
 
 141
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 mind their own business ! I think they would, mostly, 
 except MacLean." Doctor Olcott laughed. " He can t. 
 How s Hattie, Eben?" 
 
 Eben looked surprised. " Why, she s all right. 
 There s nothing the matter with her, is there?" 
 
 "No, no," said the doctor, somewhat hastily. 
 "There s nothing the matter, that I know of." The 
 Polar Bear made ready to get under way again. " Well, 
 good-by. Brace up, Eben. There are plenty of nice 
 people in the world, after all." 
 
 He nodded, as Sammy began to jog along again, 
 leaving Eben smiling after them both. They were a 
 pair, the doctor and his old horse. The doctor had 
 some such thought. 
 
 " Go on, Sammy," he urged. "Hurry, if it is in you. 
 We shan t get around before dinner, at this rate. But 
 what if we don t, Sammy? There s nobody waiting 
 for us." He sighed. "I m beginning to wish there 
 was, Sammy. We don t need anybody, do we, Sammy, 
 you and I, two old skates ? " 
 
 Sammy turned his head and looked at the doctor. 
 They understood each other. They went on together, 
 and Sammy stopped at one house after another, and 
 from some of the houses Doctor Olcott puffed out cheer 
 fully, wheezing to Sammy that that was that. As if 
 Sammy did n t know it ! From other houses the doctor 
 emerged slowly, and he did n t tell Sammy that that 
 was that, but he took up the reins in frowning silence. 
 
 So it happened that the doctor was weary in body 
 142
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 and soul by the time the Polar Bear stopped before Miss 
 Joyce s gate. He got slowly out of the buggy, which 
 gave under his weight until the body touched the axles 
 on one side ; and he went puffing and wheezing up the 
 long walk. Harriet saw him coming and opened the 
 door herself. 
 
 " Come in, doctor," she said, as he mounted the last 
 step. 
 
 The doctor was very short of breath. " I m com 
 ing." He plumped down on the hall settle and wheezed 
 there for a few minutes. 
 
 "It s too bad that you should have come in this 
 morning," observed Miss Harriet. "Eben s gone 
 down to the office." 
 
 "Yes. I met him," replied the doctor, smiling. He 
 had got his breath by this time. " I came in to see you 
 I want to tell you, while I think of it, Hattie, that if I 
 expire suddenly after getting in this house, you will be 
 responsible. My death will be upon that smooth head 
 of yours." 
 
 Miss Harriet smiled affectionately. Not many who 
 knew him could help regarding this rough old man 
 affectionately, in spite of the fact that he was apt to 
 swear absent-mindedly. 
 
 "I am glad to see you, always, doctor," she said; 
 "but I am quite well, I think; that is " She had 
 remembered suddenly that she had meant to ask him 
 
 " Yes, that is, " interrupted the doctor. " You are 
 well enough, but tired out. You must be careful, 
 
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 Hattie. You see, I m selfish, as usual. I only want to 
 save myself some work." 
 
 The tears came to Miss Harriet s eyes. It showed 
 that the doctor was right, that the tears should come 
 so readily. "If all selfish men were like you, doctor!" 
 she exclaimed. "What do you w r ant me to do?" 
 
 There was a great satisfaction in the doctor s voice. 
 " That s a proper spirit, Hattie. I wish all my patients 
 were as reasonable. Take a vacation for a few days. 
 Go on a spree." 
 
 Miss Harriet s langh bubbled out, at that. " A spree ! " 
 she cried. " I almost feel as though I could ; as though 
 I wanted to. But what do people do when they are 
 on a spree ? Is n t it customary to drink ? " 
 
 Doctor Olcott laughed too, a great rumbling laugh. 
 " It is n t necessary," he said, " and it might be danger 
 ous for some. I don t advise it, although it would do 
 you no harm. Go up to Boston and and go to some 
 show that will make you laugh and put no strain on 
 your brain-cells. Do anything that comes into your 
 head, except worry." 
 
 "Well," she replied, speaking slowly, "I ll think of 
 it. I think I will. You must tell me more about it; 
 prime me, before I go." 
 
 "I w r ish," said the doctor, grumbling, "that you 
 could induce all my patients to take my advice as 
 well, to follow my prescriptions." 
 
 "Why," asked Miss Harriet, "who is difficult now ?" 
 There was a twinkle in her eyes. 
 
 144
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Mrs. Houlton." Miss Harriet laughed. 
 
 "Oh, you may laugh," said the doctor, "but she s 
 killing herself. If she does n t take a rest, she ll die." 
 
 "Forgive me for laughing, doctor," replied Miss 
 Harriet. " It was not because I did n t appreciate the 
 gravity of the situation. Won t she obey your orders ?" 
 
 " No," growled the doctor. " Obey my orders ! Why, 
 she flouts me and my orders. It makes me mad, so that 
 I say things that I should n t." 
 
 "Oh, doctor, you don t swear!" 
 
 "I m afraid I do. And I m convinced that she ll 
 give me a fit of apoplexy. She laughs at me when I am 
 properly mad. She just laughs." 
 
 Miss Harriet laughed again. " I knew it," she cried. 
 "I knew it. Have you been there this morning?" 
 
 "No," growled the doctor, again. "I didn t dare 
 to." He told her about the table-linen that was to be 
 embroidered. 
 
 " You aid and abet her in evil," said Miss Harriet, 
 when he had finished. "What else can you expect?" 
 
 The doctor rumbled in his throat. Miss Harriet 
 could n t understand what he said, except that it was 
 something about feeble-minded and foolish women. 
 
 "I ll help you about the embroidering," she said, 
 " and I 11 do what I can to induce her to take a rest, but 
 I have n t the least expectation of success. She has no 
 husband living 
 
 " Ought to have one," rumbled the doctor. " Ought 
 to have one, to make her stand around." 
 
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 "Well?" said Miss Harriet, smiling. 
 
 "What do you mean, Hattie?" growled the doctor. 
 " WTiat do you mean by your insinuations ? If you 
 mean me, by ahem well, I d marry her in a min 
 ute, if I thought she d take orders from me any better. 
 That is, if she d have me, which she would n t. Of 
 course she would n t. She s no fool." 
 
 Miss Harriet was still smiling. "Try it," she said. 
 
 " Try it ! " cried the doctor. " You speak as if it was 
 a cough medicine or a tonic. Well, by er well, if 
 there s no other way, I will. By gad, Hattie, I will. 
 A pretty mess you ve got me into." The doctor rose. 
 "Good-by, Hattie. Don t forget, you re to go on a 
 spree." 
 
 He rolled off down the walk, while Miss Harriet 
 stood at the door, smiling after him. 
 
 The doctor came into his house very late in the after 
 noon, stopped to wheeze awhile on a chair in the 
 hall, then took off his coat, sighed, and started up the 
 stairs. He thought, with some envy, of Sammy, whom 
 he had left munching his oats with great content. The 
 doctor was hungry, too, and he would have been glad to 
 sit down to his supper with as little preparation and as 
 free a mind as Sammy, who took things as they came. 
 The doctor took things as they came, too. He had 
 to. But he could not hope for a free mind. He sighed 
 again; and, having made what preparation seemed 
 necessary for supping with himself, went down. 
 
 He found the dining-room, with its unshaded lamp, 
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 unusually dreary. The doctor did not like unshaded 
 lamps ; that was not the reason that he had it. He had 
 talked to his housekeeper and cook about it until he 
 had grown weary of the futility of talk. His house 
 keeper and cook was a well-meaning person, who would 
 have done anything for the doctor anything in rea 
 son; but this was not in reason. She had lived in an 
 atmosphere of unshaded lamps all her life, and had not 
 been aware of any discomfort. Why should the doctor 
 ask for a shade ? Of course, if he had insisted upon it, 
 as he had for his study lamp, with language that a self- 
 respecting woman could not listen to he had even 
 bought a lamp, especially for it, with a porcelain shade ; 
 and green, at that, with not a single bird or flower on it. 
 And he had said that if she kept that lamp filled and 
 trimmed, she might have what she pleased in the dining- 
 room, and be something to her. She had left the room, 
 at that, so that she was not rightly sure just what it was 
 he said. 
 
 The doctor had but just come from Mrs. Houlton s. 
 He had had a glimpse into her dining-room : a pleasant 
 room, warm and snug and homelike, with its shaded 
 lamp shedding a soft glow over the neatly spread table. 
 No doubt his own dining-room seemed all the drearier 
 for that glimpse, and his own supper a dismal function 
 to be got through with as soon as possible. 
 
 He finished his plate of apple-sauce and his hunk of 
 gingerbread. They did not seem to merit such haste, 
 for it was good apple-sauce and excellent gingerbread ; 
 
 147
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 but the doctor seemed to be in a hurry perhaps it 
 was merely that he wanted to escape from that cheer 
 less room. He pushed back his plate and rose, sighing, 
 and went at once to his study. The lamp was lighted, 
 and cast a circle of light over his table and the pipes 
 and books and papers that littered it ; and there was 
 a smaller circle of light upon the ceiling that seemed to 
 be flaring and smoking. The corners of the room and 
 the ceiling beyond that small circle were enveloped in 
 a soft, green gloom. 
 
 The doctor glanced about, at the piles of books that 
 cumbered the chairs, and at other piles that showed 
 dimly in the corners, in front of the bookcases, upon 
 everything that would hold books. It was plainly a 
 man s room. That must have been evident, upon sight, 
 to any woman, and to any man, ordinarily observant 
 and of average intelligence. But it suited the doctor, 
 and in its apparent disorder there was the essence of 
 order. He knew where everything was; where to lay 
 his finger on any book that he wanted. He had said 
 just that to his housekeeper, and given orders that they 
 were, on no account, to be disturbed. 
 
 " Yes," she had replied, with a sniff of disgust, " I 
 guess that ain t so hard to know where everything is. 
 I know that, myself. It s on the floor." 
 
 Whereat the doctor had given one of his great laughs. 
 But his books were not disturbed. 
 
 He settled himself in a great leather-covered easy- 
 chair by the table, got his feet up on another chair, 
 
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 OLD HARBOR 
 
 he was never comfortable until he had got his knees 
 straight, took up a big, long-stemmed meerschaum 
 pipe, and filled it from a yellow earthenware jar. Then 
 he lighted it, sighed, and began looking over his 
 medical papers and enveloping himself in a cloud of 
 smoke. 
 
 At exactly half-past eight there was a knock at the 
 door. The doctor grunted, and his housekeeper came 
 in, bearing a bottle of beer and a glass. To her, the 
 doctor s head appeared above the back of the chair, 
 surrounded by a green aureole of smoke. That was 
 quite usual ; and so was her remark. She always said 
 the same thing. 
 
 "Here s your beer, doctor. Mercy! How smoky 
 it isl" It was. The corners of the room could not be 
 seen at all. "I should think you d die!" 
 
 "Shall, in time," growled the doctor. "Not im 
 mortal. But I ll manage to stand it for a while." 
 
 She set the beer and the glass by the doctor s hand. 
 "Well, if you can stand it, / can t." 
 
 " Don t have to," growled the doctor again. " Don t 
 have to. Thank you. Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night," said the housekeeper; and the door 
 closed softly behind her. She was not resentful of such 
 shortness, any more than the Polar Bear was of the 
 slapping of the reins, or of the doctor s absent-minded 
 profanity. Indeed, she understood such shortness of 
 speech very well. She was apt to be short of speech, 
 herself. She thought better of the doctor for it. 
 
 149
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 When the housekeeper had gone, the doctor laid 
 down his medical journals with evident relief. 
 
 "There, damn it, that s that," he said. And he 
 reached over to a pile of books that were bound in full 
 calf, and that showed signs of frequent use. "What, 
 to-night?" His hand hovered over the pile of books, 
 while he read over the legends on the backs. Then he 
 swooped for one of them. " Merry Wives hits me, 
 to-night. Merry Wives !" And he chuckled to him 
 self, as he got the heavy book into his lap, and 
 opened it. 
 
 Then he opened his beer; and having got it open, 
 he filled his pipe afresh and lighted it. Then, with a 
 comfortable snuggle into his chair, he settled himself 
 to read.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 COLONEL CATHERWOOD sat at his desk in the little 
 back room that served him for a private office. It was 
 a pleasant room, a corner room, with windows giving 
 him a view of the harbor, where the ship " Susan" lay 
 quietly at anchor ; and a view down the harbor towards 
 its mouth, at which the "Susan" had come in, some 
 weeks before, and out of which she would go into the 
 broad Atlantic, if the colonel had his way, in another 
 week. The colonel usually had his way. It was a quiet 
 way, with no fuss about it, but he usually got it. 
 
 Colonel Catherwood did not seem to be very busy. 
 He had a newspaper open before him, and would have 
 appeared, to the casual observer, to be reading it. The 
 aforesaid casual observer might have wondered why 
 the colonel was reading his paper at his desk instead 
 of at the window, out of which he could glance, now 
 and then, at the scene which he loved. There was 
 a reason ; for, half concealed by the newspaper, was a 
 pad of paper on which he wrote. Sometimes he wrote 
 only a few words, and again he wrote, without stop 
 ping, until the sheet was full. Then he would tear off 
 the filled sheet and put it on the top of a growing pile 
 in the drawer of the desk. The colonel was writing his 
 memoirs of the war ; with very little of himself in them 
 
 151
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 and much of the men he had known and the times of 
 which he had been a part. He was very much ashamed 
 of writing it, but he could not help it, and he was ter 
 ribly afraid of being found out. 
 
 A step sounded at the door. It was the slow step of 
 the old clerk, whose hand fumbled with the latch. But 
 if Heywood was deaf, he was not blind. Hurriedly, 
 the colonel covered his writing with the newspaper 
 and began to read anywhere. Heywood entered, as 
 quietly and as deliberately as he did everything, and 
 smiled to see the colonel apparently reading an ad 
 vertisement of a popular brand of whiskey. The colonel 
 looked up, expectantly, but he did not speak. It would 
 have been a wasted effort. 
 
 Heywood answered the look. " You told me to find 
 a keeper for the Susan, " he said, speaking very 
 softly, as was his custom. " I can t find any. All our 
 good men are either at work or away." 
 
 "H m," sighed the colonel. "Where s Jack, Hey 
 wood?" he shouted. 
 
 " Jack ? " asked Heywood. " He s gone down to look 
 over the shipyard." He smiled. "He seems to have 
 the same ideas that we used to have." 
 
 Colonel Catherwood nodded. He would have made 
 some remark about those old times, when Heywood 
 was not deaf and they both had ideas and the enthu 
 siasm to carry them out, if it had not been necessary 
 to shout it. Shouting such remarks seemed to take 
 them out of their class. Heywood would understand. 
 
 152
 
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 Heywood did understand; and he stood and waited 
 until the colonel should speak. 
 
 " H m," sighed the colonel, again. It was not prob 
 able that Jack knew anything of the duties of a ship- 
 keeper, anyway, although they were not hard to learn. 
 "Be on the lookout, Heywood, for a keeper for the 
 Susan, " he said, at last, "and I 11 see Jack when 
 he comes in. We must have somebody." 
 
 Heywood nodded. "I think we must," he replied. 
 " There were a number of things missing from her this 
 morning. I went out, myself, to see. I d go, but that 
 I could n t hear anything." He smiled. His deafness 
 was no affliction to Heywood. He lived in a world of 
 his own. 
 
 "No," shouted the colonel. "You couldn t hear, 
 and we want you in the office." 
 
 Neither of them had heard the outer door open and 
 close. Heywood could not have heard if it had been 
 slammed, he could have felt it, but it had been 
 closed very softly. 
 
 "Good-morning," said a gentle voice. Eben stood 
 in the doorway, behind Heywood. "I heard you 
 talking " 
 
 Colonel Catherwood had already risen. " Not diffi 
 cult, eh, Eben ? " he asked, holding out his hand. " How 
 far off did you hear us first?" 
 
 Eben smiled quickly and took the colonel s hand. 
 He made no reply. 
 
 "It was a confidential conversation, you know, 
 153
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Eben," continued the colonel, smiling. "Well, I m 
 glad to see you down here. You re getting well fast." 
 
 Eben nodded a "good-morning" to Heywood and 
 shook hands with him. In Heywood s eyes he saw re 
 collection of the old days, before the flood, when 
 
 He turned away. "I m well enough, Frank," he 
 said; "well enough to act as shipkeeper for you." He 
 spoke hurriedly, as though to get the words out before 
 they changed their minds and refused to come. 
 
 There was surprise in Colonel Catherwood s face; 
 surprise and doubt. Eben spoke again, more hurriedly 
 than before. 
 
 "I know the duties very well," he said, "such as 
 they are. I can do it perfectly well, Frank, I give you 
 my word. Many a day and night I ve spent in doing 
 just that." His voice had been almost pleading, but 
 with the last words, it changed to bitterness. Many a 
 day and night 
 
 " I should really be glad if you would let me," con 
 tinued Eben. His look dropped and shifted until, 
 finally, he looked out of the window and saw the 
 " Susan " herself . " It s a long story, Frank. Perhaps, 
 some time," 
 
 "Whenever you like, Eben, whenever you like," 
 returned the colonel. "As for going to the ship, 
 there are no duties, to speak of, that shall be just 
 as you like, too. If you really want to go, I ll take you 
 out." 
 
 Although Eben protested that it was not necessary, 
 154
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 that he could go quite well by himself, the colonel 
 insisted upon rowing him out, in his own boat. 
 
 "The dinghy s there," said the colonel, "or it was 
 there, yesterday. Do you think you can manage it?" 
 
 Eben smiled, a smile of amusement. "I ve done it 
 times enough to know how." 
 
 Colonel Catherwood could not help a feeling of some 
 astonishment at the way Eben went up the side of the 
 "Susan." It offered, one would think, no foothold to 
 anything but a cat and a sailor. Eben showed prac 
 ticed skill; he showed his weakness, too, for he was 
 not yet strong. But, notwithstanding his evident weak 
 ness, he got up the side of the "Susan" much more 
 quickly than the colonel could have managed it. In 
 deed, it is doubtful whether the colonel would have 
 been willing to try it at all without a Jacob s ladder or, 
 at least, a knotted rope. When he was up, he stood 
 nonchalantly on the rail, holding to nothing at all, and 
 waved his hand. The colonel was very sure he would 
 never have done that ; but Eben stood there without 
 a thought of danger, apparently, and as if he was used 
 to it. 
 
 "I m all right, Frank," he said gently. "I ll be 
 ashore in time to go up with you. Good-by." 
 
 " Good-by, Eben," returned the colonel. " You went 
 up the side as if you knew how." 
 
 Eben smiled. " I ought to," he murmured. " I ought 
 to." He turned and dropped lightly to the deck. It 
 seemed that the colonel had not heard his last mur- 
 
 155
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 mured remark, for he was rowing back to shore 
 again. 
 
 Eben stood at the rail and watched the colonel make 
 his landing, neatly, with a sweep of one oar; saw him 
 step out, and, almost in the same motion, seize his boat 
 by the bow and draw it high on the stage with one hand. 
 There was more of knack than of strength displayed, 
 although Colonel Catherwood had plenty of strength. 
 Eben sighed as the colonel went up the plank, with his 
 long, light stride, and disappeared. 
 
 " I wish " he began ; but the wish was left uncom 
 pleted. He sighed again and turned to the ship. "I 
 wonder if everything on the Susan is as it used to be. 
 But of course it is n t. Of course it is n t." 
 
 He began pacing slowly back and forth on the deck, 
 his head sunken on his breast, his eyes on the deck be 
 fore his feet. Gradually and insensibly his beat length 
 ened until it was bounded by the quarter-deck, about 
 shoulder high, and by the forecastle. He stopped his 
 slow pacing and looked over the quarter-deck; then 
 started towards the steps leading to it. He stopped 
 again, suddenly. 
 
 "No," he muttered. "In at the hawse hole. That s 
 the way; my way." He walked to the forecastle, his 
 head lifted, and tried the door. It opened readily, at 
 which Eben did not seem surprised. He swung himself 
 down. 
 
 It was tolerably clean in there ; as clean as could be 
 expected. A casual observer might have been surprised 
 
 156
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 to see Eben tumble into a bunk. He seemed to be partic 
 ular as to the bunk. It was an uninviting bunk, away 
 up in the eyes of the ship. The casual observer might 
 have wondered at his choice, for one would think that 
 the particular bunk he had chosen would get all the 
 motion there was and all the noise there was of 
 tumbling seas and spray and the ocean under her fore 
 foot. Not that there is much to choose among bunks 
 in a forecastle ; but this bunk seemed the most unde 
 sirable of all. 
 
 If there had been a casual observer to make com 
 ments or to think them, it is to be supposed that Eben 
 would have done none of the things he did do. If he 
 had had to bear with such a curious and meddlesome 
 and exasperating person, he would have stood by his 
 side and answered the questions that he could not avoid 
 answering in his gentle voice and with his irreproach 
 able manner, instead of tumbling into his bunk, he 
 had the air of appropriating it, as if it had once belonged 
 to him, and tumbling out again, suddenly, as if he 
 had heard a hoarse voice bellowing down the compan- 
 ionway for all hands to shorten sail. It was a wild night 
 and getting worse; and, as Eben tumbled out, rubbing 
 the sleep from his eyes, he staggered. For the ship s 
 bows rose high on a wave, paused an instant, and then 
 she raced down the slope, with a great roaring and 
 rumbling under her forefoot and the noise of many 
 waters. She checked and lifted, the water hissing now; 
 then a sea slapped up against the outer wall of that 
 
 157
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 forecastle not a foot away with a noise like the 
 report of a cannon. Eben waited for what seemed to 
 him a full minute. Then he heard the patter and crash 
 and hiss of water falling on the deck above his head 
 and running off in rivers to the scuppers. He sprang 
 quickly up the ladder. 
 
 He came out, not into the dark turmoil of wind and 
 sea and rain, but upon a sunny deck that was as quiet as 
 though it were on shore. He smiled to himself and sighed. 
 
 " It does n t seem possible," he muttered ; " it does n t 
 seem possible. It was very real but I m glad it s over 
 those nights. Those nights! Well," he glanced 
 aloft, "I might as well do my part in taking in the 
 topsails, if I can. But I m glad I don t have to go on 
 the royal yard. I should probably fall off, if I got there 
 at all. I doubt if I have the strength." 
 
 He mounted the rigging, quickly at first, then more 
 and more slowly, until he reached the upper topsail 
 yard. It was lowered, of course, for which Eben may 
 have been grateful. He seemed pretty thoroughly ex 
 hausted, and stood there, holding on with both hands, 
 to gather strength. It occurred to him, as he stood there, 
 that he was in full view of Colonel Catherwood s office 
 window; that the colonel might even be watching him, 
 not without some curiosity ; that there were other eyes 
 than the colonel s it might be just cause for wonder 
 that a sane man should be playing about the ship like 
 a boy, running up and down the rigging, diving out of 
 the forecastle. Eben came down, slowly. 
 
 158
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 As soon as he felt the deck under his feet, he turned, 
 without hesitation, and walked to the quarter-deck, 
 picked a belaying-pin from the rail, and began a reso 
 lute speech to an imaginary crew. It was more than 
 resolute, it was belligerent ; and he cursed that phantom 
 crew well. There was nothing gentle about it. You 
 would never have imagined that it was Eben Joyce who 
 was speaking. Suddenly he stopped and threw down 
 the belaying-pin and shuddered. 
 
 "Oh, horrible!" he said. "Horrid! How could I 
 ever have done it?" 
 
 He shook his shoulders as though he would shake 
 off the dream that possessed him, it seemed more 
 than a dream, and he left the quarter-deck and found 
 a place under the rail that was sheltered and sunny, 
 and there he curled himself up. The gentle breeze, that 
 was scarcely enough to keep the "Susan s" anchor 
 chain taut, was sharp and cold. 
 
 Colonel Catherwood had not been watching Eben; 
 he was busy with his writing and very much interested 
 in it. He had no time, then, to be looking out of win 
 dows ; but there were other eyes than the colonel s that 
 were interested in that ship. An old dory, that put out 
 from the shore just as the colonel disappeared into his 
 office, seemed to be bound nowhere in particular, but 
 her erratic course carried her continually nearer to the 
 "Susan." The man in the dory may have been Mike 
 Loughery or he may not; but after Eben appeared 
 on the foremast of the ship, the course of the dry 
 
 159
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 was no longer erratic. It made straight across the 
 harbor. 
 
 At the change of course, a figure which had been 
 crouched on its knees at a window of an old deserted, 
 tumble-down house, at the head of one of the wharves, 
 half rose. It was an odd, misshapen figure, with a big 
 head and wobbly legs and long, strong arms that waved 
 about, with no purpose, and it gave a clattering laugh 
 that echoed across the water. The man in the dory 
 stopped rowing, at the sound of it, and he looked sharply 
 along the stretch of shore that he had just left ; but 
 he saw nothing of Clanky Beg. It was difficult to see 
 Clanky when he did not wish to be seen, for he was 
 getting the game of Indian down to a fine art. It was 
 a one-sided game, with but one boy playing it. He had 
 been after Mike all the morning. He was after Mike 
 every day. Indeed, it was his first interest in life, after 
 Joe and Mrs. Loughery. 
 
 He had left Joe Loughery in the pine woods near the 
 hut that he had made. It was not much of a hut. It 
 could n t be, with Clanky for its builder. It did not 
 keep the air out, not to speak of the wind, and it was 
 all the better for that ; but the roof was pretty tight, and 
 Clanky had thatched it afresh with spruce boughs. It 
 would be warmer when snow came. Joe slept there, 
 in the hut, with the night winds blowing across his face ; 
 and in the day-time, rain or shine, he was out of doors, 
 well wrapped up, to be sure, and protected against the 
 weather. 
 
 160
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Joe was wonderfully better, already. That fact made 
 Clanky very happy. He had been to Mrs. Loughery s 
 and done his chores, and had brought Joe a breakfast 
 of his mother s cooking. He always did that; it was 
 scarcely more than a step, and Joe s breakfast had n t 
 time to get cold as Clanky ran over with the basket. 
 He had got Joe settled at the roots of a big pine, where 
 the sunshine lay warm and where he was sheltered from 
 the wind, with a blanket under him and another over 
 his knees. Then he had seated himself at the foot of a 
 neighboring pine, and he had looked at Joe with dumb 
 dog-love shining from his eyes. Joe was happy, too, 
 and he smiled at Clanky without speaking. They did 
 not do much talking, out there among the pines. After 
 a while, Clanky became restless and got up. 
 
 Joe laughed; but he did not cough. "What is it, 
 Clanky?" he asked. "Is mother coming?" 
 
 "Mother Loughery *s coming," replied Clanky. 
 "Good-by, Joe." 
 
 " Good-by, Clanky," said Joe. " Don t wait, if you 
 want to go." 
 
 So Clanky had gone ; had vanished among the pines, 
 without a sound, as Mrs. Loughery appeared. 
 
 She smiled at Joe, sitting there in the sunshine. 
 "How s my Joe, the morn?" she asked. 
 
 " Fine, mother, fine. What do you suppose Clanky s 
 up to, slipping away just as you are coming?" 
 
 The tears came into Mrs. Loughery s eyes. "The 
 dear boy !" she said. " The dear boy ! Let him go, an 
 
 161
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 he wants, poor lad. T is small pleasure we can give 
 him. He s as good as my own, Joe; better than some, 
 better than some, but not you, Joe." 
 
 "I know," said Joe. 
 
 Clanky had made a wide detour, had come to the 
 edge of the pine woods where he had a good view of the 
 Lougherys , and had waited for Mike to appear. Mike 
 was out until all hours of the night, and he slept late. 
 But Mike had come out, finally, scowling, and had 
 made his way across the fields; he always did that. 
 Clanky followed ; he always did that, but Mike knew 
 nothing of it. 
 
 That accounted sufficiently for Clanky s hiding and 
 for his laugh ; for he believed that he had marked Mike 
 down, at last. Many a man with more sense would 
 have come to the same conclusion, and would not have 
 done his work so well. Clanky knew exactly what he 
 would do next; by instinct, perhaps, that innate cun 
 ning which, I am led to believe, is in all wild things. 
 
 He appeared, suddenly, before Hey wood. Heywood 
 was not surprised. He smiled kindly at Clanky and, 
 although he did not hear a word of Clanky s question, 
 he surmised what it was. He pointed, with his pen, to 
 the door of the colonel s private office. Clanky thanked 
 him and walked in at the door. 
 
 He found the colonel still busily writing. It seemed 
 to awaken memories. No one could predict the kind 
 of thing that would stick in that poor clouded mind. 
 He laughed his harsh laugh. 
 
 162
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 The colonel started. "Don t do that, Clanky," he 
 said ; " not in here, anyway." 
 
 "All right, then, I won t." He pointed to the pad. 
 "William does that." 
 
 The colonel smiled quickly. " Ah, yes, Clanky. But 
 he does it much better than I can." 
 
 "No," replied Clanky, earnestly; "no. He does it 
 just the same: some words, till the paper s all written 
 up, then he tears it off and puts it in a drawer. It s just 
 the same. I ve seen him do it." He took up the pad 
 and looked at it, critically. "This looks prettier than 
 his prettier marks. I can t read much," he added. 
 "The teacher said I could n t learn." 
 
 " Probably the teacher knew," said the colonel ; " but 
 perhaps she did n t. It is n t a question of my making 
 prettier marks than William makes, Clanky. It s what 
 the marks mean 
 
 Clanky was tapping the paper with his finger. "Is 
 this true?" he asked. 
 
 "As nearly true as I can recollect," the colonel an 
 swered. " Does that make it any the better, I wonder ? 
 Or is it better to write fairy stories ? But what did you 
 want to see me for, Clanky?" 
 
 Clanky, at this attempt to switch him off, made a last 
 effort to establish the connection that he felt, vaguely. 
 " A man that tells the truth is good, and a man that tells 
 lies is wicked." 
 
 The colonel laughed. "Harriet s opinion in a nut 
 shell. Poor William!" 
 
 163
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Yes," said Clanky, "and Mike : 
 
 The colonel straightened up and listened; and 
 Clanky, as clearly as he was able, asked to be allowed to 
 act as keeper for the ship " Susan " at night. He would 
 like to begin that night. The colonel, after some hesita 
 tion, consented. It would, at least, help Mrs. Loughery 
 out a little. Clanky was delighted when Colonel Cather- 
 wood went into the outer office with him and said a few 
 words to Heywood a few words that might have been 
 heard a block away, if the street door had been open. 
 Clanky managed to restrain himself until he was well 
 away from the office. Then the colonel heard his laugh 
 come clattering down the street. 
 
 Colonel Catherwood sighed and turned to Hey wood. 
 " Has n t Jack been back yet ? " 
 
 Heywood shook his head. 
 
 "I think I ll go and look him up." And the colonel 
 set out for the shipyard. 
 
 The shipyard was about half a mile nearer the mouth 
 of the harbor ; a deserted spot, except for the occasional 
 small boy, who played there to his heart s very great 
 content and climbed about the ancient scaffolding, 
 the remains of it still stood, after thirty years of disuse, 
 climbed about it, in momentary danger of break 
 ing his neck. But what does the small boy care about 
 the danger of breaking his neck? He has names for 
 the boy who thinks of it at all, and the danger seems 
 very remote. The place seemed especially adapted to 
 boys games, and there were excellent hiding-places 
 
 164
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 to be found in the grass that grew rank and tall, and 
 behind the few logs that lay concealed in it ; or behind 
 the old blacksmith shop or the remains of the shed 
 where the planks had been steamed or, in the shed, 
 a boy might conceal himself successfully behind the 
 rusty boiler. The boiler might even serve to conceal a 
 person larger than a boy. Half-a-dozen times in a sum 
 mer, some boy, more enterprising than the rest, gath 
 ered together a gang of boys, and the gang played base 
 ball. The shipyard was an excellent place for baseball ; 
 but baseball took nearly all the boys in Old Harbor, 
 and it was not easy to find boys in Old Harbor. Old 
 Harbor seemed, rather, to adapt itself to girls, and to 
 women of all ages, and to elderly men. It had become 
 a good place to retire to and to die in. But the men, 
 having retired to Old Harbor, forgot to die. 
 
 Colonel Catherwood had some difficulty in finding 
 Jack. At last he saw him, seated on a log in the shadow 
 of the blacksmith shop, busily engaged upon something 
 that lay in his lap ; so busily engaged and so interested 
 that he did not hear the step approaching. The colonel 
 looked down at the thing that lay in his lap, and gave a 
 cry of surprise and delight. All that he had meant to 
 say to Jack all that he had come there for slipped 
 from his mind. 
 
 "Why, Jack!" he cried. "That s good. That s 
 beautiful." 
 
 Jack started and flushed with pleasure. He held out 
 his sketch-book for his father to see. 
 
 165
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 " Do you really think so, dad ?" he said. 
 
 It was only a pencil sketch of the decrepit old scaffold 
 ing and the bulkhead and the harbor beyond, with a 
 hint of the farther shore; and, in the left foreground, 
 the remains of the old steaming-shed. But it was beauti 
 fully and delicately done, and the whole picture seemed 
 to shine with light. 
 
 "The subject appealed to me," continued Jack, 
 simply, "and I just sat down and did it. I am afraid 
 that I forgot what I had come for." He laughed shame 
 facedly. 
 
 "That is of no consequence," returned the colonel. 
 And he stood looking at the sketch and saying nothing, 
 for a long time. 
 
 "You like this sort of thing, Jack?" he asked, at 
 last. Pride and love, which he made an unsuccessful 
 effort to conceal, shone from the colonel s eyes; but 
 there was nothing in his manner, as he asked the ques 
 tion, to indicate either approval or disapproval. Jack 
 was not looking at him. 
 
 "I love it, dad," Jack answered; "I love it." 
 
 "That is food for thought," said the colonel, slowly; 
 "food for thought." He seated himself beside Jack, 
 on the log, still holding the sketch-book. He did not 
 speak further, and father and son sat there in silence, 
 looking out, each absorbed in his own thoughts.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IT was a bright, sunny morning in early December, 
 and everybody rejoiced accordingly; everybody, that 
 is, except MacLean, for it bade fair to be a dull day 
 in the drug business. He had not sold a single drug 
 that morning, although he had been at his shop since 
 daylight. He had swept out and dusted. He had not 
 swept in the dark corners; MacLean s eyes were get 
 ting to be troublesome and glasses cost a deal, though 
 he feared that he would have to come to them in time. 
 There was a corner or two perhaps more on his 
 cases and on his shelves that showed evidence of 
 neglect, probably for the same reason. But nobody 
 looked at the corners, anyway ; or so MacLean thought. 
 
 When he had swept and dusted, he stood at his shop 
 door for a long time, with his nose almost flattened 
 against the glass, looking out. Nobody passed near 
 enough for him to call him in and exchange a bit of 
 gossip two bits of gossip that were very interest 
 ing. The men who did pass were on the opposite side 
 of the street. It was curious that it should have hap 
 pened so. When he had been standing there for over an 
 hour, he saw somebody actually approaching on the 
 same side of the street. MacLean watched, with an 
 interest that was almost frantic. It had been impossible 
 
 167
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 to see clearly who it was, for MacLean s windows 
 partly hid and distorted the figure until it was almost 
 exactly opposite his door. He had been aware of a very 
 nimble and very sweet whistling ; the whistling of a jig 
 tune so enticing that it was all that MacLean could do 
 to keep his feet quietly on the floor. Now, the figure 
 developed into that of a little colored boy, who was 
 shuffling and dancing, anything but walking, down 
 the street in time to his whistling. MacLean s expres 
 sion changed to one of disgust. The little colored boy 
 slowly shuffled up the steps, opened the door, MacLean 
 making way for him, and shuffled in, his shuffling 
 coming to an end with a very low bow. 
 
 "Mornin ," he said. 
 
 " Gude-morning," said MacLean, with an awkward 
 kick of his leg. Constance Catherwood should have 
 seen it, although she would have had hard work not 
 to laugh outright. The little colored boy snickered. 
 
 "Well, what do you want the day?" asked MacLean, 
 ill-naturedly. He had waited in vain for the boy to 
 state his errand. "Will it be pheesic?" 
 
 " Nor, suh," answered the boy. " Whut I want physic 
 fo ?" 
 
 " For an ill pairson," snapped MacLean. " Pheesic s 
 gude for ill pairsons, naething else. It 11 be candy, 
 then, I mak na doubt." 
 
 "Yep," said the boy. "Seventeen sticks. That 
 kind." He laid his finger on one of the jars that adorned 
 MacLean s counter. 
 
 168
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Seven-teen sticks!" exclaimed MacLean, in as 
 tonishment. "Ye 11 need pheesic after a that." 
 
 The boy laughed gayly, after the manner of colored 
 boys. " Nor, suh, I won t," he said ; and he began to 
 search his pockets. He brought forth a handful of pen 
 nies and slowly counted them out upon the counter. 
 There were but eleven. "Hoi you bosses," he said. 
 "I got it yere, some eres." 
 
 From another pocket he brought the remaining six 
 pennies. 
 
 "Seventeen," he said triumphantly. "Knowed I 
 had em. There! That please yo ?" 
 
 And, beginning his whistling again, he shuffled out. 
 
 MacLean counted the pennies carefully into the 
 drawer. "Seventeen pennies!" he said, with a laugh 
 of disgust, as he shut the drawer. " Hap I 11 gie them 
 to Mrs. Lough ery for herbs. She should be by soon 
 and by means in. There s her Joe," he muttered, "do 
 ing wi out pheesic an in the woods an winter coom. 
 He ll die, that s a . Pheesic! Pheesic! Naebody wants 
 pheesic." 
 
 It was a perverse world. MacLean went once more 
 to his door and flattened his nose against the glass. He 
 did not have long to wait, this time, for the Polar Bear 
 came ambling down the street, holding back on the sag 
 ging buggy. He drew up, without apparent guidance, 
 at MacLean s door, which MacLean hastened to open. 
 
 " Gude-morning, doctor," he said; " gude-morning. 
 A varra fine day, doctor. An won t ye come in?" 
 
 169
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Good-morning, MacLean," growled the doctor. 
 " It is a fine day, although I don t see how you can know 
 anything about it. I ve no doubt you ve been cooped 
 up in your stuffy little box since before sunrise. Yes, 
 yes, damn it, I m coming in," he added impatiently, 
 seeing MacLean about to renew his invitation. "I 
 need time, MacLean." 
 
 "Ha, ha!" laughed MacLean, mirthlessly. "An* 
 ye 11 have a the time ye need, doctor." 
 
 "Of course I will," growled the doctor again. "Of 
 course I will." He was in the doorway by that time. 
 He almost filled it. MacLean obsequiously shut the 
 door behind him. Doctor Olcott sniffed for a moment, 
 suspiciously. "Why don t you air out your shop, 
 MacLean ? It smells like a farmhouse in the spring. 
 Your damned drugs don t help it any." 
 
 MacLean s imitation of good nature was nearly ex 
 hausted. "Do ye need to be told that it s December? 
 It s winter, mon, winter. It takes a deal o coal to heat 
 all outdoors. I winna undertake it." MacLean kicked 
 out his leg. It was his most characteristic gesture. It 
 meant that he was embarrassed or greatly pleased or 
 greatly exasperated. 
 
 Doctor Olcott gave a great rumbling laugh. " That s 
 it, MacLean. Don t be picked upon." 
 
 MacLean could not make out the doctor s meaning. 
 " Drugs !" he went on. "Drugs! I dinna sell any drugs. 
 The people winna buy pheesic." 
 
 "They know a thing or two, eh, MacLean?" said 
 170
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 the doctor, playfully. "In the long run, they know 
 what s not good for them. Eh, MacLean ? But we re 
 not so sure of that, either, or you and I would n t have 
 so much to do." 
 
 " I couldna varra weel hae less," grumbled MacLean. 
 
 The doctor laughed again, and went in behind the 
 counter and helped himself to what he wanted. Then 
 he gave MacLean his private instructions concerning 
 a prescription that he had left with Miss Wetherbee 
 that morning. MacLean laughed, knowingly. The 
 doctor gave him, too, his private instructions about 
 a prescription that he had left for Miss Hitty; and 
 MacLean did not laugh. The grumbling Scot liked 
 Miss Hitty. He looked rather serious. 
 
 "Hitty Tilton ll be an ill woman, then, doctor?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "If we don t look out, MacLean, she will be. So 
 do your best." 
 
 "I ll do ma best," said MacLean, nodding. "Hitty 
 Tilton s na sae young." 
 
 "She s na sae young," repeated the doctor. He 
 turned to go out, but MacLean stopped him with a 
 word. 
 
 "I saw that cleekin scamp, Mike Loughery," said 
 MacLean, "as I cam doon to open the shop." 
 
 "H rn!" snorted Doctor Olcott. 
 
 " He was a wet through," continued MacLean, "sae 
 that his clothes drippit. He was growlin to himsel 
 and the waur for wear. He wooldna notice me at a ." 
 
 171
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "H m!" snorted the doctor again. "Had some 
 sense." 
 
 " Then," added MacLean, " I saw the eediot, Clanky, 
 gae into the colonel s office." 
 
 The doctor began to show some interest. He looked 
 at MacLean inquiringly. "Well?" he asked. 
 
 "He ll be there yet," said MacLean. "Waiting for 
 the colonel, I mak na doubt." 
 
 Doctor Olcott made no reply, but he opened the 
 door and went out. Then he put his head in again. 
 "Here s the colonel now, MacLean. Can t you stop 
 him?" 
 
 "Is he?" said MacLean. "I maun try. I hae nae 
 great expeectations of success," he added, to himself. 
 He had tried it many times before. "He ll like, fine, to 
 know. Clanky was lookin main pleased." 
 
 Colonel Catherwood was nearly opposite MacLean s 
 door, by this time. 
 
 "Gude- morning, Colonel Catherwood. Gude- morn 
 ing. Clanky Beg 11 be waiting in your office." 
 
 The colonel smiled slightly. " Good-morning, Mac- 
 Lean," he said ; and he passed on. 
 
 MacLean was not to be cheated so easily. He called 
 after the colonel. "It ll be about Mike Loughery, I 
 mak na doubt." 
 
 The colonel smiled the more, on hearing this, but 
 made no sign. 
 
 Because of MacLean s shouted information, Colonel 
 Catherwood was prepared to find Clanky, but he was 
 
 172
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 not prepared for his laugh. He never got used to that. 
 It rang out, now, and clattered so that one would have 
 thought that even Heywood could have heard it. No 
 doubt he did feel it, for he smiled quietly. 
 
 "Don t, Clanky," said the colonel, laying a hand on 
 Clanky s arm; "don t do that in here." 
 
 "All right," replied Clanky, readily, "I won t, then. 
 I threw Mike overboard." He was about to laugh 
 again, but checked himself in time. "Mike tore 
 Clanky s clothes. See ?" He showed the colonel a long, 
 ragged tear in his coat. "Mike got all soaking wet." 
 
 " Come in and tell me all about it." Clanky followed 
 the colonel into the little back room, and the door shut 
 softly behind them. 
 
 It was a long while before that door was opened 
 again. Clanky came out, looking more than main 
 pleased. I don t know what MacLean would have 
 called it, what comparative he would have used, but 
 it was more than main. The reason was that Colonel 
 Catherwood had said some things that were very pleas 
 ant to hear ; for a boy who had been used to thinking 
 himself of no use in the world, but only a burden to, 
 any one who was good enough to take care of him, they 
 were very pleasant things to hear indeed. And the 
 colonel gave him some money ; not much, but some 
 thing, and that was pleasant, too. 
 
 As he opened the outer door, he gave a low exclama 
 tion and dodged back again. 
 
 "Window," he said. Without waiting for the colonel 
 173
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 to answer, he went silently into the colonel s office, 
 opened a window, and disappeared. 
 
 Colonel Catherwood, amused, glanced at Heywood, 
 who was amused, too. "Harmless play," remarked 
 Heywood. 
 
 The colonel nodded. It would have been of very 
 little use to answer. Then he went to the door to see 
 whether he could guess the cause of Clanky s behavior. 
 A little, weatherbeaten old woman was walking briskly 
 down the street ; not smiling, as was her wont, but look 
 ing worried. She would have been there before, but 
 that she had to run the gauntlet of MacLean s. It may 
 have been a lucky thing for Clanky, or it may not ; but 
 she had not escaped MacLean. 
 
 "Hoh!" MacLean had cried, opening his door. 
 " Gude-morning, Mrs. Loughery." 
 
 The old woman had looked up. "Good-morning, 
 Mr. MacLean," she had replied, with as much of an 
 air of finality as she could manage ; and she would have 
 passed on. But it would not do. MacLean was not 
 afraid of her as he was of Colonel Catherwood. He 
 would not let her go, and he opened his shop door 
 wider. It was an invitation that she did not accept, 
 although she stood still on the sidewalk. 
 
 "Will Mike be dry yet?" he asked, grinning. " He 
 was wet, when I saw him; fair soakin , sae that he 
 drippit with each step. And he was in nane o the best 
 o temper." 
 
 Mrs. Loughery smiled, in spite of herself. " Oh, 
 174
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 yes," she said. "He s dry now. He fell out o his 
 boat " 
 
 "Oh, ho!" cried MacLean. "Hoh! Now, Mrs. 
 Loughery, ye don t believe that, yersel ! Fell oot o 
 his boat! Hoh!" 
 
 T was in makin the landin he did it," Mrs. 
 Loughery explained hastily, "an it that dark he 
 couldna see 
 
 " Hoh ! " cried MacLean again. " Dark ! Why, wo 
 man, t was daylight. I passed him when I cam doon 
 to the shop an it was fresh-wetted. I d swear to it." 
 
 "Well," replied Mrs. Loughery, "I know naught 
 of it except that was what Mike said. I believe him, 
 Mr. MacLean." She spoke with a touch of asperity. 
 " Ye 11 do well to do the same." 
 
 She was going on again. MacLean saw that he must 
 have done with that subject. 
 
 "Mrs. Loughery," he said hurriedly, "how 11 Joe 
 be doin , the day? Puir lad!" 
 
 That stopped her. " He s doin fine, Mr. MacLean. 
 Better than we could have expected. Livin i the open 
 air s doin him good fast. He hardly coughs at a , now." 
 
 MacLean slowly shook his head from side to side. 
 " Puir lad !" he repeated mournfully. " Puir lad ! It ll 
 be the relief comin before deessolution. They ll a be 
 ta en that way. It 11 be a sign that his end is near. Wo 
 man," he said impressively, "dinna ye ken it s creem- 
 inal to be doin wi oot pheesic in a mortal illness ? 
 Pheesic s needfu for ill pairsons." 
 
 175
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Mrs. Loughery laughed. "Joe s doin fine," she 
 said. She was not impressed. She was going on, once 
 more. MacLean made a last effort. 
 
 "Mrs. Loughery," he called. "Ye hae na brought 
 me my herbs. Ye maun be cerrtain they re the true 
 medeecinal herbs." He kicked out his leg, with this. 
 " An the price that I pay is twa bunches for a penny." 
 
 Mrs. Loughery nodded. She could not trust herself 
 to speak. As she turned and resumed her brisk walk, 
 she was talking to herself. "If Miss Conny could on y 
 see the little man ! If she could, now ! But she got him 
 to the life to the life." 
 
 Her smile faded as she walked ; she had too many 
 things to worry about, although she usually succeeded 
 in keeping them in the background. This one was too 
 recent; it had only just happened. What really had 
 happened she could not know until she had seen the 
 colonel bless him ! 
 
 So it happened that the colonel was holding the door 
 open for her, and he was smiling. 
 
 "The saints in heaven bless you, Colonel Cather- 
 wood ! " said she. 
 
 "Thank you, Mrs. Loughery," replied the colonel, 
 gravely. "Something is troubling you this morning? 
 Come into my office." 
 
 "It s about Mike," she said, following him. She 
 saw the open window and smiled. "So that s the way 
 Clanky took. I got just a glimpse of him, and I won 
 dered. T is no harm, colonel. Clanky s a dear boy. 
 
 176
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 He 11 do anything under the sun for me, anything that 
 I 11 ask of him or anything that he knows I want done. 
 He tries to be truthful. He tries so hard it hurts me 
 sometimes. He comes nearer than most that have all 
 their wits. Sure, we can t always tell the truth, how 
 ever hard we try; only as it seems to us. There s few 
 that does that much. Clanky does always. And 
 there s Joe. He d have been gone before this but for 
 Clanky. He takes better care of Joe than a woman 
 could. Joe s doing fine fine." 
 
 "I m very glad," said the colonel; "very glad, in 
 deed." 
 
 "Yes, Joe s fine." There were tears in her eyes. 
 " I a most hope he ll get well." 
 
 "There s every reason to hope," said the colonel. 
 
 " Do you think so, colonel, dear ? Do you think so, 
 now ? Well, then, I will. I was afraid to but I think 
 I did, before. But there s Mike." 
 
 The colonel nodded. 
 
 "He cam home about daylight, soaked through; 
 sae that he drippit, MacLean says. MacLean was 
 right. He fair drippit. He said it was because he fell 
 out of his boat. I cannot believe it, although I just 
 told the little man that I did, God forgive me for lyin . 
 What do you think ? MacLean always has his nose in 
 other folks business." 
 
 "Clanky threw him overboard," said the colonel. 
 He saw no object in delay or in deceit. " Clanky was 
 on the ship, at his own request, to guard against thiev- 
 
 177
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 ing. There has been more or less of it for some time. 
 As near as I can get it from Clanky s story, Mike came 
 aboard, there was a fight, and he threw Mike over the 
 side." 
 
 Mrs. Loughery was silent for some time, looking out 
 of the window. " It s hard for me to believe my Mike s 
 a thief," she said, at last; "hard to have to believe it. 
 But I m afraid I do. Ah, what can I do wi him ? I 
 don t want Mike to go to jail, an there s where he ll 
 end if he s not stopped. What is there that I can do ?" 
 
 "That s just what I ve been thinking about," said 
 the colonel. " I ve been thinking about it for some days. 
 The best that I can do is to ship him in the Susan for 
 South America. She sails for Rio next week. It s not 
 a solution, of course, not a remedy, but it s the best 
 I can think of. It may do him some good, or it may 
 not." 
 
 "Bless you, colonel, dear!" cried Mrs. Loughery. 
 "Bless you! But Mike s of age. What if he wi not 
 go ? You can t shanghai him." 
 
 Colonel Catherwood laughed. "No, Mrs. Loughery, 
 we can t shanghai him. I think I can persuade him to 
 go voluntarily to want to go." 
 
 Mrs. Loughery laughed, too. "W T ell, then," she 
 said, "you persuade him, an I ll take home a lighter 
 heart than I brought away wi me. My Joe an my 
 Clanky 11 be doing well, an I ll ha hopes o my Mike, 
 too. I ll go, now, Colonel Catherwood, an ca down 
 blessings on your head." 
 
 178
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Don t smother me with them," said the colonel, 
 smiling. 
 
 "Oh, never fear," replied the old woman, rising. 
 " Sma fear o that. An well I know t is but a chance 
 for Mike, but I m thankfu for the chance. Bless you, 
 colonel, an good-by." 
 
 The old woman was gone, with a look to Heywood 
 and a kind word, walking briskly, as she always walked, 
 up the street. 
 
 Colonel Catherwood sat for some minutes, absorbed 
 in his thoughts. Then he sighed and, turning to his 
 desk, pulled open a drawer. There was the slowly 
 growing pile of manuscript. He took out the last few 
 sheets and read them over; then, drawing the pad to 
 him, he began to write. He had not even a newspaper 
 to hide behind. The colonel was getting careless. There 
 was Heywood and there was Jack. The colonel had 
 forgotten about Jack, for the moment, but Jack was 
 due at any minute. But the colonel was safe from 
 discovery, so far as Jack was concerned. Something 
 had happened to detain him ; something that had to do 
 with a very attractively gotten up young woman in a 
 smart cart. Nan Hedge had taken it into her pretty head 
 that she would explore the roads; the old roads, the 
 little used roads until she well, until she tired of 
 exploration. By a mere chance, of course, she had come 
 upon Jack Catherwood down by the old shipyard just 
 exactly at the time when further exploration ceased to 
 seem desirable.
 
 NAN HEDGE S house was rather large ; too large for 
 two women to live in alone, Old Harbor thought, and 
 said so, privately. It is not to be supposed that Nan 
 had not heard this criticism, although it was difficult 
 to say who had told her. Nan, herself, had but a hazy 
 idea on the subject. Probably it had floated in as such 
 bits of gossip do. Perhaps Octavia Haight had told 
 her, although that would be but shifting the question 
 one person, for, doubtless, Octavia s ideas on the sub 
 ject were as hazy as Nan s. It did not seem to matter 
 to either of them. If Old Harbor had asked her, Nan 
 would have said that the house was not too large, with 
 plenty of servants to take care of it; and would have 
 reminded them that the Miss Tiltons had lived there, 
 and had been subjected to no criticism of the kind. 
 
 The Miss Tiltons were loner than Nan and Mrs. 
 Haight, for they had had no servants at all, and had 
 been compelled, in self-defense, to shut up the greater 
 part of the house; which was just what Nan did not 
 do. She kept it all open and well heated and lighted. 
 And Miss Harriet Joyce had lived, until within three 
 months, a still more lonely life, all sole alone in a house 
 nearly as large. For Miss Joyce s one maid-servant 
 did not count. 
 
 180
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 In response to all of which allegations, Old Harbor 
 would have shrugged its shoulders, if it did such 
 things, and would have replied that that was differ 
 ent. It would have thought that the Miss Tiltons 
 living in the house that had been their father s and 
 their grandfather s made the difference. The house 
 had not been too large for Captain Tilton. Miss Joyce s 
 case was similar. Although Old Harbor would have 
 thought all this, it would not have said it, for it would 
 have considered it ill-bred to say it. It might not have 
 made any difference to Nan if they had said it. She 
 probably would have shrugged her shoulders, for 
 she did such things, and have smiled and made no 
 other reply. It might make a difference to Nan what 
 Old Harbor said. At one period she would not have 
 cared at all what the Old Harborites said, but would 
 have set them down as a parcel of old fogies. That 
 period was in the somewhat recent past. It was by no 
 means certain that she would not have cared now. 
 
 Octavia Haight was thinking of these things as she 
 moved about noiselessly, lighting the lamps in the two 
 long parlors and in the library, across the hall. The 
 lamps in the hall and the dining-room were delegated 
 to a maid. What Mrs. Haight was doing was not dele 
 gated because well, because Nan preferred that it 
 should not be, and because things were usually done 
 as Nan preferred. Mrs. Haight smiled to herself; not 
 a pleasant smile, somehow, although it would have 
 puzzled any one to say why. 
 
 181
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 She was a tall woman, with black hair and an olive 
 skin, and with features which were classic in their reg 
 ularity. She carried herself well, and her movements 
 were always slow and majestic. Altogether, rather a 
 magnificent person ; a fact which, evidently, she never 
 allowed herself to forget. She was a great contrast 
 to Nan. Whatever Nan Hedge was, she was neither 
 majestic nor magnificent. Nan must have been aware 
 that Mrs. Haight had great beauty. Perhaps I should 
 say that she had had great beauty, for she was a few 
 years older than Nan. That was not necessarily old, 
 but well, it took greater art to conceal the ravages 
 of life not of time ; years do not matter so much 
 in her case than in Nan s. Nan must have been 
 aware of that, too. It may have accounted for her 
 position in Nan s household. Her position was suffi 
 ciently obvious. Nobody knew how it grated that it 
 was so obvious. And it was sufficiently indefinite. Nan 
 looked out for that. 
 
 So Mrs. Haight, as she lighted the lamps, smiled 
 her smile that was not quite pleasant. The rooms, with 
 the exception of lamps, and rugs spread over the car 
 pets, and a few other things that made life easier and 
 more comfortable for herself, were much as Nan had 
 found them. There were even the two great shells, 
 with their delicate pink lining, on the front parlor 
 mantel, and the two curious, old-fashioned lamps, for 
 burning whale oil, on the back-parlor mantel. The 
 cabinet of shells, that had stood in the corner of the 
 
 182
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 front parlor, was with the Tilton girls, now; so were 
 most of the better and more delicate pieces of furniture 
 that Captain Tilton had brought home from India 
 and China: tables of ebony and teak-wood, inlaid with 
 ivory, and an ebony tabouret inlaid with silver, and 
 many another thing that the Miss Tiltons had been 
 unwilling to part with, although their rooms were 
 crowded until they looked like a shop of antiques. 
 The Tilton girls were of an appropriate presence for 
 such an establishment. But they could not take every 
 thing ; a fact an undeniable fact which they re 
 gretted. 
 
 Mrs. Haight regarded these relics, as she considered 
 them, with distaste and disapproval. As she lighted 
 the lamps in the back parlor, her glance chanced to 
 fall upon the two old whale-oil lamps as it seemed 
 to her, filled with intricate machinery. 
 
 She smiled again. "Well!" she murmured. "I m 
 glad that I don t have to light those. I think I should 
 resign, if that was a part of my duty." She knew very 
 well that she would not. She would learn the office of 
 the intricate machinery, instead. "It would take a 
 plumber to light those." 
 
 She passed across the hall, and lighted the lamp in 
 the library. A cannel coal fire was bubbling softly in 
 the grate, and she sank into an easy-chair before it and 
 folded her hands in her lap. There was the swish of 
 skirts on the stairs, and Nan came in. 
 
 "Well, Octavia!" she said. She was smiling. She 
 183
 
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 tried not to, and succeeded ; then she would forget, and 
 the smile would come again. 
 
 "Nan," said Mrs. Haight, "why don t you clear out 
 all this stuff and make the house modern?" 
 
 Nan was surprised. She stood by the fire and looked 
 around at the room and its furnishings a brief look. 
 Then she looked into the fire and her smile came 
 again. 
 
 " It would n t be an improvement," she said shortly. 
 " I like it as it is." 
 
 Mrs. Haight made no reply. She knew better. 
 There was a long silence, during which she watched 
 Nan and saw her smile come and go. 
 
 "What s up, Nan?" she asked, at last. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," Nan replied quickly; "nothing 
 much. Only," she added, as if she could not resist the 
 temptation to tell somebody, " only I am rather 
 expecting company to-night." 
 
 "Steady?" asked Mrs. Haight, with her slow smile. 
 
 That smile seemed to mock at Nan, but she paid no 
 attention to it. " Jack Catherwood," she said, and 
 flushed quickly. That flush, at least, was real enough. 
 There was reason to believe that it was not painted on. 
 
 Octavia Haight raised her eyebrows the least bit. 
 They were very fine eyebrows and she knew it and 
 used them; but not too much. The effect was good. 
 Mrs. Haight knew that, too. 
 
 "Indeed," she said. "Then I presume you can sur 
 vive without me, after I have met him. Of course, I 
 
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 must meet him, for the sake of the proprieties. After 
 that, Nan, you will have him to yourself." 
 
 Something in Octavia s speech made Nan laugh 
 shortly. "As you please," she said. 
 
 After that there was silence. Nan never talked to 
 Octavia unless she wanted to, and Octavia knew the 
 role which she was expected to play; which, as she 
 thought, she had to play if she would keep the place 
 that was hers in Nan s household. She did not have 
 to talk now, for which she was very glad. Instead, she 
 watched Nan for a long time, covertly, and there was 
 something wistful in her look, as if she thought that 
 Nan was getting something that she had missed, and 
 wanted. Whether that was so or not, I do not know. 
 One would have thought that Octavia Haight might 
 have had every experience that Nan Hedge was likely 
 to have, and in fuller measure. But I know nothing 
 of her past; only that she was there, in Nan s house, 
 as I have said : a handsome woman, even a magnifi 
 cent woman, with a smile that was not quite pleas 
 ant. 
 
 Nan drew up another easy-chair before the fire and 
 reclined in it very gracefully. 
 
 "I met Mr. Catherwood, the other day," she re 
 marked, at last, "quite by accident, of course." Nan 
 looked up and smiled. 
 
 "Of course," said Octavia. "I understand that it 
 was quite by accident." And she smiled, too. 
 
 " It was down by an old place that must have been 
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 a shipyard," continued Nan. " He had been sketching. 
 His sketches are very good very good indeed." 
 
 " I can understand that his sketches, being his, must 
 be very good indeed," said Mrs. Haight. Nan flushed 
 again quickly, and again the flush was unmistakably 
 real. "He showed them to you, then?" 
 
 Nan laughed. "I insisted upon seeing them," she 
 replied. "That was when we were driving home." 
 
 "Oh," said Octavia, "so he came home with you. 
 Of course he seemed to want to." 
 
 " He was dying to," answered Nan. " He would n t 
 ask, so I took him in." 
 
 "I can believe that," Octavia returned; and they 
 laughed together. 
 
 "Then," Nan continued, "I brought him into town, 
 by a rather roundabout way, I m afraid. You know 
 how my horse wanders." 
 
 " I know," said Octavia, sympathetically. " He is a 
 great wanderer to the stable, by the shortest road." 
 
 "Then I dropped him." 
 
 "You dropped him!" echoed Octavia. 
 
 "At his request," replied Nan. "He had to go to 
 the office. I don t believe he has anything to do there, 
 but he said he had to go." 
 
 " So you dropped him at his office ? " 
 
 " No," said Nan. " I dropped him a block away from 
 the office." 
 
 And Octavia chuckled, while Nan laughed her low- 
 pitched laugh until the tears stood in her eyes. 
 
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 "I must stop laughing," remarked Nan, "or I shall 
 spoil my complexion. But it was funny." 
 
 She wiped her eyes, carefully. "He mentioned his 
 wish to call," she added. "That was while we were 
 driving." 
 
 " With only proper encouragement ? " asked Octavia. 
 
 "Of course," said Nan, "I gave him only proper 
 encouragement. He seemed to need it. I suggested 
 to-night." 
 
 " Oh," said Octavia. 
 
 "At first, I suggested to-morrow night," said Nan. 
 " He had an engagement, at his aunt s, Miss Joyce s. 
 So, not to discourage him too much, I mentioned that 
 to-night would be propitious." 
 
 "He is really coming, then?" 
 
 " I think so," Nan replied ; " but I shall not be sure 
 of him until I see him." 
 
 Mrs. Haight was silent for a few minutes ; digesting 
 Nan s information, probably. Her mental processes 
 were not rapid. 
 
 "Shall you dress for him, Nan ?" she asked, at last. 
 
 "I don t dare," said Nan. "Old Harbor is con 
 servative. But just you wait. Some day, or night, I 
 will." 
 
 Again Mrs. Haight was silent; and, before she had 
 time to formulate a reply, a soft-voiced maid announced 
 dinner. That changed the current of her thoughts 
 somewhat, for, as your magnificent, mentally slow 
 women are apt to do, she thought a good deal of dinner ; 
 
 187
 
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 much more than Nan did. Nan s mental processes 
 were not slow. I say nothing of men and imply nothing. 
 
 At dinner, Octavia played the r6le of sympathetic 
 friend as well as she could. She did it pretty well, for 
 she had had a long experience at it. If she could not 
 see that Nan occasionally wearied of it, and if, now 
 and then, Nan made rather sharper remarks than the 
 occasion seemed to call for, Octavia is not to be blamed. 
 Nan, herself, saw that, and, it may be, blamed her 
 self for her impatience if she ever blamed herself 
 for anything. Perhaps she never blamed herself; she 
 had not been accustomed to. Octavia, who would have 
 liked to dawdle over her dinner and thereby prolong 
 her enjoyment of it, gave what attention to it she could, 
 not as much as it deserved ; she realized that, but 
 she gave it as much attention as she thought she could, 
 and, between mouthfuls, she made remarks of a com 
 forting and sympathetic nature to Nan, as the occa 
 sion seemed to warrant. 
 
 As they rose from the table, Octavia thought, with 
 a regretful sigh, that the dinner had been much too 
 hurried. Nan gave a sigh of relief. It seemed to her 
 that they had been an unconscionable time at the table, 
 for just two people. It was nearly eight o clock. In 
 Old Harbor, people might be expected to call at nearly 
 eight o clock, Nan thought. She did not know, for she 
 had not had an evening call since she had been there. 
 
 Octavia moved slowly toward her easy-chair before 
 the fire, and seated herself, but Nan did not sit down . 
 
 188
 
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 She was restless and moved about the room, stopping, 
 inconsequently, before anything that might serve to 
 arrest her attention. Octavia smiled as she watched 
 her, but she did not speak. She waited for Nan. 
 
 "Octavia," asked Nan, at last, abruptly, "I am 
 very domestic, am I not?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Octavia, smiling the more, " if you 
 like." 
 
 "Well," said Nan, then, "what have you done with 
 my sewing?" 
 
 Octavia broke out into a chuckle. "That s a poser, 
 Nan; I give it up. What s the answer?" 
 
 "I think, Octavia," Nan said seriously enough, 
 but there was the suspicion of a twinkle in her 
 eye, "I think that you will have to find me some 
 sewing, and a nice, domestic-looking basket, right 
 away." 
 
 Octavia thought for a minute. " I can get you some 
 embroidery, Nan," she suggested, looking up. 
 
 "I ve got embroidery of my own, somewhere," re 
 plied Nan, quickly, " but embroidery is n t what I 
 want. Can t you find some plain sewing ? It should n t 
 be too plain." 
 
 Again Octavia glanced up at Nan and smiled. 
 "White goods?" she asked. 
 
 "We ell," said Nan, slowly, "not too white." 
 
 Octavia laughed. " I 11 see," she said, rising. " What 
 do you know about sewing, Nan ?" 
 
 "I can sew beautifully," Nan answered. "They 
 189
 
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 taught me at the convent. I have n t done any since I 
 left." 
 
 "Oh," said Octavia, "I did n t know. What makes 
 you think that Mr. Catherwood will like it?" 
 
 " They all like it," said Nan, " even the best of them. 
 It s more fetching than embroidery. But bring the 
 embroidery if you can t find the sewing. And a basket," 
 she called. " I must have a basket." 
 
 Nan was still wandering restlessly about the room 
 when Octavia came down again, bringing the basket, 
 which was so necessary. She put it down on the table 
 and laid a fresh piece of cambric on top. 
 
 " There, Nan," she said. " There s an opportunity to 
 exercise your talents. There s a piece of cambric. You 
 can make what you like." She sank into her easy- 
 chair and proceeded to do nothing with all her might. 
 
 "Mercy!" cried Nan, under her breath. "Have I 
 got to decide right away in a minute?" 
 
 Octavia laughed, but said nothing. Nan sat down 
 near the table not too near. Her face was in the 
 half shadow, but the lamplight fell full on her work and 
 on her hands. Nan had beautiful hands: white and 
 soft and with slim, taper fingers. She threaded a needle 
 skillfully, and took up the cambric. Octavia watched 
 her curiously. 
 
 "Tableau!" she observed. "Domesticity." 
 
 " Penelope among the suitors," amended Nan ; " but 
 she was either weaving or spinning, I believe. Spinning 
 is too primitive." 
 
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 "Was n t Penelope a widow?" asked Octavia. 
 
 "Generally so considered," answered Nan; "but 
 she was n t." 
 
 " Oh," murmured Octavia, looking into the fire and 
 turning a dark red. Nan should have known better 
 than to say it. 
 
 "And here are no suitors," Nan added. 
 
 " Oh, he will come later," said Octavia; and watched 
 the blood flash into Nan s face and flash out again. 
 
 Nan worked in silence for some time. Then, sud 
 denly, she got up and cast her work into Octavia s lap. 
 "There!" she said. "How is that? Can I sew?" 
 
 Octavia examined it carefully. " It s beautiful sew 
 ing, Nan. I guess you can sew, after all. What is 
 it?" 
 
 Nan had wandered to the other end of the room. 
 "Oh, / don t know," she called, over her shoulder. 
 " Nothing, I guess. Just sewing plain sewing." 
 
 Octavia regarded her for a moment with something 
 like pity. Then she hardened. 
 
 "It s time your young man was coming, Nan," she 
 said quietly, "if he s coming." 
 
 She placed no undue emphasis anywhere, but Nan 
 understood. 
 
 " If he s coming, you meant to say, Octavia. Per 
 haps he s not. He may have changed his mind. They 
 sometimes do." Again Octavia s face burned. It was 
 not the fault of the fire. " I said I should n t be sure 
 of him until I saw him, and I shan t." 
 
 191
 
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 A maid passed through the hall, silently; hesitated, 
 stopped, and closed the library door, murmuring an 
 apology. 
 
 " I think my young man has arrived," Nan observed. 
 
 She was standing rather in shadow. She could not 
 well wear a veil; veils are not usually worn at home, 
 in the evening. As she stood there, she looked very 
 well, almost beautiful. To a young man without ex 
 perience her complexion would seem real, and it may 
 have been; and the tiny wrinkles about her eyes, if 
 there were any wrinkles, would not be evident. Even 
 you or I, not being inexperienced, would have had 
 difficulty in seeing them. Whether Jack Catherwood 
 was a young man without experience, I do not know. 
 
 Both Nan and Octavia heard the front door open 
 and shut again, and they heard his voice. 
 
 Nan pressed her hands to her heart and leaned for 
 ward eagerly. "He comes!" she breathed. Octavia 
 chuckled silently. The maid brought in his cards. 
 
 Nan started forward ; then stopped. "I ll bring him 
 in here, Octavia," she said. "It s much pleasanter." 
 
 It was with a shock of mingled surprise, pleasure, 
 and regret that Nan saw him, as he came forward to 
 meet her. He looked as if he lived in evening clothes. 
 Somehow, she had not expected that in Old Harbor, 
 she could not have told why. She took him into the 
 library and presented him to Mrs. Haight, and he set 
 tled himself in a chair before the fire. Nan sat where 
 she had sat before he came. Her chair had been care- 
 
 192
 
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 fully placed with due regard to the effect. The light 
 fell upon her hands, but her face was in the shadow. 
 Her sewing lay where Octavia had tossed it, beside 
 her basket. She did not feel quite so sure of the need 
 of it. 
 
 Presently, Mrs. Haight rose and excused herself for 
 a moment, and Jack felt vaguely uncomfortable. Nan 
 saw it and laughed. 
 
 "Octavia has something to do upstairs," she said. 
 "She ll be back before you go. I don t bite." 
 
 Octavia had not gone all the way up the stairs. She 
 went only to the landing, sat down on the step beyond 
 the turn, and listened with all her ears. 
 
 She did not hear anything worth taking all that 
 trouble for; only the foolish things that one expects 
 when a man calls on a girl for the first time. Then she 
 did not hear even that; only the sound of low voices, 
 principally Jack s, with Nan s breaking in, now and 
 then. But she knew Nan, and she knew, just from the 
 sound of her voice, that she was interested. And she 
 thought she knew that Nan would be interested in only 
 the one kind of thing, said by a man like Jack Gather- 
 wood, and her feelings were such as might be expected, 
 under those circumstances. 
 
 Octavia, sitting there on the landing, and hearing 
 nothing but the sound of low voices, was mistaken. 
 Jack was not saying the one kind of thing, but he was 
 telling Nan of the life of the Tilton girls in that very 
 house. Nan was really interested. But Octavia was 
 
 193
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 right in one respect. It was not the kind of thing that 
 would be expected of Nan. 
 
 "The poor old dears!" Nan broke out, at last. "It 
 makes me ashamed of myself." You would not have 
 expected that of Nan either, if you had known her as 
 well as Octavia did only as well as Octavia knew 
 her. Nan, herself, would have been surprised, if she 
 had stopped to think of it. 
 
 "Yes," said Jack, "they are old dears, if you get to 
 know them. It is not easy." 
 
 "No," Nan replied, looking down at the piece of 
 cambric. She had taken it up idly, and idly held it. 
 She made no pretense of sewing. "But one can try." 
 
 Nan was silent for some while. Octavia did not 
 hear the sound of low voices ; and she thought but 
 I do not know what she thought. When Nan had been 
 silent so long that her silence was becoming embar 
 rassing, suddenly she tossed the cambric into Jack s 
 hands, much as she had tossed it into Octavia s. 
 
 "Do you know what that is?" she asked. 
 
 Jack examined it at some length. "No," he an 
 swered, rather puzzled, "except that it seems, to my 
 inexperienced eye, a piece of very fine sewing. Sort 
 of a sampler?" he asked, looking up. 
 
 " You might call it a sampler," Nan returned. "The 
 sewing is fine enough. They taught me to sew at the 
 convent." She spoke scornfully. "/ don t know what 
 it is, either." She laughed her low-pitched laugh. She 
 seemed amused at herself. " That was for your benefit." 
 
 194
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Jack laughed too. " What ? " he asked incredulously. 
 
 "Oh, it s true," said Nan. "I thought it would 
 make me seem domestic, and I m not domestic." 
 Nan was embarrassed ; a very unexpected thing. She 
 was looking down at her hands. " When you told me 
 about those poor Miss Tiltons, it made me very much 
 ashamed of myself." She looked frankly up at Jack. 
 "I wish you d forget it." 
 
 "Well, I shan t," said Jack. He was smiling as he 
 said it. He rose to go. 
 
 "Well," Nan observed confidentially, "anyway, I ve 
 confessed, and I feel better." 
 
 It is to be doubted if Nan could have found a way 
 that would have advanced her cause more, supposing 
 that she had a cause to advance. She may have thought 
 of that and she may not. 
 
 "Here comes Octavia," Nan said, in a voice that ill- 
 disposed persons might have called a whisper. 
 
 Jack could hear Octavia Haight coming down the 
 stairs.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE "Susan" had sailed away, at last, for New 
 York first, to load, and then for Rio. She had carried 
 Mike Loughery, presumably for Rio, too. Mike had 
 seemed a very cheerful sailor, of an astonishing igno 
 rance, considering the fact that he had been brought 
 up in a harbor town. But his operations had been 
 confined to the immediate vicinity of the shore, and 
 had been limited to dories, for the most part, and he 
 had never been in a deep-sea vessel before. Indeed, 
 his experiences had never carried him farther upon the 
 ocean than a cat-boat or a small sloop will sail with a 
 keg of beer and a crew consisting of half-drunken young 
 men, each with a flask in his pocket, and a skipper who 
 is no skipper at all. It was a wonder that he had not 
 been drowned on some one of these excursions ; it can 
 only be attributed to luck that he had not been. But 
 he had not, and he had seemed to have cheerful anti 
 cipation of repeating some of these experiences on the 
 "Susan." Colonel Catherwood, watching him, had 
 enjoined the mate to keep a sharp eye on him while 
 they were in port. 
 
 Mrs. Loughery had been there, at the wharf, to see 
 him off, and she was tearful and half laughing. Mike 
 paid but scant attention to his mother; what little he 
 
 196
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 gave her was well enough, for Mike was a smooth 
 scamp. Mike s attention had been divided between 
 his mother and Nora, who had slipped down from the 
 Catherwoods , and who had stood apart, tearful, too, 
 but not laughing at all. Mike did his smooth best to 
 comfort her. 
 
 Joe Loughery was not there, nor was Clanky Beg, so 
 far as could be seen; but if one had looked into the 
 old deserted building that stood at the head of the old 
 deserted wharf a little farther down the water front, 
 he might have seen somebody that looked very much 
 like Clanky, with a broad smile of triumphant glee 
 fixed upon his face. It was not surprising that Clanky 
 should have been there, nor that he should be gleeful ; 
 but it might have been just cause for surprise to have 
 found Eben behind the corner of the same building 
 and to note the light of longing that shone in his 
 eyes. 
 
 Eben Joyce had longed, passionately, to be sailing 
 in the " Susan." He would not have been as cheerful, 
 perhaps, as Mike, but he would have been no ignorant 
 sailor. He knew that well; and he knew, too, that it 
 would be foolish for him to go, under the circumstances. 
 He had not gone ; but the longing was still there when 
 he had watched the ship pass out of sight behind a 
 point of land and knew that she was over the bar and 
 at sea. He rose to go home, with a tightening at his 
 throat and a mist before his eyes. 
 
 Colonel Catherwood had seen the "Susan" disap- 
 197
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 pear behind that same point of land. He turned to 
 Jack, who was standing beside him. 
 
 "Well," he said, with a long sigh, "that s the last 
 of her for some months, and the last of Mike, I hope. 
 It s a load off Mrs. Loughery s shoulders. It s a load 
 off your mother s, too, I think." 
 
 Jack laughed. "I observe that Nora came down to 
 see him off." 
 
 The colonel s smile put Nora from him. "She ll get 
 over it," he said. " But I have nothing to distract my 
 attention, now." 
 
 Jack laughed again. "Distract your attention from 
 what?" he asked. 
 
 "From my office work, of course," answered his 
 father; "and there is nothing to interfere with your 
 sketching, Jackie. Not that there ever was, for that 
 matter. I don t see how you can do much sketching, 
 though, in this weather, and later. Your fingers will 
 be stiff with the cold." 
 
 "It is n t bad, yet," Jack answered slowly. "I may 
 have to give it up, a little later." 
 
 The colonel laid his hand on Jack s arm. " No, no," 
 he said quickly. " Don t give it up, Jack. There must 
 be some room in the house that you could use for a 
 studio. I ve been thinking but I ll think further. 
 Run along, now, and sketch. Got your sketch-book? 
 There s nothing in the world to do in the office." 
 
 "Thank you, dad," Jack said, smiling. "I can t carry 
 the book in my pocket. I ll just come in and get it." 
 
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 So Jack went off, up the street, to his sketching, 
 where, he himself could not, at the moment, have told ; 
 and the colonel watched his athletic young figure for 
 some minutes. Then he turned, smiling, went into his 
 private office, shut the door, and opened his desk. He 
 sorted over some papers, mechanically. 
 
 "Oh, what s the use?" he muttered. "I ve got to 
 do it." 
 
 Sitting down, he opened the drawer which contained 
 his memoirs, as far as they had gone. He took up the 
 top sheet, read a little; then he drew his pad towards 
 him and began to write. 
 
 Meanwhile Eben, anxious only to escape observa 
 tion, was making his way homeward through back 
 streets. Suddenly he saw Miss Mervin. He would have 
 obeyed his first impulse, which was to run for it, or to 
 slink away ; but he saw that it was too late. Abbie had 
 seen him. She must have seen him unless she had 
 been stricken with sudden blindness, for she almost 
 ran into him as she came around a corner. She was 
 very near ; so near that he heard her low exclamation 
 perfectly well. 
 
 "Oh, Eben!" she cried. "I have have wanted 
 to see you. I I wanted to ask you" - She hesi 
 tated. "Suppose I walk up to the house with you." 
 
 Eben was apt to be dominated by his manner. It was 
 a habit, bred in the bone, it seemed. His manner did 
 not desert him now. His smile expressed just the right 
 amount of deference, just the right degree of intimacy. 
 
 199
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "That would be nice of you, Abbie," he said ; " very 
 kind, indeed. But shan t I go with you, to your house, 
 or wherever you are going? Harriet is away, you 
 know." 
 
 It would have been foolish for Abbie to pretend that 
 she did not know it. Eben, whenever she saw him, 
 appeared to be all that could be desired. It was only 
 when she was not with him that she had doubts ; doubts 
 of him and of herself. She owed it to her conscience 
 or did she? She wished, devoutly, that she knew. 
 
 "I had forgotten," she replied; "I did n t think of 
 it. I will walk up with you, part way, at any rate." 
 
 They walked on together. Abbie was wondering 
 how it would seem to be looking forward to walking 
 with Eben all her life. Somehow, she was not ready 
 for that prospect ; she could not make up her mind to 
 it. If there were only somebody that she could ask! 
 She felt the need of advice, which she did not, usually. 
 She despised advice, and she made no bones of saying 
 so. There was William. His advice was good, and he 
 would be a dispassionate adviser. Possibly she could 
 frame her question so as to disguise its true import. 
 William was not quick to see what he was not meant 
 to see. Abbie thought only the more of him for that. 
 
 Suddenly she realized that she and Eben were walk 
 ing on together and saying nothing. That would not do. 
 
 " Where have you Oh, the Susan sailed this 
 morning, did n t she ? " she said. " Is that where you ve 
 been, to see her off?" 
 
 200
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Yes," answered Eben, slowly. He was very grave; 
 almost solemn. "I I wanted to go in her very 
 much, Abbie. I wished, very greatly, that I might sail 
 in her." It seemed to be a relief to Eben that he had 
 said it. 
 
 Abbie looked up at him in surprise. " Why should n t 
 you have gone, Eben, if you wanted to?" she asked. 
 "The colonel would have been glad, I am sure, to 
 have her take a passenger." 
 
 "Passenger!" Eben cried. "I would n t have gone 
 as a passenger. If I had gone at all, I should have 
 wished to be one of the crew. I have had experience." 
 
 "In what capacity would you have gone, Eben?" 
 she asked gently. "Supposing that you had gone." 
 
 " In any capacity," answered Eben, almost passion 
 ately. It was painful to hear. " In any capacity, from 
 mate to the greenest hand before the mast. I was ten 
 years at sea." 
 
 "Ten years!" said Abbie, wondering. "Ten years, 
 and you 
 
 "I have been many thousand miles," said Eben, 
 simply, smiling mournfully down at her ; " many thou 
 sand miles. They were the happiest years of my life 
 and the most trying." 
 
 "Tell me about it." 
 
 They had turned a corner. Eben glanced up, and 
 his manner changed instantly. "Some day, Abbie. 
 Some day I will. Don t tell anybody," he added hur 
 riedly; "not anybody. Here s Jack." 
 
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 Abbie nodded, partly to Eben and partly to Jack. 
 " Very well, Eben," she said, low. "I won t." 
 
 Jack was with them, his sketch-book under his arm. 
 " Where are you two people going ?" he asked, smiling. 
 "Or is it none of my business?" 
 
 Abbie smiled back at him. " Eben is going home," 
 she said, "and I met him. Now, I think I will let him 
 go and but where are you bound for ? " 
 
 Eben looked grateful for the announcement ; he also 
 looked relieved. 
 
 "I?" said Jack. "Why, I don t know, yet. Wher 
 ever duty calls, or the spirit moves me to go. I had n t 
 decided. Out of the town, somewhere." 
 
 "The sight of a yellow cart would decide for you, 
 perhaps?" Abbie asked mischievously. 
 
 Jack laughed. "It might," he said. "There is no 
 telling. But let me tell you, in strict confidence, that, 
 for comfort in riding, the yellow cart might be improved 
 upon. I like to walk." 
 
 "Well," said Abbie, "just as a protection, I will go 
 a little way with you two squares." 
 
 " Come on. That will be lovely. I wish you would 
 go all the way with me. Won t you come too, Uncle 
 Eben?" 
 
 Eben smiled gravely. "Thank you, Jack; I ll go 
 right home, I think." He nodded to them. "Good- 
 
 by." 
 
 "Some day, soon, Eben," Abbie said. 
 Eben nodded again; he was not noticeably glad. 
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 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Abbie noticed that, and she was surprised to find that 
 she did not care. It only amused her. 
 
 So Jack and Abbie went on gayly, laughing and 
 talking. It would have been impossible for those two 
 to walk soberly. Two squares beyond, Abbie called 
 Jack s attention to the yellow cart in the distance. A 
 girl was driving and she was alone. The cart was too 
 far away for them to be able to recognize the girl, but 
 they could make a pretty good guess. 
 
 "Aha!" cried Jack. "My carriage! It s of no use 
 to try to escape, and I don t know that I really want 
 to. I will go to meet my fate." 
 
 Abbie laughed at him. "Absurd boy!" she said. 
 "Well, go along." 
 
 So Jack went along, and Abbie turned in the oppo 
 site direction. She may have just happened to turn 
 that way ; it may have just happened that the bank was 
 on the next corner. I don t know. It may have just 
 happened that William Ransome was coming out of 
 the bank just as Abbie approached. That probably 
 did just happen. It was great luck, whatever the rea 
 son. Abbie particularly wanted to see William. He 
 was turning away, in the direction in which she was 
 going, and he had not seen her. William never did 
 see what was before his eyes. 
 
 "William," Abbie called softly. 
 
 He heard, and waited for her, smiling. It was only 
 a few steps. Abbie found that William s smile was just 
 the greeting that she had most wanted. She flushed 
 
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 prettily, that rose-tint upon porcelain that made her 
 seem almost beautiful. And the flush grew slowly and, 
 when it had reached perfect proportions, there it stayed. 
 All that Abbie was aware of was that she was suddenly 
 content. 
 
 "I wanted to see you, William," she said, a little out 
 of breath. "I I will go along with you a little way, 
 if you don t mind." 
 
 William smiled again. "Mind?" he said. "Of 
 course I don t mind. At least, I don t object. I may 
 mind, more or less." 
 
 "Is that meant for a pretty speech, William?" she 
 asked. "If it is, I want to thank you. I hear so very 
 few pretty speeches." 
 
 " So that you don t recognize them when you do hear 
 them?" asked William. "You ought to hear them 
 oftener there is every reason why you should. I 
 will undertake to supply the demand, although mine 
 are not all that could be desired." William had not 
 meant to say so much. He was abashed accordingly. 
 " My my last remark was intended for something 
 of the kind. It was n t a very successful attempt." 
 
 Abbie dropped a curtsey as well as she could. 
 "Thank you, William," she said. "I shall hold you to 
 that promise." She was breathing fast. Her hurry, for 
 half-a-dozen steps, perhaps, might have been sufficient 
 to account for that, although Abbie Mervin was sound 
 in wind and limb. She could run much farther than 
 half-a-dozen steps without breathing hard. 
 
 204
 
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 "Don t expect too much," said William, "and I will 
 try not to disappoint you. What " 
 
 "Just let me get my breath," Abbie interrupted 
 hastily. She spoke fast, as though to gain time. " The 
 1 Susan sailed to-day. Eben was down to see her sail ; 
 hiding somewhere, no doubt. He distresses me. He 
 seems She remembered in time and stopped. 
 
 "I know," William returned. "We wish that he 
 did n t that he was n t so retiring. I have faith that 
 he ll get over that, in time. He has improved already." 
 
 " Yes," said Abbie. She went on to say many things : 
 about Eben and Jack and Nan Hedge, anything rather 
 than the thing that was uppermost in her mind, until 
 William stopped before a door. 
 
 " I am sorry, Abbie," he said, " but I have to go in 
 here. Shall you be walking this afternoon?" 
 
 Abbie flushed again. "I think so," she replied, 
 " about as usual. I am bothered, thinking about a diffi 
 culty a girl I know is in. Perhaps you can help me." 
 
 She went on to tell him of her own case, trying to 
 put it so that he would not suspect. It was easy to do 
 that, for William was apt to take things at their face 
 value and to have no suspicion that there was anything 
 withheld. He was so straightforward, himself the 
 dear! 
 
 Abbie made an end of it, at last, rather more out of 
 breath than she had been before. 
 
 William laughed gently. "I m afraid my advice 
 would be no help," he said. " I don t know anything 
 
 205
 
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 about love affairs. The girl will have to settle it with 
 her own conscience. But there s one thing, Abbie," 
 he added earnestly, " that I can say. She should be 
 very sure of the man s feeling, not only what it is now, 
 but what it was in the old days that you speak of. A 
 man s feeling is often, even generally, in such cases as 
 I am thinking of, exaggerated by er by the ladies 
 concerned and by their mothers until the man 
 himself would never know it. I know a good many in 
 stances where a man is reported to have been very much 
 in love with a girl usually reported by her mother or 
 the same as engaged to her, when such a thing never 
 entered the man s head. Naturally, he says nothing. 
 There is no such thing as the same as engaged. Either 
 they are engaged or they are n t. A man, if he is worth 
 having, knows enough to ask for what he wants." 
 
 Abbie seemed to droop a little. "Thank you, Wil 
 liam," she said, in a low voice. "That is worth know 
 ing." She turned and went away, slowly, leaving 
 William wondering whether he could have said any 
 thing to hurt her. 
 
 MacLean saw them. He seemed to see everything 
 that he should n t, MacLean. This tickled him im 
 mensely. He spoke of it, that same afternoon, to Doc 
 tor Olcott. 
 
 " Weelliam Ransome 11 be e en makkin oop to Abbie 
 Mairvin," he said, with an awkward kick of his leg, 
 and a chuckle. "Is he no, doctor?" 
 
 The doctor turned and glared at him, making a deep 
 206
 
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 sound in his throat. "How the devil should I know?" 
 he said. "I don t go about prying into other people s 
 affairs." 
 
 MacLean was in no wise put out by this rebuff. " I m 
 thinkin he ll be," he said. And he muttered some 
 thing about a pair o au d fu s. 
 
 Doctor Olcott did not hear MacLean s mutterings. 
 He only rumbled in his throat again. 
 
 "An there ll be Jack Catherwood an Nan Hedge," 
 continued MacLean. "He ll be " 
 
 The doctor was in a towering rage, MacLean could 
 not see why. "Why shouldn t he?" he growled, 
 almost purple in the face. " Why the devil should n t 
 he? Damn it, MacLean! Very proper. Very proper, 
 indeed." 
 
 He went out and slammed the door; and got into 
 the old buggy and drove the astonished Polar Bear up 
 the street on the run. 
 
 MacLean was glad he was gone.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ABBIE had had it out with her conscience. She had 
 tried to quiet that unruly member, and had failed sig 
 nally. So, taking her courage in both hands and trem 
 bling a little, she had gone in to see Eben. As she went 
 in, she was conscious of wishing, whimsically, that her 
 conscience was less active. She was even aware that she 
 felt a certain reluctance to do what she had made up 
 her mind that she ought to do, but she did not stop to 
 analyze her feelings. It was her duty to take this step, 
 and well one s duty was always more or less dis 
 agreeable, anyway. She did not go so far as to put this 
 thought into words; but the idea was there, inchoate. 
 And it is to be feared that she had not considered her 
 duty to herself and to anybody else who might be af 
 fected by her decision. She did not allow herself even 
 to think that she had a duty to to William. That 
 would have been considered indelicate, at least by Har 
 riet. As for Abbie, herself, she would have been glad 
 if if and that is as far as she went. Her duty to 
 herself, if there was such a thing, was of no mortal con 
 sequence. But her duty to Eben seemed clear. She 
 sighed involuntarily as she went up the familiar steps. 
 
 Eben met her as she went in. He saw that she had 
 a high color and a determined look, as though she had 
 
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 screwed her courage to the sticking- point, whatever that 
 point was. So far as Abbie s courage was concerned, 
 Eben believed that any point would be a sticking- point. 
 So, although Abbie s look was kind, even inclined to be 
 tender, if determined, Eben was a little frightened. 
 
 He did not show any signs of the panic that was over 
 taking him. "Harriet is not back yet," he said gently, 
 after greeting her. Abbie had not thought of greeting. 
 
 "I wanted to see you, Eben," she began. "I am 
 rather glad that Harriet is not back." She spoke with 
 out embarrassment. " It will be easier. Come into the 
 library." 
 
 Eben s panic was perilously near; but still he showed 
 no sign of it. He led the way into the library, and Abbie 
 seated herself on the faded green sofa, at one end. Al 
 though the empty end contained a very plain invita 
 tion, Eben sat in his chair by the window. His face 
 would be in shadow, there. 
 
 " What is it, Abbie ? " he asked quietly. 
 
 Abbie had some difficulty in beginning. There did 
 not seem to be any beginning. She knew that she ought 
 to have been hurt by Eben s taking that chair when he 
 might have sat on the sofa beside her. She knew, too, 
 that she was not hurt, but rather relieved. The know 
 ledge did not make her duty any the easier. 
 
 "Eben," she said, at last, "you remember the old 
 days, before you went away." She spoke quite firmly 
 and easily, now that she had made a beginning. She 
 had made up her mind to it. " I want you to tell me 
 
 209
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 the naked truth. You said, you remember, that you 
 had forgotten nothing or I think you did. Now tell 
 me, is it true with all that that memory implies ? " 
 
 Eben, as he sat there, dreading, he did not know 
 what but that is not true ; he did know what Eben, 
 I say, sitting there and dreading it, had an inspira 
 tion. He would tell the naked truth part of it. It 
 would, at least, head off the thing which he dreaded. 
 
 "Abbie," he said, "I have not forgotten your good 
 ness to me in those days. I should be glad, more than 
 I can tell, if if I had done nothing to forfeit all claim 
 to it now. But, Abbie," he hesitated and seemed over 
 come with shame, "I I have. I m married." He 
 blurted it out at last. "I ve repented, in sackcloth and 
 ashes. My my wife was not is not, for all I know 
 everything that could be " 
 
 " Eben ! " Abbie cried. " How sorry I am ! Oh, how 
 sorry I am ! Can t you can t you do anything about 
 it?" 
 
 Eben laughed shortly. "No," he replied. "I did 
 everything that I could everything, before I left her. 
 That was years ago." 
 
 "Oh!" said Abbie, pityingly. 
 
 "I suppose that I could have got a divorce easily 
 enough," continued Eben, with no evidence of feeling. 
 " I thought of it, but but it would have led to 
 to complications. I made up my mind I did n t want 
 it." 
 
 "You don t want it now?" Abbie asked. 
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 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "No," Eben answered decidedly. "I don t." 
 
 Abbie s face had lost its look of high determination. 
 She seemed the more attractive for having lost it. In 
 her expression, as she looked at Eben, was nothing but 
 sympathy; sympathy and something of the maternal 
 feeling that is latent in all women. It was less latent in 
 Abbie Mervin than in many women. Eben had got him 
 self into trouble and she longed to get him out of it. 
 
 " It s a shame, Eben," she cried ; " a wicked shame I 
 You deserved a good wife." 
 
 Again Eben laughed shortly. " I got what I deserved, 
 I guess." 
 
 " You did n t," said Abbie, hotly. " You shan t say 
 such things of yourself. Why, I should have been 
 glad-" 
 
 " I know, Abbie," Eben said hastily. " I was a fool." 
 
 Abbie blushed and laughed frankly. "Well, there 
 is no reason why I should n t say it, now. I should have 
 been glad, then, Eben, and I think that you would have 
 been." 
 
 "I should have been, Abbie," said Eben, solemnly 
 and very gently. "I said that I was a fool." 
 
 "You were not a fool, Eben," returned Abbie, "but 
 we were both very young." She was looking out of the 
 window at the row of spruces, apparently; but she was 
 not seeing them. The branches were dropping their 
 loads of snow, under the warm sun. "That was a 
 good many years ago," she said, at last, thoughtfully, 
 as if to herself. 
 
 211
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "That was a good many years ago," assented Eben. 
 " There has been time for a good many things to hap 
 pen. They have happened," he added, with another 
 of his short laughs. Abbie did not like to hear them, 
 for there was no mirth in them. 
 
 "Does Harriet know, Eben?" she asked. "Have 
 you told her?" 
 
 Eben shook his head. "Oh, no, Abbie," he said; 
 " and you must n t tell her. You must n t tell anybody. 
 I have told you more than I have told anybody else 
 yet. Some time when I can make up my mind to do 
 it, I will tell them. Not yet, Abbie, please; not yet." 
 
 "Very well, Eben," said Abbie, gently. "I won t. 
 You may rely upon it." 
 
 Miss Mervin went down the steps, a few minutes 
 later, her heart singing. Eben had seemed relieved at 
 her going. That made her happier still. The world 
 seemed very bright to her; a brighter and pleasanter 
 place than it had seemed a half hour before. She was 
 absurdly happy. When she came to think of it, she was 
 a little ashamed that she was so happy. There were 
 a plenty of people who were not and and there did 
 not seem to be any sufficient reason for her happiness. 
 She considered the matter, briefly. 
 
 "Well, I don t care," she said, "I am." 
 
 She said it to herself, quite recklessly. No doubt she 
 felt, somehow, that it was ungenerous in her to be in 
 that exalted state when there was so much unhappi- 
 ness in the world. But happiness was a duty that she 
 
 212
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 owed to others; a duty in which Miss Mervin seldom 
 failed; a duty which was so easy, now, that she had 
 some doubts of its being a duty at all. She considered 
 this, too, briefly. She was just coming to a conclusion 
 upon the matter of duties in general and, in particular, 
 upon the question of her own happiness as a duty, when 
 she saw the Polar Bear coming down the street. 
 
 The Polar Bear was coming at a most unusual rate 
 of speed, for him; with head and tail up and wisps of 
 his long white fur sticking out in every direction, he 
 seemed a very reckless and abandoned animal. Al 
 though the good doctor held the reins, it was nothing 
 but excess of happiness that impelled the Polar Bear 
 to such reckless speed. The doctor would never have 
 asked it of him ; he would never have driven him with 
 such abandon. Was he not coming from Mrs. Houl- 
 ton s ? And had not the doctor confided to Sammy, 
 with many superfluous swear words, the fact that his 
 suit had been successful ? "Hola! We are young again, 
 the doctor and I. Who dares to call me a ramshackle 
 skate, now?" 
 
 Doctor Olcott sat in the sleigh, a smile of mingled 
 surprise and delight upon his ruddy face. When he 
 caught sight of Miss Mervin, staring at him from the 
 sidewalk, he reined in his fiery steed. 
 
 " Whoa, Sammy ! Whoa, there ! Damn it, I want to 
 speak to Abbie Mervin. Don t you understand, 
 Sammy?" 
 
 Apparently, Sammy did understand, for he was al- 
 213
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 ready drawing in to the curb. Having drawn up ex 
 actly opposite the point where Abbie stood, Sammy 
 looked around to assure himself that the doctor was 
 attending to his part of the business. 
 
 " Is it a case of life and death, doctor ? " Abbie asked, 
 smiling. She knew very well that it was not. 
 
 The doctor looked admiringly at Sammy. " Is n t 
 it marvelous?" he said. "I didn t suppose he had 
 it in him. He s lost twenty years in the last fifteen 
 minutes. The damned old skate ! " he added lovingly. 
 
 Sammy looked around, reproachfully, at that, as if 
 to say, " Just wait ! Wait until you re ready to start 
 again! Then I ll show you who s an old skate." 
 
 Abbie laughed. " I would n t call him names, doc 
 tor. He does n t like it." 
 
 The doctor rumbled a little at that. "Been in to 
 Harriet s?" he asked. "Didn t know she d got 
 back." 
 
 " She has n t." She blushed at the question. She 
 could have choked herself for doing it. "Where are 
 you coming from ? It s early for you to be through 
 your rounds, is n t it, at this season?" 
 
 " Not through," growled the doctor. He had not no 
 ticed the blush. " Not through, by a long shot. Have n t 
 begun yet. Been to see Mrs. Houlton." Doctor Olcott 
 smiled sheepishly. "Rebellious patient. But I ll get 
 her where I want her. She 11 have to do as I say. I d 
 like to see her refuse. I ve but you 11 hear it soon 
 enough." 
 
 214
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 " May I congratulate you, doctor, and Mrs. Houl- 
 ton, too?" Abbie asked. 
 
 "For what, Abbie?" challenged the doctor. "Be 
 cause I m going to get her where she can t flout me? 
 Because she 11 have to do what I tell her? Oh, well," 
 seeing Abbie s smile broaden, " perhaps you may. But 
 it s rather new to me yet, Abbie. I have n t had time 
 to get used to it." 
 
 "You deserve happiness, if any man ever did," re 
 turned Abbie. "I wish you as much as you deserve." 
 
 "Thank you, Abbie, thank you," said Doctor OI- 
 cott. " I don t know whether an old fellow like me can 
 make a woman happy. That has been bothering me 
 in the last few minutes. I ll try. I ll try. But I wanted 
 to see you to ask you to go in to see Hitty Tilton. She 
 worries me a little. Got a cold which she can t seem 
 to throw off. It s nothing to be worried about, but 
 Hitty s an old woman, Abbie. Go in to see them both, 
 will you ? " 
 
 " Of course I will. I 11 go this afternoon." 
 
 "Knew you would," growled the doctor. "Knew 
 you would. Good-by. Get along, Sammy." 
 
 Sammy, who had been waiting for this chance, 
 whirled the doctor off in a cloud of flying snow. The 
 doctor, in his surprise, let out a shout, like the great 
 overgrown boy that he was. It is a pity that there are 
 not more overgrown boys in the world. They are stimu 
 lating to others as well as to their Sammys. 
 
 Abbie watched the cloud of snow raised by Sammy s 
 215
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 flying hoofs and by the warped runners of the doctor s 
 old sleigh ; watched it until it disappeared around a cor 
 ner. Then she turned and rambled on. Rambled is 
 the word. She seemed to be going nowhere in particu 
 lar and, in consequence, she soon found herself in the 
 neighborhood of the bank. And she looked up, in 
 no, not in surprise ; she was not surprised that she should 
 be in that neighborhood. It was the most natural thing 
 in the world. She was absorbed in her happiness and 
 and William and, having got that far in her 
 thoughts, she was very much ashamed. She had a high 
 color and her mouth was set firmly as she turned about, 
 resolutely, and set off, as straight as she could go, for 
 the Tiltons . 
 
 But she saw William. They had been accustomed 
 to take a walk together in the late afternoon. It was 
 a practice of not very long standing, and had grown 
 fast, as such practices do. At first, it was purely acci 
 dental. They had happened to meet, after William s 
 day s work at the bank was done, and he, having no 
 thing in particular to do, had walked with her. Abbie 
 had been glad enough of his company. In spite of the 
 fact that she had known him all her life, she was just 
 beginning to find out how much of interest there was 
 in his life, which his quiet manner had not led her to 
 suspect, before his manner and his long devotion to 
 Harriet. For ten years or more, he had as much as been 
 labeled "Taken." Now she had found that it was time 
 for the label to be removed; he had as much as said 
 
 216
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 so. She was discovering him afresh; something that 
 Harriet would not have done could not have done 
 in a lifetime of intimacy. 
 
 Then the meetings had been by a sort of subcon 
 scious design, perhaps, on the part of each of them. 
 If they failed to meet and walk together, either be 
 cause of some unforeseen engagement of Abbie s or 
 because the bank claimed William longer than usual, 
 they were both restless and dissatisfied for the rest of 
 the day. William, when he did get out, at last, was 
 apt to moon about in a morose state until supper-time, 
 not quite knowing what was the matter with him. It 
 is to be supposed that Abbie was similarly affected, 
 for she would generally manage to see him on his 
 way down town the next morning and give or receive 
 an explanation, whichever the case required. 
 
 There was no pretense of accident in their meetings 
 now. William found Abbie walking to and fro on their 
 corner and he smiled contentedly. Abbie waited for 
 him to come up. 
 
 "Abbie," he said, without other greeting, "let s 
 walk out on the old Boston road. It s quiet there." 
 
 She could not help laughing. "As if it were not 
 quiet anywhere in Old Harbor ! And it s almost dark 
 now. All right, William," she added hastily, seeing 
 symptoms of distress on William s part, "I ll go, 
 with pleasure. I have not the least objection in the 
 world. I only wanted to call your attention to the 
 obvious." 
 
 217
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 William laughed too. "No doubt I need it," said 
 he. " I know my failings, some of them. But there s 
 always some light, with snow on the ground as 
 much as we shall need, and the snow s not deep. If we 
 find it hard walking, we can come back." 
 
 " Calling my attention to the obvious, too, William ?" 
 asked Abbie. 
 
 They both laughed again, contentedly, and walked 
 on in silence. They had no need to say anything. 
 
 It was dusk when Abbie spoke again. The street 
 lamps were just being lighted, and they met the belated 
 lamplighter hurrying about with his ladder on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "William," she asked, apropos of nothing in par 
 ticular except her thoughts and of William s, as it 
 chanced, "are you writing anything now?" 
 
 "It is safe to assume," answered William, "that I 
 am always writing something; or I am trying to. It is, 
 like all bad habits, almost impossible to shake off." 
 
 Abbie gave a little cry. "But, W r illiam," she said, 
 " surely you are not trying to shake it off ! " 
 
 "No," replied William, quietly, "I am not trying 
 very hard. But everything that I do falls so far short 
 of my wish of my intention when I planned it 
 that I am tempted. I shan t, Abbie. The habit has 
 me fast." 
 
 " I am glad," she said. " It would be simply w r icked 
 even to think of giving it up. As to your finished sto 
 ries falling short of your desire, that is a hopeful 
 
 218
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 sign, is n t it ? When a man s aim is no higher than his 
 performance, his condition is pretty nearly hopeless. 
 And," she added, with a little laugh, " I have no fault 
 to find with the finished product." 
 
 "Thank you, Abbie," said William. 
 
 "I wonder that you have never tried to get them 
 published," she continued. "Why have n t you?" 
 
 "Too bashful, Abbie; I could n t bear the disap 
 pointment of having my things returned." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" said Abbie. 
 
 She did not pursue the subject further. William 
 seemed curiously reluctant to talk about his writing. 
 She would have liked to ask him what he was doing 
 now, but she knew very well that he would only put 
 her off with an evasive answer, and she did not want 
 to risk the evasion. She wished that she bore such a 
 relation to William that he would feel like talking freely ; 
 that she had the right to ask and, at the thought, 
 she found herself blushing furiously in the darkness. 
 But William could not see. 
 
 "William," she said softly. 
 
 William turned toward her, with a start. " What is 
 it, Abbie?" he asked. 
 
 Abbie laughed. "Thinking about your new story, 
 whatever it is ? " 
 
 "Yes, I was," he confessed. "I beg your pardon. 
 But you gave me a start." 
 
 " Oh, you have my permission to think about your 
 stories as much as you like when you are with me," 
 
 219
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 she said. "I shall not be offended. I m going to give 
 you some material, which you are at liberty to use, 
 properly disguised." 
 
 " It would be well disguised," said William, laugh 
 ing, " if I used it. You would never recognize it. What 
 is it ? " 
 
 "You remember, William," she said, "that you 
 gave me some advice, the other day, for the guidance 
 of a girl that I know ?" William assented. "Well, that 
 girl girl by courtesy was I." 
 
 "I knew that, of course, Abbie," said he, gently. 
 "Did your conscience impel you?" 
 
 " It did. I went to see him this morning." She had 
 taken William s arm. It was quite dark now, except 
 for the faint light from the sky and the snow. They 
 had left the dimly lighted streets behind them and were 
 at the Old Green. They were even able to see the little 
 old house with the sagging roof and the great chimney 
 in the middle of it. 
 
 "Oh," said William; "and Eben what did he 
 say?" 
 
 There was a strange absence of personal interest on 
 William s part. At least, it seemed strange to Abbie. 
 If it were his case, now, and she were listening, waiting 
 to know whether some other woman was to have him 
 or not well, she would not be so uninterested ; her 
 heart would be in her throat. The evening had sud 
 denly grown chill. There was nothing attractive in the 
 dim Old Green lying there under the stars; nothing 
 
 220
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 beautiful in the old post-road that stretched away into 
 the darkness; nothing lovely in the ghostlike outlines 
 of the old house with its sagging roof and its single 
 lighted window. The world was a cold place, in which 
 it was always winter. 
 
 " Of course you knew that it was Eben," she said. 
 "Perhaps you know what he said, too." She spoke 
 with some bitterness. 
 
 William laughed ; looked at her and laughed. " How 
 absurd, Abbie ! " he said. " Do you want me to guess ? " 
 
 "No," she replied. "I will save you the trouble. 
 Eben would not have me. He did n t let me get to the 
 point of asking him, but he made it clear. Eben is a 
 gentleman " 
 
 " Of course he is," William interrupted impatiently. 
 
 "Of course he is," Abbie agreed. "There was a 
 reason why it was impossible. He told me the reason, 
 but I promised not to tell." 
 
 "Was Eben s reason a good one?" asked William. 
 He did not seem to care about knowing what the 
 reason was. To be sure, Abbie had said that she had 
 promised ; but but if he had urged her she was 
 prepared to tell him. In her secret heart, she knew 
 it. He did not urge. 
 
 " It was a good one," answered Abbie ; " excellent. 
 It was the best of reasons." And there she left it. 
 William might draw what inference he pleased. If he 
 inferred that Eben did not care for her, why, he might 
 not be far wrong. " Let s turn around. I find it colder 
 
 221
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 than I thought it would be. When I came out of the 
 Joyces this morning," she added irrelevantly, it 
 seemed what could that have to do with it s being 
 cold ? "I was overjoyed. I had satisfied my con 
 science and and Eben had done what I hoped 
 he would, I found." 
 
 William laughed again. "Aren t you overjoyed 
 now?" asked William. But he did not speak softly, 
 as he might have done if if 
 
 "No," she said, "I am not. I must turn around 
 here, William." 
 
 William was puzzled. " Why, Abbie, what s got into 
 you ? Just as we ve got to the beginning of our walk ! 
 There s light enough." 
 
 "Well, there s light enough if this is all the light you 
 want. I like more light. And the cold s got into me, 
 I guess." 
 
 William sighed, but he turned around obediently. 
 He tried to talk; but Abbie answered him in mono 
 syllables or not at all. They were walking faster than 
 when they came. He gave up trying, soon, and they 
 walked on in silence. 
 
 Abbie was busied with her own thoughts. They were 
 not altogether pleasant ones. She had realized, with 
 a shock, what was the reason of the sudden change in 
 her feelings and why she had been so absurdly happy 
 that morning. She knew now, she could not dis 
 guise it, that she had given William an opportunity, 
 a great opportunity, and he had not only failed to avail 
 
 222
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 himself of it, but he did not even know that it had been 
 given. No man, she thought bitterly, could fail to 
 be aware of a chance like that, if he wanted it. She 
 may have been wrong in that. William Ransome was 
 William Ransome. And she had the feeling that she 
 had been disloyal to Harriet. The fact that William s 
 attitude towards Harriet was pretty well understood, 
 at least, by William and by her, had nothing to do with 
 the matter. His attitude was beginning to be under 
 stood by Harriet herself. Poor Harriet! 
 
 At her own gate, Abbie bade William good-night, 
 and would have left him rather abruptly ; but he was 
 solicitous. 
 
 "I hope you have n t caught cold, Abbie," he said 
 anxiously. "I don t see how you could have, but 
 I don t see how I can account for it in any other 
 way." 
 
 " You don t have to account for it, William," Abbie 
 replied indifferently. "Not that I know what it is." 
 She repented instantly. "It s nothing, William. I ve 
 had rather a trying day, I suppose. Being refused, 
 virtually refused, by" she had almost said two men, 
 but she caught herself in time " by Eben is enough, 
 one would think." 
 
 " I am very sorry," said William, slowly, " that you 
 should have thought you had to go through with such 
 an experience. But but I gathered that you did not 
 regret the result. You would hardly have told me of it, 
 if you did." 
 
 223
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Abbie smiled a very little. " No, no, I don t regret 
 it. I am glad, I think. Good-night, William." 
 
 "We shall have our walk, to-morrow?" asked Wil 
 liam, still somewhat anxiously. 
 
 Abbie sighed. "Oh, I suppose so," she answered, 
 turning away. "Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night, Abbie," said William. He watched 
 her as she went slowly up the walk. Then he turned 
 away, too, with a shrug of his shoulders. " Well," he 
 remarked to himself and to the night in general, "I 
 don t understand em." 
 
 There s many another man, William, has said the 
 same thing.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 WILLIAM RANSOME did not find that he understood 
 em any better as the winter went on, although he 
 made many an honest effort to that end. But he had 
 reached the stage of " taking notice." Abbie Mervin 
 was straightforward and truthful, both in word and 
 in act; but she was a woman, and she backed and 
 filled, as the best of women will, just enough to keep 
 William guessing. And William kept guessing, in 
 spite of himself, and found it more and more difficult 
 to write. That bothered him, too. He needed a free 
 mind for that, and a free mind was just what he could 
 not have, under the circumstances. 
 
 If it had been the case of another man, now, William 
 would have been able to recognize the symptoms right 
 away. If, for instance, it had been Jack Catherwood 
 who was being led on by Nan Hedge, William would 
 have watched the pretty game with amusement. In 
 deed, he did watch that game with amusement; an 
 amusement which was shared, apparently, by both of 
 the players and by all their friends. It would be more 
 truthful, perhaps, to say that all of Jack s friends were 
 amused, for it was by no means certain that Nan had 
 any. But Nan plied all her arts transparently, and 
 Jack knew them for arts and smiled at them. The fact 
 
 225
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 that they were transparent was no small part of their 
 attractiveness ; which, it is to be supposed, Nan knew 
 very well. 
 
 At any rate, however that may be, Nan devoted her 
 self, heart and soul, to the task. Jack, who was young 
 enough to like to play the game for the game s sake, 
 devoted himself to it with equal ardor, so far as any 
 one could see. It was to be hoped that Nan was not 
 practicing other arts that were not transparent at all. 
 Perhaps Nan was not practicing arts ; it is conceivable 
 that she was merely following her impulses as truly as 
 Abbie was. But all that any one in Old Harbor knew 
 of her history and antecedents was not in favor of that 
 hypothesis. It may be objected that nobody in Old 
 Harbor knew anything of Nan s history. That fact 
 would not have affected their opinion. It never did, 
 in any case that I ever heard of. 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood, at least, was not inclined to take 
 the charitable view. Knowing that Jack went to see 
 Nan regularly now, and twice a week at that, Jack 
 made no secret of it, she became more and more 
 worried. It was of no use to remonstrate with Jack; 
 he only laughed at her fears, which were but very 
 thinly veiled. The colonel was nearly as bad. She had 
 spoken to him about it several times, without result. 
 She tried it again, one night toward the end of Feb 
 ruary. They had gone upstairs, after waiting for Jack. 
 Jack had not been late ; he never was late. One would 
 have thought that Mrs. Catherwood could just as well 
 
 226
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 have chosen another time for her communication. But, 
 curiously enough, she was apt to choose bedtime for the 
 discussion of any matter that worried her, unconscious, 
 apparently, that she could not have chosen a worse 
 time. If the matter in question worried the colonel, 
 he might not be able to sleep. A man does not want 
 to have to think of things that may worry him, when 
 he is about to go to bed. He wants to go to sleep; to 
 have his mind sponged clean of everything that may, 
 by any chance, interfere with his accomplishment of 
 that desired end as quickly as possible. It will be 
 time enough to consider such things in the morning, 
 when his brain is fresh and cleared for action. But 
 that is just the trouble. The thing that gives his wife 
 so much concern at night may not trouble her spirit 
 at all in the morning. She must get it off her mind 
 while it worries her. 
 
 "Frank," began Mrs. Catherwood, "I wish that 
 Jack did n t go to that Hedge girl s so often." 
 
 The colonel did very little worrying; none at all 
 about Jack. He did not mind her speaking of it. 
 
 "Well, Polly, dear," he replied, "if it bothers you, 
 I wish he did n t." He removed his necktie in his usual 
 leisurely fashion, folded it carefully, and laid it on his 
 bureau. 
 
 "It does bother me," she said. "You know," she 
 added, after a pause, during which the colonel had said 
 nothing at all, "she sent him a perfectly absurd valen 
 tine a few days ago. At least, I am sure she sent it." 
 
 227
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Why are you sure?" the colonel asked. 
 
 "There is no one else who would get anything so 
 expensive for a valentine. Of course it was absolutely 
 useless." 
 
 The colonel laughed. "Harmless play," he re 
 marked serenely. "I don t know of anybody who is 
 better able to spend money for expensive and useless 
 things than that Hedge girl." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Catherwood, smiling and sighing 
 at once, " it may be harmless, but it does n t strike 
 me so." 
 
 "Polly, dear," observed the colonel, "it occurs to 
 me to ask whether you know Miss Nan Hedge." 
 
 "No, I don t," she confessed. "Do you?" 
 
 The colonel laughed again. " No," he said. " I have 
 to acknowledge that I have neglected what may appear 
 to be an obvious duty towards my prospective daughter- 
 in-law." 
 
 "Don t make a joke of it, Frank, It is n t a joke." 
 
 "Well, I won t. But, Polly, don t you think that 
 you might, at least, scrape up a little personal acquaint 
 ance with her before you condemn her utterly ? " 
 
 " Frank, why do you take sides with her ? Has she 
 bewitched you, too?" 
 
 The corners of the colonel s mouth were twitching. 
 " No, she has not. I would not be worth her while, of 
 course," he answered gently. "And I am not taking 
 sides with her. But fairness, plain fairness, seems to 
 require that you should know her before passing judg- 
 
 228
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 ment on her. You are undermining our free institu 
 tions, Polly, if you don t. A man is entitled to be heard 
 in his own defense, and shall a woman have less ? 
 Never!" The colonel waved a sock. " She is even en 
 titled, by one of the fundamentals of our free institu 
 tions, to a trial by a jury of her peers; which, in this 
 case, would necessarily consist of twelve women. But," 
 he continued reflectively, " if I were she, I should pray 
 to be delivered from the judgment of twelve women. 
 I am not talking for publication," he added hastily. 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood laughed. "I should think not. 
 I don t know what the women would do to you." 
 
 "Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart," the 
 colonel remarked. 
 
 " That would n t be a circumstance to it," said Mrs. 
 Catherwood. "I should probably have to join them, 
 for the sake of my principles. You can be very absurd, 
 Frank. But I ll go and call on Nan Hedge within a 
 few days, although that is just what she wants, likely 
 enough. It will seem like stamping the affair with my 
 approval. But I ll go." 
 
 " If you are of the same opinion still," said the colo 
 nel," I may have a scheme that will relieve your mind. 
 My scheme is not worked out yet, or I would unfold it 
 to you."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 NAN HEDGE was driving in a very smart Russian 
 sledge. She was driving at a breakneck speed, to the 
 great discomfort and surprise of her horse, and she 
 was alone, to MacLean s great surprise, apparently. 
 He stood in his door, as she passed ; not an unusual 
 place for him, with business as slack as it was. 
 
 "Ho, ho," he cried softly, to himself. "She canna 
 find him. She ll be in an ill temper, na doubt." 
 
 Nan was in an ill temper, if one could judge by the 
 little that could be seen of the face under her veil. But 
 she did not stop for MacLean ; she did not stop for 
 anything. If she was looking for him, whoever "he" 
 was, it was dollars to buttons that she would find him 
 before she got through. Nan was not easily turned 
 aside from her purpose, and it was apparent to the 
 most casual observer that she had a purpose. She 
 turned into the road that led to the old shipyard, still 
 at the same reckless speed. There was no speed limit 
 yet placed upon horses in Old Harbor; indeed, there 
 was no speed limit on anything, for motor-cars had not 
 penetrated its seclusion. She came in sight of the ship 
 yard and pulled the wheezing horse to a walk, while 
 she carefully scanned its whiteness. The old scaffold 
 ing loomed more skeleton-like than ever. 
 
 230
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Not there," she murmured. "Well, get up!" She 
 emphasized the command with a swish of the whip. 
 
 The horse was startled, as any well-brought-up horse 
 would have been. He jumped, snapping Nan hard 
 against the back of the sledge, and began to run. 
 
 Nan was not frightened. "Oh, no, you don t," she 
 said. "Oh, no." She got a good hold of the reins, 
 and she sawed him down to a trot. "There! Durn 
 you!" 
 
 She turned him into a cross-road and came out at the 
 Old Green; then went on, past Mrs. Loughery s, on 
 the old stage-road. Suddenly she pulled the horse up 
 short and gave a low laugh of satisfaction. It was a 
 pleasant laugh to hear. I should have been glad, I 
 am sure, to hear it and to know that it was for me. 
 There is no reason to think that the young man who 
 was seated on a big stone on the sunny side of the 
 wall was any less glad than I should have been. It 
 was a very ancient stone wall, overgrown with grass 
 to its very top, its chinks all filled with sods that had, 
 no doubt, been formed from the dust of more than 
 two hundred years. For it was on the line of the 
 old stages; and two express stages a day, each way, 
 can raise a deal of dust, even from the hard back of 
 that old road. There was snow on the old wall, now, 
 in patches, and the stones peeped through, here and 
 there. The young man had been sketching, and the 
 wall made a good foreground. He looked up at the 
 sudden stopping of the bells and at that low laugh. 
 
 231
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Well, Jack!" Nan said. She was leaning forward 
 in the sledge and smiling. "Well, Jack," she said 
 again. 
 
 "Why, Nan!" he exclaimed. "Just wait until I 
 get my things together." He began to gather up his 
 things and stuff them into his pockets. 
 
 "I ve been all over the township, looking for you, 
 Jack," said Nan, then. "I ve no doubt that I ve af 
 forded amusement enough for all the MacLeans in the 
 country. But I don t care if I have. Do you?" she 
 added ; and she looked away, as if embarrassed. Nan 
 was not embarrassed not in the least, but she knew 
 that she ought to seem so. 
 
 Jack laughed. "I don t if you don t, Nan," he an 
 swered. She threw back the robe and made room for 
 him beside her. Jack noticed the steaming horse. 
 "What s the matter with your horse?" 
 
 Nan laughed shortly. " Oh, he started to run," she 
 said, " but he changed his mind. Naturally, he s rather 
 heated." 
 
 " Run away with you, Nan ? " asked Jack, concerned. 
 As may be guessed, his concern pleased her mightily. 
 
 "That seemed to be his idea," she replied. "I ll 
 let him walk, going back, until he s cooled off. It 
 won t hurt him." 
 
 " Yes," said Jack, "let him walk, by all means. I 
 would n t have any harm come to him." 
 
 They both laughed at Jack s speech, although it is 
 difficult to see what there was in it to laugh at. The 
 
 232
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 sledge was turned around carefully, Nan did not 
 wish to break her harness or her shafts, just then, 
 and the horse, still steaming, began to walk slowly 
 toward town. As they went, they talked in low voices, 
 and smiled and joked about things that were of no 
 manner of interest in the world, even to each other. 
 They might as well have said that it was a beautiful 
 day, over and over. Nobody would have disputed it. 
 Nobody would have disputed it if they had said that it 
 was cold and raw and chilly and generally miserable 
 which it was not. What they said was not important, 
 but the fact that they were saying it to each other was 
 important; so was their manner of saying it. At last, 
 Nan spoke of the sketching and asked, jokingly, when 
 Jack meant to begin his study in Paris. 
 
 Jack did not joke. "I wish I could, Nan," he said, 
 sighing. "I wish I could. But I can t ; at least, not yet." 
 He smiled rather wistfully. " Did you mean to insin 
 uate that I need the study that my sketches showed 
 it? I flattered myself that they were rather good." 
 
 "I meant," Nan replied, "as you know, that they 
 are so good that it seems a pity you should n t go as 
 far as you can." 
 
 Jack flushed. "Thank you, Nan." 
 
 Nan was leaning out, looking down at the runner. 
 "I don t want you to go away to Paris, Jack," she 
 cried softly. 
 
 "Thank you for that, too, Nan," said Jack. 
 Nan looked up quickly and laughed. After that 
 233
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 they said little, and Jack wanted to get out at a certain 
 corner, for he said that he had to go to the office. 
 
 " A lot of need there is for you to be at the office ! " 
 Nan cried impatiently. "But I ll leave you at your 
 corner and go in to see Miss Hitty and Miss Susie. 
 Shall I give them your love ?" As Nan asked the ques 
 tion, there was a mischievous twinkle in the eyes 
 behind the veil, but her lips did not smile. 
 
 Jack smiled, though. " If you think it best, Nan," 
 he said. 
 
 The Tilton girls occupied two spacious rooms in 
 another old square house. Every house in Old Harbor 
 that made any pretensions to dignity was square, and 
 this one, in addition, was built of old English bricks. 
 To be sure, the Tiltons had to go up two flights of stairs 
 before getting to their rooms, and going upstairs was 
 not so easy for them as it had been ; but the stairs were 
 easy and wide, and had a fine rail of mahogany, well 
 polished by much use. After all, there was some ad 
 vantage in having rooms at the top of the house. They 
 were low-ceiled, of course, as all rooms of their period 
 were, above the second floor; but their situation, in 
 the front of the house, with no stairs going up from the 
 hall, gave them an atmosphere of privacy and seclu 
 sion which the two old ladies valued highly. 
 
 The Tilton girls were sitting at the windows of one 
 of their rooms. To be exact, it was Miss Susie s room ; 
 but the bed and the bureau and the washstand were 
 tucked out of sight behind screens toward the back. 
 
 234
 
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 It was a somewhat difficult matter to tuck all that fur 
 niture out of sight, for the pieces were not small. The 
 bed, indeed, utterly refused to be tucked, for it was an 
 ancient and massive four-poster, with carved posts and 
 a canopy. And it looked out from behind its futile 
 screens in fine scorn. But the room was not small, 
 either, and the rest of the bedroom furniture was not 
 obtrusive. There was enough, of a different sort, in 
 front of it to distract the eye and forbid its seeing too 
 far ; for the front of the room was furnished as a par 
 lor or a sitting-room or a sewing-room, according to the 
 taste and preference of the observer. 
 
 There were sewing-tables and a writing-table and a 
 centre-table and a fine old chess-table and a large book 
 case filled with books and other tables, wherever room 
 could be found for them, against the wall ; indeed, there 
 were tables where one would think it impossible to find 
 room. They supplemented the screens, in their office 
 of screening, most excellently; but, with the chairs, 
 they filled the room so completely that navigation 
 among the different pieces of furniture was more than 
 a little difficult. Miss Susie, with her near-sighted eyes, 
 and her glasses that were forever falling off and being 
 replaced, was continually upsetting some one of the 
 more delicate pieces and bruising herself against those 
 which refused to give way before her. She was safest, 
 and the furniture was safest, when she was sitting still. 
 Therefore, she sat still except when it was absolutely 
 necessary for her to move about. 
 
 235
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 She was sitting still now, her glasses stuck on her 
 nose at a precarious angle, darning her stockings. Miss 
 Susie did not need to darn, now, but darning had be 
 come a habit that she found it impossible to get out 
 of; and she put in most beautiful and artistic darns, so 
 that it would have seemed a pity to give up a thing that 
 she did so well. Miss Hitty was not darning her stock 
 ings. She found no trouble in getting rid of a habit 
 which she hated. Miss Hitty was doing nothing at all, 
 apparently, except to look out of her window. She read 
 a little, occasionally, in some one of the books from the 
 big bookcase, but she was not fond of reading. The 
 habit that Miss Hitty could not easily shake off was 
 that of managing ; nearly all her life she had had to 
 manage to make almost nothing go, at least, a little 
 way to stretch it very thin. She could not quite get 
 rid of this habit. That is why she was looking out of 
 the window, although the connection between the two 
 may not be obvious. 
 
 "There s Nan Hedge," said Miss Hitty, without 
 moving anything more than her lips. " She seems to 
 be coming here." 
 
 Miss Susie s glasses immediately fell off. "Oh, sister, 
 where?" she asked eagerly. She fumbled for the glasses, 
 and put them on again at a more precarious angle than 
 before. She always did that when she was the least 
 bit excited. Miss Susie was easily excited. She had to 
 hold the glasses in place while she looked. " That must 
 be her new Russian sledge that she told us about." 
 
 236
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Miss Hitty made no audible reply. 
 
 " I wonder, sister," said Miss Susie again, " if it can 
 be. It does n t look at all like the pictures throwing 
 the children to the wolves, you know." Miss Susie 
 shuddered. "I never could understand their doing 
 a thing like that even peasants, although peasants 
 must have a low order of intelligence. It is in one of 
 our books. I forget which one." 
 
 " You must n t believe all that you read, Susie," 
 replied Miss Hitty, dismissing the subject. " There s 
 Nan coming in now." 
 
 "Oh, sister!" cried Miss Susie. "Help me to put 
 away this darning. I don t like to have anybody find 
 me with with stockings." 
 
 " It s better than to find you without stockings," 
 said Miss Hitty. 
 
 Miss Susie was fumbling again fumbling with a 
 drawer of the sewing-table. 
 
 "Oh, sister I" Miss Susie blushed faintly. She had 
 got the drawer of the sewing- table open, and she hastily 
 crammed the stockings into it so that it would not shut. 
 Miss Susie did not notice that. Her glasses had fallen 
 off again, of course. 
 
 She hurried out into the hall, nearly upsetting a low 
 table, and bumping into another one that she could 
 not upset. 
 
 "Oh dear!" she murmured. "I know I shall be 
 black and blue. But I am black and blue now, from 
 head to foot." 
 
 237
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Miss Hitty smiled slightly, but made no remark. 
 Miss Susie, who was leaning over the baluster rail, 
 heard the front door open and shut again. 
 
 "Nan!" she called softly. "Come right up, dear, 
 will you ? " 
 
 "Yes, Miss Susie," Nan answered. "I m coming." 
 And she ran up the two flights. I am not sure that 
 she did not begin the second flight two steps at a 
 time. 
 
 Miss Susie was not sure, either. "Oh, Nan," she 
 said, "you did n t come up two steps at once!" 
 
 Nan laughed. "Would it shock you terribly?" 
 
 Miss Susie sighed. " It would be very nice to be able 
 to do that," she said. " I don t know whether I should 
 have the the courage to do it ; but I would like to 
 have the energy." 
 
 Nan laughed again and kissed her on the cheek. " Is 
 Miss Hitty in, too?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, she s in," Miss Kitty s voice called, with a 
 touch of asperity. The asperity meant nothing ; nothing 
 at all, except that Miss Hitty was old and felt it and 
 was oppressed by her bodily ills. " Come in here, Nancy 
 Hedge, where I can see you." 
 
 Nan came in, accordingly, with Miss Susie, whom 
 she steered around tables and chairs to her seat. Then 
 she went to Miss Hitty and kissed her on both cheeks. 
 Miss Susie had set her glasses on, temporarily, and saw 
 it. The glasses fell off at once and she gasped at the 
 sight. 
 
 238
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Nan laughed. "You don t mind, do you, Miss 
 Hitty?" 
 
 Miss Hitty smiled grimly. " No," she said, " I don t 
 mind. It would n t make any difference if I did. You 11 
 always have your way, Nancy, wherever you go." 
 
 "To tell the strict truth," continued Nan, "you 
 rather liked it." 
 
 Miss Kitty s lips were pressed together in a grimmer 
 way than ever. "To tell the strict truth," she replied, 
 "I rather liked it." There was a hint of affection in 
 her eyes as she looked at Nan. "Do you find many, 
 Nancy, that don t like it?" 
 
 "Well," said Nan, "I have n t tried them all." 
 
 Miss Hitty laughed, to Miss Susie s scandalized 
 surprise. 
 
 From all of which it appeared that Nan had tried 
 to cultivate the acquaintance of the Tiltons with some 
 measure of success. She usually did succeed in any 
 thing that was of sufficient interest to induce her to put 
 her heart into it. Whether she was playing a part or not, 
 of course I do not know. Nan was an excellent actress. 
 
 The half -open drawer of the sewing-table caught her 
 eye, with its bunch of stockings caught in it. Miss 
 Hitty saw. 
 
 "Pull them out, Nancy," she said maliciously. 
 " Susie darns very well." 
 
 " Oh, sister, no ! " cried Miss Susie, half starting up. 
 
 Miss Hitty purposely misunderstood. " Yes, you do, 
 Susie. Pull them out, Nancy." 
 
 239
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Nan glanced at Miss Susie s distressed face. "Not 
 if Miss Susie does n t want me to. But I should like 
 to see them." 
 
 Miss Susie was the color of a rose. "Take them, if 
 you like, Nan, dear," she said. "I I really have no 
 objection if if you will pardon he liberty." She 
 got redder than ever. 
 
 So Nan drew forth the stockings and admired the 
 beautiful work. Then Miss Susie got up. 
 
 "If I can get around without knocking over the 
 things, I ll make some tea," she said. "You can wait, 
 Nan?" 
 
 " Oh, don t now," cried Nan. " I want to take 
 you a little way in my sledge, first one at a time. 
 Then we 11 have our tea. I 11 make it myself. Which 
 of you will go first?" 
 
 Miss Susie s face was positively beaming with hap 
 piness. " Oh," she cried softly, " how perfectly lovely ! 
 I ve never been in a Russian sledge. Tell me, Nan, is 
 it a real Russian sledge ? Because it is n t exactly like 
 a picture we have peasants throwing their children 
 to the wolves, I think it was called. The sledge was pur 
 sued by a herd of wolves, you know. There are three 
 horses, and they are just flying. It is rather awful." 
 
 Nan laughed. " I should think so," she said. " Hor 
 rid ! I can t imagine it. Very likely the wolves would 
 have preferred one of the horses. My sledge was made 
 in New York, but they call it Russian. Now, which 
 of you will go first?" 
 
 240
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Take Hitty first," said Miss Susie. 
 
 Miss Hitty had been coughing a little, now and then ; 
 a gentle little cough, which she tried not to make evi 
 dent. But it was evident. 
 
 " No," she said decidedly. " Take Susie. I am not 
 sure that I ought to go at all. 
 
 Nan protested that the sunshine was bright and 
 warm. It could not hurt her, surely, to go just a little 
 way. 
 
 "Well, then," said Miss Hitty, with another of her 
 grim smiles, "I ll go when Susie gets back. I don t 
 mean to die but once." 
 
 So Miss Susie got ready and fluttered out to the 
 sledge, and Nan drove her out upon the old pike a little 
 way, and then home. And Miss Hitty was ready and 
 waiting, and Nan wrapped her well in the robe and 
 she settled back with a sigh of content. Nan drove 
 her down the street on which were the Catherwoods 
 and the Joyces and the old Tilton place. Miss Kitty s 
 gaze lingered on the old place. 
 
 " I wish, Miss Hitty," said Nan, impulsively, " that 
 you and Miss Susie would come back here and live 
 with me." 
 
 Miss Hitty looked at her in amazement, while two 
 tears slowly gathered and rolled down the withered 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Thank you, Nancy, dear," she said. It was the 
 first time she had ever called Nan "dear." "Thank 
 you. It would be nice. But it is n t best." She spoke 
 
 241
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 more gently than was her habit, and there was no touch 
 of asperity in her voice. 
 
 " I 11 get you yet," Nan replied almost gayly. " You 
 remember, you said that I always get my own way." 
 
 "Not in this; but it is kind in you to think of it." 
 
 So Nan said no more about it. We may suppose that 
 she was not sorry that Miss Joyce and Mrs. Gather- 
 wood saw Miss Hitty driving with her. They were sur 
 prised to the degree that they almost forgot to bow. 
 
 The drive was a very short one, for Nan would run 
 no risks. At Miss Hitty s door, she helped her out. 
 
 "Have you enjoyed it?" she asked. "You don t 
 think it has hurt you, do you ?" 
 
 "My dear," answered Miss Hitty, "I don t know 
 whether it has hurt me or not. And I don t care. I have 
 enjoyed it. Now, come in and have some tea. I guess 
 Susie s got it all ready." 
 
 Nan went. 
 
 If only MacLean had seen them! It would have 
 been a proper bit of gossip.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 CONTRARY to Abbie Mervin s expectations, al 
 though, to tell the truth, she thought very little about 
 it, Eben did not renew his confidence. Perhaps, 
 being full of her own affairs, in which Eben had no 
 part, she gave him no chance to do so. Perhaps, too, 
 Eben saw exactly how it was with her. It was not that 
 she was unwilling, but she simply did not think of it. 
 Eben knew very well why. He was no fool. He would 
 never force confidences upon her; he would, rather, 
 shrink from them at all. So it happened that, as the 
 winter went on, he became more and more lonely and 
 drew more and more into himself. One would think 
 that would be difficult. It certainly was hard for Eben. 
 It seemed to be impossible to know him well. William 
 had tried to renew their old friendship ; but their friend 
 ship had never been very close, for five years differ 
 ence in age makes a close friendship very unlikely when 
 either is under twenty. His attempt had not been a 
 success, and he had given it up. Others had tried, and 
 had given it up. Eben s manner, because of its very 
 perfectness, had been an impassable wall. They could 
 not get over it, and they could not see what lay on the 
 other side. 
 
 The only man who could be called a friend of Eben s 
 was Heywood, Colonel Catherwood s old deaf clerk. 
 
 243
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 They took long walks together, occasionally, in silence 
 and tranquillity. Heywood would say something, in 
 the voice which, in itself, was restful in its slowness as 
 well as in its tones, and Eben would nod and smile ; or 
 Eben would point at something, and Heywood would 
 nod, in his turn, or make a reply in the same low, even 
 voice, characteristic of the very deaf. That constituted 
 their conversation. It was always about unimportant 
 things, unexciting things, such as a pine tree loaded 
 with snow, or the track of a rabbit or a squirrel or a fox, 
 or a quiet landscape with a wide prospect, or the light 
 of the setting sun upon the ice in the harbor. Those 
 were the things which seemed to appeal to Heywood. 
 It would be absurd to imagine making confidences 
 to him. As well shout them from the housetop. 
 
 Harriet was very kind; kinder than she had been 
 before she went away. Her vacation, which was to be 
 of two or three days only, had drawn out into three 
 weeks, and she had come home rested and refreshed. 
 She did not say where she had been. Eben did not 
 ask, except in a perfunctory w r ay. Indeed, he had not 
 missed her, except to feel dimly grateful for the lack 
 of her supervision. Constance had got into the way of 
 coming over, during Harriet s absence, to cheer Uncle 
 Eben up. She was of a lively disposition, and seemed 
 irresponsible, and that was just the sort of person Eben 
 wanted. She did cheer him up, and, gradually, he got 
 into the habit of talking freely to her ; not so freely as 
 to be dangerous, but more freely than to anybody else. 
 
 244
 
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 Then Harriet had come back and Conny had come 
 over less often. Eben felt it. 
 
 Harriet was very kind, but there was nothing in her 
 kindness or in her personality to invite confidence of 
 things that were well disagreeable, and Eben 
 found his burden of secrecy almost more than he could 
 bear. He brooded upon it. At last, one sloppy day in 
 March, he set out for Doctor Olcott s. 
 
 He had no definite intention ; he did not know what 
 he should do when he got there. That would depend 
 much on circumstances; but he hoped that the doctor 
 would be at home and inclined to to well, to let 
 him do whatever it occurred to him to do. 
 
 He was just about to ring when he heard the doctor s 
 hearty laugh come from the direction of the barn. That 
 meant, to Eben, only that the doctor was not in his 
 study and that he was not alone. Indeed, he had been 
 foolish to hope to find him alone, for the doctor had lost 
 no time in getting married. 
 
 So Eben, with a sinking heart, went to the barn. As 
 he turned the corner, he saw Willie Houlton standing 
 on his hands against the side of that structure, and 
 Doctor Olcott standing admiringly before him not 
 on his hands. The sun was shining warmly in at the 
 barn door, and its warmth had cleared the snow from 
 a wide stretch of gravel drive in front of the barn. In 
 the doorway, little Jimmy Houlton was essaying the 
 same feat as his brother, without much success. It 
 was at one of his efforts that the doctor had laughed. 
 
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 Doctor Olcott turned at the sound of steps. " Hello, 
 Eben!" he cried. "You re just in time for the per 
 formance. Give us another, Willie." For Willie had 
 come down upon his feet at sight of Eben. 
 
 A man came in at the gate, grinning. " Doctor," he 
 said, " she wants you again." 
 
 " Confound the woman ! " exclaimed the doctor. 
 " She does, does she ? Think she 11 live till I get there ? " 
 The man only grinned the wider. "Well, I ll come. 
 It s Miss Wetherbee, Eben." 
 
 Eben, feeling rather blue and discouraged, left at 
 once and walked in the general direction of home. He 
 did not feel that he wanted to go there, right away, but 
 he did not know what else to do, and he walked aim 
 lessly, with his eyes fixed upon the sidewalk just before 
 his feet. Suddenly there was a quick rustle and some 
 body took his arm. 
 
 " Where are you going, Uncle Eben ? " said a cheery 
 voice. 
 
 Eben smiled at the bright young face that was nearly 
 on a level with his own. Constance was going to be 
 a tall girl. It was getting to be the fashion for girls to 
 be tall, it seemed. 
 
 "I am glad to see you, Conny." 
 
 " Are you ? " she asked. " I thought, from your looks, 
 that you were never going to be glad again. That would 
 be a pity, when spring is just coming. Will you come 
 for a walk with me ? " 
 
 It was just what Eben wanted ; and they turned into 
 246
 
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 a road that led out into the country. It took but a few 
 minutes to get into the country from any part of Old 
 Harbor. 
 
 " Now, tell me, Uncle Eben, what you Avere thinking 
 about that made you so low in your mind," said Con 
 stance, when they had got away from the houses ; " that 
 is, if you like. Not if you don t." 
 
 Eben looked at her for a moment without speaking. 
 "Well, Conny," he replied slowly, "I don t know that 
 there is any reason why I should n t tell you. I was 
 thinking of a man I met in the course of my knocking 
 about the world. I have knocked about a good deal." 
 
 He stopped, and seemed to have forgotten her pre 
 sence. She waited until she began to be afraid that he 
 did not mean to say more. 
 
 " I suppose you have, Uncle Eben," she said gently. 
 "You must have seen a good deal." 
 
 He started. "I beg your pardon, Conny. I was 
 forgetting. Yes, I have seen a good deal, of a sort. 
 Well, this man, that I spoke of, came out of a hospital 
 one day. It was just about this time of year. He had 
 had an accident, and he had lost his place I should 
 say, his job in consequence. He had just one dol 
 lar in his pocket, he was not yet strong, and he must 
 make that dollar last until he found something that he 
 could do. So he looked about, all that day, for some 
 thing to do, and he did not find it. He tramped the 
 streets in just such slush as this. He felt tired and sick 
 and discouraged. He had spent a part of his dollar 
 
 247
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 for food, and he must spend some more of it for lodg 
 ing. He knew that it could n t last much over the sec 
 ond night, and he expected to be really sick by that 
 time." 
 
 " The poor man ! " murmured Constance. 
 
 "Yes, the poor man," returned Eben. "The situa 
 tion is not a new one. The only thing about it that 
 made it especially hard was that he was not used to 
 such things. His people were gentlefolk, and he had 
 been well brought up. Well, he spent the next day in 
 the same way, and managed to save fifteen cents for a 
 lodging. On the second morning he went out without 
 a cent in his pockets. He could n t get any breakfast, 
 of course, without money. He tramped the streets 
 again until noon, looking for work. It began to rain ; 
 a cold rain, that soon soaked him through. He had 
 nowhere to go and he felt hardly able to stand, any 
 way. So he gave it up and went down on one of the 
 wharves." 
 
 "What for, Uncle Eben?" asked Constance, mysti 
 fied. "Did he expect to find work there?" 
 
 " He meant to drown himself, Conny, if he had the 
 chance. He told me that he felt as if it would be 
 nothing but a relief. He was sick and hungry and wet 
 through and cold, remember. But the police won t 
 let any man drown himself, and, if he tries it, they 
 arrest him. This man did n t get the chance, that af 
 ternoon. When it was nearly dark, he dragged himself 
 off that wharf, meaning to go to another. He thought 
 
 248
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 that he might get a chance to drown himself after dark. 
 On his way, he met a girl whom he had known before 
 he was sent to the hospital. She was a young girl, and 
 and she knew him and took him home with her. 
 He did n t want to go, but she made him." 
 
 "Oh," cried Constance, "a girl like me!" 
 
 "Not like you, Conny !" said Eben, fiercely. "Not 
 at all like you. She was eighteen or nineteen ; she did n t 
 know her exact age, herself. She had she was not 
 at all like you!" 
 
 "Well, she was kind, anyway." 
 
 " Perhaps," replied Eben. " That was what the man 
 thought, at any rate. He was very grateful, when he 
 got well enough to be. She took care of him until he 
 was quite well, she and some friends of hers. And 
 well, in short, he felt grateful and he thought she was 
 
 kind and there were other reasons. She was 
 
 
 
 rather handsome, in a sort of a way, but she was not 
 at all the kind of a girl he had been brought up to think 
 well of. But he married her." 
 
 " But," said Constance, " how about the girl ? What 
 did she think ? Why should she marry him ? It seems 
 to me, Uncle Eben, that you have not presented her 
 side of the case." 
 
 "What?" asked Eben, in surprise. "Well, perhaps 
 I have not. That that had not occurred to me. 
 There were reasons, Conny, why well, they were 
 married, at all events. They had rather an unhappy 
 time of it, so that, in the course of a few years, he went 
 
 249
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 to sea. It was after he had got to be the mate of a ship 
 that he told me the story. This season always reminds 
 me of it." 
 
 "It is a very pitiful story, Uncle Eben, and it s too. 
 bad that this season reminds you of it. The season 
 ought to be joyful, it seems to me. But I m interested 
 in the girl. I d like to hear her side of it. I d like to 
 know what she did when he went away to sea. Did 
 he ever go back to her ? " 
 
 " He did n t tell me," replied Eben, in a low voice. 
 " I suppose not. She got along, I think, very much in 
 the way she had before he married her. I really don t 
 know." 
 
 Constance made no reply, and they turned back and 
 walked in silence. 
 
 "Uncle Eben," said Constance, at last, "I must 
 leave you at the corner. Was it your own story," she 
 asked softly, "that you told me?" 
 
 Eben looked frightened. "No, no, Conny," he said 
 hastily ; " no, no. The man s name was Bronson, Jacob 
 Bronson."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 MRS. CATHERWOOD had not forgotten her promise 
 to call on Nan Hedge ; that was not the reason for her 
 delay. She simply could not bring herself to the point 
 of actually going. What would that Hedge girl think ? 
 What could she think, but that Mrs. Catherwood 
 thereby sealed the affair with her approval ? Jack did 
 not delay, whatever his reasons. He went there, regu 
 larly and irregularly. It had even got so far that the 
 colonel and Mrs. Catherwood could assume, with some 
 prospect of their being right in the assumption, that, 
 if Jack was not otherwise accounted for, he was at 
 Nan s. Even the colonel thought it high time that they 
 see about having something done about it. The colonel 
 said so, smiling, one day. The expression was a favor 
 ite one with him, as connoting a vagueness and dis 
 tance of intention which he was far from feeling. The 
 colonel s intentions were not vague. 
 
 "Don t you think, Polly," he said, continuing his 
 remarks, "that you d better put on your bunnit and 
 shawl and run in there, just to see what s up?" 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood sighed. "Very well, Frank, I 
 will. I ll go to-day. But I can t pretend that I don t 
 hate it." 
 
 " Of course you hate it, Polly. So should I, on that 
 251
 
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 errand. But I d go, dear, just the same, if it would n t 
 be making the bright face of danger too fearsome, and 
 if it was right and proper. At any rate, she probably 
 won t eat you." 
 
 So Mrs. Catherwood started, that afternoon. If she 
 had only known it, there was no danger of that Hedge 
 girl s thinking anything but the exact truth. Nan 
 had had experience enough, of all kinds, I suppose, 
 to make no mistake as to her purpose. She would 
 make no mistake in regard to her feelings, either, but 
 she knew very well how hard Mrs. Catherwood would 
 find it, and how she hated it. But Mrs. Catherwood 
 knew nothing of Nan s experiences; nor do I, for 
 that matter. 
 
 Nobody had told Nan of Mrs. Catherwood s inten 
 tion of calling. Nan knew, just the same. Her alma 
 nac must have had in it some such prediction as this : 
 "April 4. About this time expect a call from Jack s 
 mother." It just happened that Nan saw Mrs. Cath 
 erwood coming. She saw, too, that she stopped just 
 before she got to the gate and turned down in the 
 direction of the Tiltons . 
 
 That seemed to amuse Nan. She gave a quick little 
 laugh and spoke to Mrs. Haight. 
 
 " I m going to see my dear old ladies, Octavia. Mrs. 
 Catherwood seems to be heading that way, and I think 
 it s my duty to make her duty easy for her. Will you 
 ring for the victoria?" 
 
 Octavia smiled slowly and rose and went out. She 
 252
 
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 did not say anything. There did not seem to be any 
 thing to say. 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood found the Tiltons at home. Miss 
 Hitty sat by her window, while Miss Susie bustled about 
 and kept dropping her glasses off her delicate nose and 
 putting them on again ; and she knocked over two light 
 tables and bruised herself against almost every heavy 
 piece of furniture in the room, while she prepared to 
 make tea. Mrs. Catherwood made no secret of her 
 errand, but asked Miss Hitty, quite frankly, her opinion 
 of Nan. She could trust Miss Hitty to tell her the truth 
 she could trust both of the Miss Tiltons, for that 
 matter and not to gossip. They would see her point 
 of view, in spite of the fact that they knew Nan better, 
 probably, than anybody else she could have gone to. 
 
 Miss Kitty s reply was direct enough. No doubt it 
 was colored, somewhat, Mrs. Catherwood thought, by 
 her liking for Nan ; for, on that point, Miss Hitty left 
 no room for doubt. That was surprising, too. Miss 
 Hitty Tilton was not an easy mark for strangers. If 
 it had been Miss Susie, now, who saw nothing but 
 good in anybody but Miss Hitty ! 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood sighed. "Well," she said, "I sup 
 pose I must be satisfied. It is a little hard for me, Miss 
 Hitty. There are so many girls that I know all about. 
 And to have this Miss Hedge step in, whom I know 
 nothing of well" Mrs. Catherwood broke off and 
 laughed. "After all, probably it is of no consequence. 
 I was going to call on her this afternoon, I am going 
 
 253
 
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 to call, and I thought I might as well learn something 
 about her before I went." 
 
 Miss Hitty ignored the latter part of Mrs. Gather- 
 wood s speech. "Why should n t you be satisfied, 
 Mary Catherwood?" she said. Mrs. Catherwood had 
 carefully avoided mentioning Jack s name in connec 
 tion with Nan Hedge. Miss Hitty did not. " Jack 
 might do very much worse. Jack is old enough to take 
 care of himself. It s safe to say that he will, anyway. 
 Nancy Hedge is, at heart, a " - Miss Hitty had turned 
 to the window again, while she was speaking. Now 
 she turned back again and smiled. " Here she is, now," 
 she added. "You can judge for yourself. It might 
 have been simpler for you if you had called sooner." 
 Miss Hitty was forgetting what had been her own 
 attitude. "Susie, here s Nancy." 
 
 Miss Susie s glasses fell off at once. 
 
 "Oh, sister, is she?" And Miss Susie scrambled to 
 the window, putting on her glasses as she went. " Why, 
 sister, she s got the victoria. She must be meaning to 
 take oh, I ll go and meet her." 
 
 They heard the front door shut and Miss Susie s 
 soft voice calling, " Come right up, Nan, dear." 
 
 And there was the sound of light feet running up the 
 stairs and of two soft kisses. And Nan ran in and had 
 kissed Miss Hitty on both cheeks before she saw Mrs. 
 Catherwood. At least, so it seemed. 
 
 Miss Hitty kept hold of Nan s hand while she pre 
 sented her. It was much as if she were presenting a 
 
 254
 
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 daughter, of whom she felt particularly proud. Nan 
 said a few words it did not matter what they were 
 and took Miss Susie s place. 
 
 "Let me get the tea, Miss Susie," she said, "and 
 you sit down." 
 
 Miss Susie sank into her chair with a sigh. "You 
 are so good, Nan! I always bump into things so! 
 You are so good!" 
 
 "I am not good," Nan replied. "I only seem so. 
 But I can make tea." 
 
 Miss Hitty smiled affectionately at her and cast an 
 indulgent eye on Mrs. Catherwood. Mrs. Catherwood 
 was surprised at the smile and at the look; although 
 she need not have been surprised at either. For Miss 
 Hitty, as Mrs. Catherwood knew very well, had loved 
 her neighbors all her long life, although she would 
 have been torn in pieces by wild horses before admit 
 ting such a thing. She probably did not know it, her 
 self. If she was finding it out rather late, that was no 
 cause for surprise, but rather for thanksgiving. 
 
 Nan made the tea and fished some little cakes from 
 some mysterious place behind a screen. Mrs. Cather 
 wood observed it; she also observed that neither Miss 
 Susie nor Miss Hitty appeared to think the fact that 
 Nan was allowed to penetrate those mysteries worthy 
 of remark. They took it very coolly, as though it was 
 an every-day occurrence, which, indeed, it was, al 
 though it was not to be expected that Mrs. Catherwood 
 should be aware of that. 
 
 255
 
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 Then they all sat and sipped their tea from the Miss 
 Tiltons delicate old china, and they all talked about 
 nothing. At least, Nan talked a good deal, and Mrs. 
 Catherwood made an observation now and then, or 
 replied to some question of Nan s. Miss Hitty and 
 Miss Susie contented themselves with smiling, almost 
 continually, at Nan s remarks. Even Mrs. Catherwood 
 had to acknowledge that Nan was bright and amus 
 ing, and that she had been prejudiced against her. 
 The prejudice was still there, and she knew it ; but, 
 before she had finished her second cup, Mrs. Cather 
 wood found that she had asked them all to tea at her 
 house. 
 
 "You must pardon the informality," she said to 
 Nan; "I was intending to call upon you when I left 
 here. I shall certainly do so within a day or two." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood set down her cup and rose. Nan 
 did likewise. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "you must let me take you home; 
 that is, if you are going. I have the victoria outside." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood protested, but in vain. She felt 
 that, if she allowed herself to be seen driving with 
 Nancy Hedge, she was lost. Nancy Hedge may have 
 had somewhat the same feeling. We may guess that 
 she preferred that Mrs. Catherwood should be lost. 
 
 " But," said Mrs. Catherwood, hesitating and hardly 
 knowing what to say, " I have no doubt that you came 
 to take Miss Hitty or Miss Susie out. You must n t 
 let me interfere. It is only a step." 
 
 256
 
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 Nan smiled brightly. " I take Miss Hitty and Miss 
 Susie out every blessed day, don t I, dears?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Miss Susie; Miss Hitty only 
 smiled at Nan as she had before. 
 
 " So you are n t going to refuse, Mrs. Catherwood, 
 are you?" Nan asked. "Because I shall feel hurt if 
 you do." She stooped over Miss Susie s chair and 
 whispered that she would be back to do the dishes. 
 Think of it ! Nan Hedge to do the dishes ! 
 
 Miss Susie did not seem to regard the idea as so very 
 unthinkable. "Oh, Nan!" she said. It looked as if 
 the idea of Nan s doing the dishes might not be a new 
 one, after all. Perhaps Nan was so immersed in du 
 plicity as to have done that thing before several times 
 before. It is difficult to imagine it, from that motive. 
 I confess that I am stumped; almost persuaded to 
 believe in Nancy Hedge. Doing the dishes ! 
 
 Nan stooped again over Miss Hitty s chair and whis 
 pered that they should have their drive. Then she 
 kissed Miss Hitty again, and followed Mrs. Cather 
 wood, whom she saw safely into the victoria. She did 
 not mean that that lady should escape her. 
 
 It was but a short block or two to Nan s house. 
 "Mrs. Catherwood," said Nan, when they were almost 
 opposite the entrance to the driveway, the horse 
 showed some inclination to enter, but he was steered 
 carefully away by Patrick, who sat with one ear cocked 
 astern, waiting for orders ; he knew Miss Hedge, 
 "Mrs. Catherwood," said Nan, then, "won t you come 
 
 257
 
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 in now, for a few minutes ? Just to save my face, you 
 know." 
 
 To save her face ! Heavens ! But Mrs. Catherwood 
 did go in, graciously, for her few minutes, while Patrick 
 waited. After that, she was driven home by Nan. She 
 did not meet anybody except Harriet, who could 
 scarcely believe her eyes. 
 
 Then Nan went back to the Til tons again, to do 
 the dishes, but Patrick did not know that, and to 
 take her dear old ladies for their daily drive. Suppose 
 MacLean had known about those dishes!
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 MRS. CATHERWOOD did not give a tea for Nan Hedge. 
 She knew better than to do that. But she had asked 
 a half-dozen people to come in on Friday afternoon, 
 and Nan was one. Nan was Hie one. Probably Mrs. 
 Catherwood knew it. There was nothing remarkable 
 about the occasion; nothing that was at all unusual 
 in Old Harbor. Harriet was there, of course, not ap 
 proving of it at all, considering the circumstances. She 
 did not know all the circumstances, but she thought 
 that she did, and she remonstrated accordingly. 
 
 "I think it is rather shocking, Mary," she said, with 
 a little laugh ; such a little laugh as would be expected 
 of a maiden lady with somewhat strict ideas in regard 
 to such matters, " rather shocking that you should 
 give a tea for that Hedge girl. That s what everybody 
 will think, that it is for her. If you had asked my 
 advice, it would have been against doing anything of 
 the kind." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood smiled quietly, She did not re 
 mind Miss Harriet that she had not asked her advice. 
 Neither did she call Harriet s attention to the fact that 
 no one could predict what her advice would be, on any 
 given subject. Harriet was full of surprises, and she 
 was as apt to lean one way as the other. It did not 
 occur to Mrs. Catherwood that, as Harriet s nephew 
 
 259
 
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 was involved, her favorite and only, jealousy was 
 necessarily involved, too. She felt too much jealousy, 
 herself, to make allowance for it in others. She might 
 even have resented it. 
 
 "I m afraid it is rather late, Harriet," she re 
 marked. "The deed is done." 
 
 " It will seem to commit you and Jack," Miss Har 
 riet said doubtfully. 
 
 "Yes," replied Mrs. Catherwood, with a little sigh 
 of regret, " I know. But seeming to commit me is not 
 committing me, luckily." 
 
 "It will make it harder for you," Harriet insisted. 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood made no reply, for Abbie Mervin 
 came in. She had come early, so that she should not 
 miss any of the play. Then Miss Wetherbee arrived, 
 consumed with curiosity, so far as her interest in her 
 health allowed. Mrs. Catherwood was indiscreet 
 enough to say that she hoped that Miss Wetherbee 
 was well. It was an innocent remark, but Miss Weth 
 erbee interpreted it literally. 
 
 " I don t see how you can suppose I should be well," 
 said she, in a high and penetrating voice ; a voice which 
 was somewhat shaky. " I have my attacks frequently 
 two this week." Mrs. Catherwood murmured some 
 thing intended to be vaguely sympathetic, and final. 
 It was not final. "I shall never be well again," Miss 
 Wetherbee continued. "Doctor Olcott is no better 
 than a beast. He comes when he feels like it, and 
 uses the most shocking language horrible language. 
 
 260
 
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 Pie has improved a little since he got married, but he 
 is most unfeeling. Oh, is Mrs. Houlton I mean Mrs. 
 Olcott here ?" Miss Wetherbee seemed to have had 
 an afterthought. She looked around. She was a tall 
 woman and an old woman, hard-featured but with an 
 anxious look in her eyes and a multitude of fine lines 
 in her forehead. She had on a most wonderful hat; 
 wonderful, at least, for an old woman, with many 
 ostrich plumes, which were dyed a wonderful color. 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood smiled faintly. "Mrs. Olcott is 
 not here yet," she said. "She did n t know whether 
 she would be able to come at all." 
 
 Harriet s face was a dull red. She was fond of the 
 stout old doctor, and she felt an overpowering resent 
 ment at Miss Wetherbee s words. " I want to tell you, 
 Miss Wetherbee," she said, "that Doctor Olcott is not 
 a beast. I have no doubt that he comes to you as soon 
 as he can, and gives you the attention that he thinks 
 you need." 
 
 Miss Harriet came near forgetting where she was. 
 It may be that she had quite forgotten; but Mrs. 
 Catherwood laid her hand upon her arm and she sub 
 sided with an ill grace. 
 
 "Oh," cried Miss Wetherbee, with a fine stare of 
 astonishment, " are you there, Harriet Joyce ? I might 
 have known I d stir you up." Miss Harriet pressed 
 her lips together and said nothing. "Well, I m sorry 
 Mrs. Olcott is not here. I wanted to speak to her about 
 her boys. Every time they go by my house, they rattle 
 
 261
 
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 on my fence-palings with a stick, the whole length of 
 the fence, and they pound on the fence. It s enough 
 to kill a woman that s as sick as I am. I m going to 
 speak to the doctor about it. Not that I have any idea 
 he can manage those boys." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood murmured again. Miss Harriet s 
 face was still a dull red, and Abbie turned away to hide 
 a smile. "All boys are alike," Miss Wetherbee went 
 on. "They are brutal savages, that s what they are. 
 Every few weeks I find my gate carried a square or 
 two away. I have to pay two men to bring it back and 
 hang it. I ve had it screwed on, now. They can t get 
 it off the hinges. I d like to see boys done away with, 
 by law. I never could see the use of em." 
 
 "They make men," Abbie suggested. 
 
 "Precious little good men do me," snapped Miss 
 Wetherbee, "or you, either, Abbie Mervin." 
 
 Abbie turned as red as Harriet. 
 
 Miss Wetherbee had her back to the door. " Where s 
 that Hedge girl, Mary?" she asked. 
 
 "Here s that Hedge girl," said Nan, who had come 
 in with Miss Hitty and Miss Susie. " Please be nice to 
 her, after I have been properly presented." 
 
 Miss Susie gasped at Nan s audacity and Miss Hitty 
 smiled. It was almost a giggle. 
 
 " Well ! " exclaimed the astonished Miss Wetherbee. 
 But she liked it, and thereupon suspended general 
 hostilities. It was not important what Miss Wether 
 bee liked, but general hostilities are not conducive to 
 
 262
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 harmony. They might have added to the gayety of the 
 assembled company after the event. They do not con 
 stitute a recognized form of legitimate entertainment 
 at such a function. 
 
 So Mrs. Catherwood presented Nan, as Nan herself 
 put it, and Nan was as good and correct and proper as 
 any one could have wished. No one could be more cor 
 rect and proper than Nan when she wanted to be, and 
 she did her best. Whatever might have been Mrs. 
 Catherwood s intention, Nan was the centre of inter 
 est. There was no doubt about that. She met Miss 
 Wetherbee s questions, which were undeniably personal 
 and, many of them, impertinent, very sweetly, and she 
 told that tiresome old woman as much as she thought 
 she ought to know and no more. That was not much. 
 When she was tired of being questioned so closely, she 
 started Miss Wetherbee to talking about her health, 
 in general, and her symptoms, in particular. That 
 was mean of Nan, but she kept Miss Hitty chuckling 
 away to herself all the afternoon. 
 
 This tea it was not a tea, but I don t know what 
 else to call it was none of your crowded affairs where 
 a person can run in and run out again total time 
 spent, less than five minutes and never be missed. 
 They all stayed. After an hour or so, when the con 
 versation was beginning to languish and to separate 
 itself into dialogues, as conversations in the best regu 
 lated families will do, William Ransome came in, with 
 Jack. William had been impelled to come by a desire 
 
 263
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 to see how such a happy family would have made out. 
 He knew Miss Wetherbee, and thought it quite possible 
 that an hour would be enough to set them all by the 
 ears. He did not know Nan. Indeed, it is doubtful 
 whether any one knew Nan thoroughly, even including 
 Miss Hitty Tilton and Nan herself. William may have 
 been influenced, unconsciously, of course, by a wish 
 to obtain material for his stories. And Jack well, 
 Jack had concluded that he would get home early. 
 
 The arrival of William made Abbie uneasy and con 
 scious, and it had the same effect upon Harriet. Wil 
 liam was not uneasy or self-conscious, and he finally 
 settled down, contentedly, by Miss W etherbee. Jack s 
 arrival made Mrs. Catherwood uneasy, but she hoped 
 that she did not show it. It seemed to make no dif 
 ference to Nan; but then, as I have said, Nan was 
 an excellent actress. Jack, after a slight but evident 
 flutter about her, settled down, in his turn, between 
 Miss Hitty and Miss Susie. 
 
 Miss Wetherbee was clearly annoyed; which was 
 not uncommon enough to excite remark. 
 
 "I thought," she said, in a whisper that must have 
 been plainly audible, "that Jack Catherwood was 
 attentive." 
 
 There was a silence that you could have heard ; but 
 Nan seemed unconscious. William smiled. "Did 
 you?" he asked. "How s the cat, Miss Wetherbee?" 
 
 "I don t know what you mean, William," said Miss 
 Wetherbee, staring. "What cat do you refer to?" 
 
 264
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "/ don t know what cat it was last night," replied 
 William, "nor what cat it will be to-night. Do you?" 
 
 Miss Wetherbee was somewhat upon the defensive. 
 " Of course," she said, "I don t know what cat the boy 
 will bring to-night. Last night it was a large cat with 
 yellow stripes." 
 
 "Aha!" William exclaimed. "Our cat! He has not 
 been home, Miss Wetherbee. Mrs. Gage is very much 
 worried about him. I am afraid that you are techni 
 cally guilty of abduction." 
 
 William had undoubtedly accomplished his object. 
 He had the undivided attention of all present, which 
 was, for the moment, withdrawn from Nan and Jack. 
 He would have been glad to drop the subject there, 
 but he could not. 
 
 " I am not guilty of anything of the kind," cried Miss 
 Wetherbee, indignantly. " Last night, the boy horrid 
 little beast came at the regular time, bringing a cat, 
 which he held by the tail. I can t be expected to give 
 much attention to the boy, but any one could see that 
 the cat he was holding in that inhuman manner was 
 a dead cat. He had the effrontery to say that I had n t 
 said anything about the cat s being alive, and that that 
 was a perfectly good cat. I commanded him to take 
 his dead cat away, at once, and to bring one that was 
 alive. So he did. After some delay, he appeared, carry 
 ing this large yellow-striped cat. He seemed to have 
 some difficulty in holding it, and he insisted upon my 
 paying him his five cents before he let the cat go. I 
 
 265
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 did, and discharged him. I would n t employ a boy 
 who would bring me dead cats." 
 
 "Of course not," William murmured. "Dead cats 
 may be of use to the boy, but not to you. I have no 
 doubt that that boy found a use for his." 
 
 "He hung it on my front door knob," said Miss 
 Wetherbee, scathingly; "horrid little savage!" 
 
 William had seen it there. He did not say so, how 
 ever. 
 
 " Please explain, Miss Wetherbee," said Nan. " That 
 is, if you don t mind. I am quite in the dark." 
 
 " Certainly, Miss Hedge," began Miss Wetherbee, 
 coldly. " I am troubled with mice. A cat is more trou 
 ble than the mice, if you have to keep it all the time. 
 Always under foot. I hate cats. So I give a boy five 
 cents a day to bring a cat every night at seven. It is 
 shut in some room where the mice have shown them 
 selves, and at half-past nine I put it out." 
 
 "Oh," said Nan. "A very ingenious arrangement." 
 
 "Yes," said William. " Makes use of the cats of the 
 neighborhood. Impartial and exciting. Partakes of 
 the nature of gambling." 
 
 " Where," Nan asked, " does the cat go at half -past 
 nine?" 
 
 " It goes out," answered Miss Wetherbee. " I m sure 
 I don t know where. Very often it seems to stay around. 
 The cats make a terrible noise in my^ yard, almost 
 every night. But I ve never harmed them." 
 
 " Until last night," said William, " that could not be
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 disputed, Miss Wetherbee. What did you do with a 
 certain large cat with yellow stripes?" 
 
 "I turned him out," Miss Wetherbee snapped, "at 
 eight o clock, William. He tore around my room as 
 if he had a fit. He clawed the cloth off a table and 
 broke a very valuable piece of china that my father 
 brought home in one of his last voyages. I would n t 
 have lost it for all the cats in Old Harbor. I got the 
 broom and chased him out. It took me an hour." 
 
 "That is a very intelligent cat," William remarked. 
 "If you have that yellow-striped cat brought again," 
 he continued, " I wish that you would send for Mrs. 
 Gage or me." 
 
 "I will, William," said Miss Wetherbee, grimly. "I 
 will send for you. I shall have a new boy." 
 
 Miss Hitty Tilton rose to go. She was still smiling. 
 "Mary Catherwood," she said, shaking that lady s 
 hand, "I ve had a beautiful time. I don t know when 
 I ve enjoyed an afternoon more. It was very kind of 
 you to ask us." 
 
 Mrs. Cathenvood did not know just how to take this 
 speech of Miss Kitty s. It was usually safe to read into 
 anything that Miss Hitty said all that it could be con 
 strued to mean. She smiled. 
 
 " I did n t realize that I was providing amusement 
 for you," she said, in a low voice. "I am very glad 
 that you liked it." 
 
 Jack seized that moment to lean over to Nan. "To 
 night, Nan ? " he whispered. 
 
 267
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Nan nodded, without looking at him, and moved 
 forward to say good-by. 
 
 "Well, Polly," said the colonel that night, "how 
 did it go? What of that Hedge girl ?" 
 
 They were waiting for Jack to come in. "It went 
 very well, as far as she was concerned," she replied. 
 " Her behavior was irreproachable. But Miss Wether- 
 bee!" She drew a long breath. "Oh, that woman! I 
 will never ask her to anything again. William egged 
 her on." She gave him an account of it. 
 
 The colonel chuckled. "So William did that! I 
 would never have suspected him of it. I should not 
 have thought him capable of it. To do the thing up 
 brown, he ought to have gone home with her." 
 
 "He did," said Mrs. Catherwood. "But I don t 
 like her." 
 
 "Like Miss Wetherbee!" cried the colonel. "Of 
 course you don t. Who does?" 
 
 "I meant Nan Hedge," said Mrs. Catherwood. "I 
 can t like her, in spite of her beautiful behavior, and 
 in spite of the fact that Hitty Tilton, and Susie, too, 
 evidently regard her as perfection. I don t trust 
 her." 
 
 " Therein you differ from MacLean and all the other 
 shopkeepers in Old Harbor. But I understand that she 
 is good pay." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood smiled fondly. "I believe you 
 would make a joke of it, dear," she said, " if you were 
 being tortured." 
 
 268
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "How do you know," asked the colonel, "that it is 
 not torture to me that my only and well-beloved son 
 is going straight to the demnition dogs ? That, I un 
 derstand, is the gist of it. Can any good thing come 
 out of New York?" 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood laughed. She could not have 
 helped it. " If Jack was really in love with her," she 
 said, " I would welcome her and sink my own feeling 
 for his sake. But" 
 
 " Seriously, Polly, dear," said the colonel, interrupt 
 ing, " do you think she any one would relish 
 that ? Jack is old enough to take care of himself. Sup 
 pose we let him do it." 
 
 "That s just what Hitty Tilton said." 
 
 "Kitty s opinion strikes me as sound," the colonel 
 observed. 
 
 "Oh, Frank," cried Mrs. Catherwood, "do let me 
 have my own opinion for a while, at least. It can t do 
 anybody any harm." 
 
 Colonel Catherwood was silent for some minutes. 
 Then he sighed. "Well," he said thoughtfully "I 
 guess we might as well see about having something 
 done about it. What I have in mind probably won t 
 do any lasting harm. I ll tell you about it later." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood came over to him and kissed him. 
 "Thank you, Frank, dear," she said. "I knew you 
 would n t desert me." 
 
 "Never!" cried the colonel, waving his book. 
 
 At that moment Constance appeared at the door. 
 269
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Have you two people done talking about Jack ?" she 
 asked. "Because he is coming up the walk." 
 
 The doings at the Catherwoods , that afternoon, 
 would have made a proper bit of gossip for MacLean, 
 too. They did ; for, if he did not see, he heard, and at 
 the third or fourth hand. That was better for his pur 
 pose. The gossip lost nothing by repetition.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 EBEN did not go to Mrs. Catherwood s on that Fri 
 day afternoon. Harriet had made an attempt, half 
 hearted, at best, to persuade him, and, finding that he 
 seemed to be afraid to go, and knowing very well that 
 she would not be able to prevail over his obstinacy, 
 as she called it, she had given it up. Harriet had had 
 ample experience of Eben s obstinacy, in the last few 
 months. She had tried persuasion, argument, and bul 
 lying; but although Eben said little or nothing, she 
 invariably found him, when she got through her ha 
 rangue, of exactly the same mind as when she began. 
 It always made her feel peculiarly helpless, which was 
 a feeling she did not like ; and it always made her lose 
 her temper, and occasionally made her forget her dig 
 nity, which was a condition that she liked even less. 
 That distressed Eben, but did not make him change his 
 mind a single jot. Once her feeling of helplessness 
 had reduced Harriet to tears, which she liked least of 
 all, and which had distressed Eben more than ever. 
 
 So Eben did not go to Mrs. Catherwood s, and he 
 did not see Nan Hedge nor hear Miss Wetherbee. He 
 started early, instead, and walked out beyond the old 
 Green, where no Miss Wetherbees w r ere; where no 
 Miss Wetherbees could be. But if there were no Miss 
 
 271
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Wetherbees, there were song-sparrows in abundance, 
 singing their sweet little cheerful songs at every oppor 
 tunity. The song-sparrows had been about for weeks, 
 and the robins were beginning to come, in small flocks 
 not the scattered individuals of two weeks earlier. 
 The songs of the song-sparrows penetrated even Eben s 
 abstraction, at last, so that he smiled in spite of him 
 self. Then he looked up and found himself before the 
 little house with the sagging roof and the great square 
 chimney in the middle of it. Chickens were picking 
 about in the front yard, and a robin rose at his approach 
 and flew into a near-by apple tree. And an old woman, 
 with a weatherbeaten face and a harsh voice that yet 
 was very sweet, came out of the house and greeted 
 him, showering blessings upon his head. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Eben, dear," she said, after you would 
 have thought that she had exhausted her stock of bless 
 ings, "why don t you go over into the pines, if you re 
 but strollin ? You 11 find nobody there but Clanky 
 an my Joe, an they re likely to be anywhere about. 
 T is dry there after the warm wind we had. T is 
 lovely in the pines, now, lovely. An I d take it kindly 
 if you d see Joe, now. He s that better!" 
 
 That thought suited Eben. He would meet no one 
 but Clanky and Joe Loughery. They had had two 
 days of a warm wind that had borne away the remains 
 of the snow, bodily, and had hustled winter out of the 
 way in great haste, to make room for spring. The old 
 man with the flying white hair was not used to being 
 
 272
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 treated with so little ceremony. He did not like it. He 
 was accustomed to take his time and to move away 
 with leisurely step, as befitted his age ; not to be taken 
 by the shoulders by a warm south wind, with a " Step 
 lively now !" and driven before it at a most undignified 
 pace, in spite of his grumblings and protests. That 
 same south wind had left the ground dry, at least on 
 the surface. Eben thanked Mrs. Loughery and struck 
 over into the pine woods. 
 
 He followed the winding path that led across the 
 fields from Mrs. Loughery s ; the path which had been 
 tramped several times a day by Clanky Beg in all 
 weathers, at least once a day by Mrs. Loughery, and 
 occasionally by Joe. It led him in through the fringe 
 of young growth, through a break in a stone wall, 
 stretching away among the pines and in among the 
 old trees tall columns supporting the green roof, far 
 above his head. As Eben felt his feet pressing the 
 soft brown carpet and heard the green crowns whisper 
 ing gently over him, he had a sense of peace and con 
 tent and of the quiet joy of living that was very strange 
 to him, and very pleasant; more than pleasant. 
 
 He smiled he was not aware that he smiled and 
 went on. 
 
 He came out in a little clearing just big enough to let 
 in a small circle of sunlight ; and in that circle sat Joe 
 Loughery, on an old chair that had no back and that 
 was propped against a tree. Joe spent most of his time 
 in that clearing, following the sunshine about by mov- 
 
 273
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 ing his chair from one tree to another. Clanky Beg sat 
 near him, on a log a log that could not be moved about 
 from one tree to another. It was all the same to Clanky. 
 He did not care whether his seat was in sunshine or in 
 shadow, so long as Joe was happy. 
 
 Clanky and Joe greeted Eben at once. " I knew you 
 were coming," Joe said. " Clanky always knows as 
 soon as anybody comes into these woods. He slipped 
 away and shadowed you, and then came back and 
 told me who it was. I m afraid I should not have 
 remembered you." 
 
 "No, I suppose not," replied Eben. "But I m sure 
 that I came very quietly. How could Clanky know?" 
 
 "/ don t know," said Joe, laughing, "unless it was 
 by scent. It s not exactly pleasant to think of, is it?" 
 
 " Dear me !" cried Eben, softly. 
 
 Joe, seeing his face, laughed again. 
 
 Then Eben sat upon the log beside Clanky and lis 
 tened to Joe s happy chatter, and once in a while he 
 said something in return, gravely. It was not the Joe 
 of a few months before, without hope of life, but bear 
 ing his burden bravely; it was quite a different Joe, 
 hopeful and happy, looking forward to the time when 
 he should be able to do his part. The outward change 
 was as great; but Eben had not seen Joe before. 
 Clanky was content to listen, too. Eben was at ease 
 for the first time in oh, in years. He was even happy. 
 He was so happy that, before he suspected it, the after 
 noon had slipped away. 
 
 274
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Joe insisted upon showing him the hut before he 
 went. It was just beyond the edge of the clearing; 
 poorly built, of any remains of lumber that Clanky 
 had been able to find, with a roof thatched with spruce 
 boughs. Some of the chinks were so large that you 
 could see through them. There were two small win 
 dows, and directly under each was a bunk. There was 
 a stove, too, without fire. 
 
 " One of em s Clanky s and one s mine," explained 
 Joe, eagerly, pointing to the bunks. 
 
 "Oh," Eben replied. "I suppose you don t have to 
 open the windows at night. I should think air enough 
 would get through the walls." 
 
 Joe laughed. "We don t open em. We take em 
 out," he said. "There s air enough. It was pretty 
 cold, all winter, but we were wrapped warm. In the 
 morning, Clanky d get up and put in the windows and 
 make a fire, so it d be warm for me to dress. And I d 
 be out all day, generally, sunshine or storm, except in 
 the worst of em or when it rained. Oh, it s great," he 
 added enthusiastically; "simply great." 
 
 " I like air," said Eben, slowly, " but I should think 
 this would be almost too much of a good thing. You 11 
 soon be well enough to sleep in a house again." 
 
 " Never ! " Joe said decidedly. " That is, I suppose 
 I d be well enough, but I shan t sleep in a house again, 
 never again, unless I have to." 
 
 "Oh," said Eben. 
 
 "You can t make up your mind to go back to a 
 275
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 house," Joe continued, "when you ve once got used 
 to this. It won t be long, now, before we can sleep out 
 doors. This is about the same thing as outdoors, but 
 think of having nothing over your head but the tops 
 of the pines and the sky ! Why, it s almost as good as 
 being at sea." 
 
 Eben smiled. Almost as good as being at sea ! It is to 
 be supposed that Eben knew about that. It is to be sup 
 posed that he thought of the stuffy forecastle, crowded 
 with men, smelling of wet clothes and old boots and 
 other things that were even less agreeable. But there 
 was no smell of wet clothes and old boots outside the 
 forecastle. Eben had sometimes spent nights out there 
 under the sky, in fine weather, when he was not too 
 tired, which was seldom the case, and had watched the 
 slowly swinging masts with their bellying black sails 
 extinguish the Southern Cross, like the shutter of a 
 camera. Such occasions were rare. He had generally 
 been so tired, when it came time for his watch below, 
 that he had been glad to tumble into his bunk with his 
 clothes on, in spite of the smell of wet clothes and old 
 boots. Joe s words stirred into activity a longing that 
 had never died a decent death or an indecent one ; that 
 had never even been scotched. It was a positive pain, 
 that longing for the sea. Eben knew why he avoided, 
 in his walks, any hill or high land from which he might 
 have seen the ocean. There were a plenty of such 
 points about Old Harbor. But the ocean could not be 
 seen by any one within those pine woods, although it 
 
 276
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 was in plain sight of the crowns, and, occasionally, it 
 could be smelt, if the wind was the right way. 
 
 So, thereafter, Eben went, every day, to the pines, 
 in search of solitude and of that sense of peace that 
 was to be valued above rubies. It was about as good 
 as being alone to be with Joe and Clanky Beg ; fully as 
 good to wander about with Clanky as his only com 
 panion. Clanky would roam the woods like a dog, 
 only more silently, coming back to Eben, now and 
 then, to see where he was or to exchange a few words. 
 As a companion, he was as satisfactory as a dog; which 
 is saying a good deal for Clanky. Even Heywood fell 
 short of that one degree. Eben did not give up his 
 walks with Heywood. Heywood was free only one 
 afternoon a week, sometimes two. But Eben did not 
 take him into the pines. The pines were Clanky s and 
 Joe s and his. 
 
 He walked no more with Constance, but he avoided 
 her. He had become afraid of Constance. She, after 
 the manner of kind-hearted young girls, having no 
 ticed it, was vaguely sorry and thought no more about 
 the matter. If Uncle Eben did not desire her society, 
 why, he need not have it. Her only wish had been to 
 please him. 
 
 Still, Eben was somewhat restless and uneasy, for 
 he could not well be in his pine woods all the time. 
 Clanky saw it. And, partly because he counseled it, 
 partly, no doubt, because a sailor is, at heart, more than 
 half a farmer, Eben determined to try his hand at gar- 
 
 277
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 dening. Clanky helped him at it; and Doctor Olcott, 
 hearing of it through Harriet, found Eben hard at work 
 with his planting. 
 
 Eben looked up, at the doctor s chuckle, and smiled. 
 
 "That s right, Eben," said the doctor. "Dig! Dig! 
 It s the best remedy for almost everything, espe 
 cially at this season. I wish I could get William to dig 
 ging-" 
 
 "Why, doctor?" asked Eben, surprised. "Is Wil 
 liam ill?" 
 
 "Thinks he is," answered the doctor. "Mortally 
 afraid he is. Says his liver s upset. What does he 
 know about his liver ? Should n t know he s got such 
 a thing. I tell him he has n t, and that scares him 
 worse than ever. I know his symptoms. Had em 
 myself. Liver!" And the doctor chuckled again. 
 "Lover! That s what s the matter with William. He 
 does n t know it." 
 
 Suddenly the doctor s chuckling stopped abruptly. 
 He was remembering some gossip of MacLean s about 
 William and Harriet and Abbie Mervin. Of course he 
 had not paid any particular attention to it; he never 
 paid particular attention to MacLean s gossip, but he 
 usually let him talk on. He had heard but vaguely that 
 William - But there ! The fact that stood out in his 
 recollection, if it was a fact, was that Mac-Lean seemed 
 to think that W T ilIiam had tired of Harriet ; of his devo 
 tion of ten years or more. Well, well, that might be 
 true. Damn it, yes. Ten years ! He would get tired of 
 
 278
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 that, himself; and it would n t take him ten years, 
 either, even for Hattie s sake. As good a woman as 
 God ever made, but but The good doctor stum 
 bled over that "but." It was her brother that he had 
 said it to that poor joke about William s liver. 
 
 Perhaps Eben had not noticed. The doctor looked 
 at him sharply. Eben was smiling gently. The devil 
 of it was that you could never tell what in thunder 
 Eben was smiling at. 
 
 "Well," he said, turning away, "keep it up, Eben. 
 Keep it up ! It ll do you good. I ll see what I can do 
 with William." 
 
 William had gone to Doctor Olcott, not long before, 
 afraid that he was getting sick. He could not write 
 in his rooms, although he had been accustomed to do 
 it easily; and other places were no better. He had 
 roamed the country over alone, as Eben had, and had 
 found his roaming no more conducive to work. He 
 seemed to be unable to think ; and it was then that he 
 became alarmed. 
 
 Doctor Olcott had listened to it all, and then he had 
 laughed, and William had been almost offended. 
 
 "Oh, don t get mad, William," said the doctor. 
 " Don t get mad. I know what s the matter with you. 
 I prescribe digging." 
 
 William was astonished. "Digging!" he cried. 
 "Digging what?" 
 
 "Digging dirt, man! Digging dirt! Dig a hole in 
 the ground, if you can t do better." 
 
 279
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Perhaps," said William, smiling, "you could get 
 me a job as sexton ? " 
 
 The doctor was not a vestryman ; he never went to 
 church. 
 
 Doctor Olcott laughed again. "Don t you dig at 
 me," said he. " That won t do your business. Dig the 
 ground. You re a very sick man, William, but I guess 
 you ll live a few hours yet. Work with your hands, 
 out of doors. Expand your lungs and get your fill of 
 this air and God s sunshine. Get tired. Get so tired 
 that you ache to get to bed at night. It s spring, man, 
 spring." 
 
 "It will be a little difficult," returned William, 
 slowly, "to carry out the whole of your prescription, 
 doctor. Is n t there some other remedy?" 
 
 "Well," replied the doctor, looking at William quiz 
 zically, "there may be probably is. But I don t 
 know which it is. The oracle has spoken. Better try 
 the digging, as much of it as you can manage." 
 
 " Your utterance is somewhat cryptic," said William, 
 dryly, "but that is characteristic of oracles, I under 
 stand." 
 
 He had tried the digging, mildly, and it had pro 
 duced little result ; then furiously, with little more, ex 
 cept that he was so lame that he could scarcely move 
 about the bank. He saw Harriet, occasionally, and 
 was glum and discontented and irritable. His irrita 
 bility, he thought, was due to the fact that he wanted 
 to write and could n t. If he had been able to, he would 
 
 280
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 have been as serene as a May morning. But he could 
 not talk with Harriet about it. She would not have 
 understood and would have contended, stoutly, that 
 it only proved how ill adapted he was to that business 
 - that business that was scarcely respectable. She 
 would have urged him to give it up ; to stick to some 
 thing dignified, like banking. It would all be in that 
 superior tone, as if she was right, always, as a matter 
 of course. He knew that tone ; he had had all of it that 
 he wanted. No, he could not talk to Harriet about it. 
 So he was just glum. 
 
 Harriet was naturally a cheerful, buoyant, self-re 
 liant person, but she had her faults, of a kind which 
 were common in Old Harbor. She was fond of Wil 
 liam ; fonder, perhaps, than she had been aware. She 
 never took me into her confidence, so that I don t 
 know whether she was or not. I don t know whether 
 or not her affection for him was of that mild, sisterly 
 variety, which would gladly have kept his feet in that 
 straight and exceedingly narrow path in which she 
 kept her own. That path was very straight and very 
 narrow, and it is conceivable that it might have led 
 William where he did not care to go. Harriet could 
 not imagine that. It never once entered her head. 
 
 However that may be, William seemed to balk at 
 taking the path at all, judging from his glumness and 
 irritability; and Harriet s natural buoyant cheerful 
 ness could not save her from two days of perilous sharp 
 ness of tongue. It is to be supposed that William did 
 
 281
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 not like the sharpness. It did not last more than the 
 two days, Harriet s good sense came to her rescue, 
 but two days of it seemed to be enough for William. 
 Harriet did not get the chance to apologize to him for 
 the things she had said, which she had fully made up 
 her mind to do. Harriet did not like to apologize. 
 
 Abbie, on the other hand, understood and made 
 allowances and comforted him. It is a pity that a good 
 man must seem such a helpless infant, but many of 
 them do, and do not even know it. We have no right 
 to put upon the women the burden of dragging us out 
 of our sloughs of despond, but we do, over and over. 
 Generally, we are not aware that we are doing it, if 
 that is any comfort. Do our women laugh at us, I 
 wonder ? They have the right to. 
 
 Abbie did not seem to think that William s writing 
 was disreputable, or that writing was a disreputable 
 occupation. She did not try to make him give it up. 
 So it came about that he was with Abbie the more and 
 with Harriet the less none at all. When he found 
 that he felt a little better, he explained his feelings to 
 Abbie and apologized for them, and he related his 
 conversation with the doctor. 
 
 Abbie laughed. She seemed to find something very 
 amusing in it. William, because he had puzzled over 
 it for a long time with no result, asked her if she 
 understood what the doctor was driving at. 
 
 They were on a pleasant old road that went by the 
 name of Lovers Lane, guarded by rows of stump wil- 
 
 282
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 lows. Nobody was in sight. There was only the ancient 
 white house of Cap n Armitage, himself an ancient 
 man, a retired sea-captain, almost blind. Not that that 
 had anything to do with it. 
 
 Abbie slipped her hand within William s arm. He 
 found that agreeable, but took no notice of it, beyond 
 crooking his elbow, so that the hand should stay there 
 comfortably. 
 
 "Yes, you goose," said Abbie;"! understand." 
 
 " Well, what did he mean, Abbie ? " William insisted. 
 "Tell me." 
 
 "I I can t tell you, William," said Abbie, softly. 
 "You must find out for yourself." 
 
 Strange as it may seem, William said no more, of 
 consequence, at that time.
 
 NANCY HEDGE and Octavia Haight had just fin 
 ished their lonely dinner ; lonely, in spite of the air of 
 ease and affluence, the abundance, the servants, com 
 ing and going about their duties in silence. Or it may 
 have been lonely because of these very things. It might 
 have added spice and somewhat diminished the loneli 
 ness of it all if they had had to wait on themselves, 
 to " do their own reaching," and if the door had 
 opened mysteriously, disclosing an arm guiltless of 
 sleeve and a hand holding a pie, and a raucous voice 
 had suddenly appeared at the door, saying, "Here s 
 yer pie ! " Or it might have added to the gayety of the 
 occasion if a maid, who, in that case, would have been 
 the cook as well as the waitress, had deposited an all 
 too solid baked custard on the table before Nan, with 
 an "Ain t it fierce?" 
 
 None of those things happened, to stimulate Nan 
 to mirth and to reduce Octavia to despair. Such things 
 could not happen in Nan s house. They had hurried 
 through the meal or Nan had ; Octavia did not be 
 lieve in hurrying through a meal. She had even com 
 plained that Nan never gave her time to finish a course 
 before it was whisked out of sight. Nan had contented 
 herself with the remark that she believed that Octavia 
 
 284
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 was growing stout. So Octavia had said no more, but 
 she followed Nan into the library in a state of deep 
 discontent, and sank into an easy-chair with her hands 
 across her lap. 
 
 Nan did not sit down. She wandered aimlessly about, 
 straying from one thing to another. She was not rest 
 less. She seemed to have a heart at ease, and to be 
 altogether content with things as they were. Nan had 
 improved in the past few months. Her eyes shone more 
 softly if, perhaps, less brilliantly than they had; her 
 complexion no longer suggested doubts as to paint and 
 powder. I have, to be sure, no reason to think that 
 such doubts were ever justified, but it was generally 
 believed in Old Harbor. It is certainly a sign of im 
 provement that she seemed to have a heart at ease; 
 that she seemed to have a heart at all. That may have 
 been the secret of those changes that I have mentioned, 
 and of others that were more elusive. 
 
 So Nan wandered about, contentedly, until Octavia 
 could stand it no longer. 
 
 " Oh, Nan," she exclaimed, with a little note of im 
 patience in her voice, "do, please, sit down." 
 
 Nan laughed good-naturedly. "Why? Do I make 
 you nervous ? " 
 
 "Well " 
 
 " Oh, all right," said Nan, still with a patience that 
 was no less than marvelous, in Nan. A few months 
 before, she would have made some stinging remark 
 which would have reduced Octavia to silence, if it did 
 
 285
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 not drive her to her room. "All right. I ll go into the 
 other room. It really does n t make any difference to 
 me." 
 
 She started for the drawing-room, across the hall. 
 
 Octavia rose swiftly and went to her. "I beg your 
 pardon, Nan. Don t pay any attention to me. Don t 
 go away unless you prefer." 
 
 " It really does n t matter," said Nan, in some sur 
 prise. " / don t care what room I m in. If it troubles 
 you " 
 
 "It does n t. It won t. If it should, it is my place 
 to go." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " Nan turned back. 
 
 " Nan," asked Octavia, hesitatingly, it almost 
 seemed wistfully, "Nan, is he coming to-night?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Nan, promptly and with calm 
 certainty. 
 
 " Then then you are only waiting ? " 
 
 "Only waiting," Nan said. "It does n t make any 
 difference where I wait. I might go out on the piazza. 
 It s warm enough." 
 
 Octavia made no reply and Nan looked over at her. 
 She saw two tears roll slowly down her cheeks and 
 drop into her lap. There was no motion to stop 
 them. 
 
 "Why, Octavia!" Nan cried. "What ever is the 
 matter?" 
 
 Octavia turned suddenly away and buried her face 
 in the cushion. "I I want my Jack," she sobbed. 
 
 286
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Nan was amazed and dismayed. "Jack Haight!" 
 She found it hard to believe her ears. 
 
 "Yes, Jack Haight." 
 
 "But, Octavia, he has done all sorts of things that 
 he should n t. I have no doubt that he abused you." 
 
 Octavia was sitting up now, wiping her eyes. She 
 did not look at Nan. 
 
 "He did n t," she said. "Anyway, it was as much 
 my fault as his. I want him." 
 
 Nan could not get over her amazement. 
 
 "Do you know where he is?" asked Octavia. 
 
 "No," replied Nan. "I have his address, but that 
 is just the place where I should n t expect to find 
 him." 
 
 "Nan " 
 
 Nancy Hedge was wise in her generation. "Oh, 
 I ll give it to you," she said. "If it s a mistake, the 
 consequences be on your own head." 
 
 Octavia turned to Nan; but Nan had already gone 
 to one of the long windows and opened it. She stepped 
 out on to the piazza and walked aimlessly up and down. 
 In less than ten minutes she came in again, leaving 
 the window open, and began to whistle. 
 
 Nan was an expert whistler. She always whistled 
 with a liquid smoothness like a bird s, and she could 
 execute, in perfection, runs and trills and roulades 
 and all the other things of which I do not, at the mo 
 ment, recall the names. Names or not, Nan could 
 whistle them; and she did whistle them now. 
 
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 Octavia smiled with pleasure. Octavia was ready 
 enough to smile at anything, now. But it was not 
 strange that Nan s performance gave her pleasure, for 
 it was a very excellent performance. It gave somebody 
 else pleasure, too, apparently; for when Nan paused, 
 Jack Catherwood stepped in at the window. 
 
 "May I come in rather unceremoniously?" he 
 asked, going up to Nan. 
 
 There was a welcome in Nan s eyes. "Any way," 
 she said, giving him her hand, " any way, so long 
 as you come." 
 
 He turned and gave a good-evening to Octavia, who 
 was looking tolerant, at least. Then he turned again 
 to Nan. "I say, Nan, you never told me you could 
 whistle like that. Why have n t you done it for me 
 before ? " 
 
 Nan smiled and swept him a curtsey. " Thanks, gen 
 erous public," she said. " I have not told you because 
 of my innate modesty. I like to surprise you, some 
 times. If I did n t have a surprise for you occasionally, 
 where should I be?" 
 
 Jack laughed. "I have no doubt that you ll have 
 surprises enough for me, of one kind or another, to keep 
 me guessing. Is n t the performance to continue?" 
 
 " If you like," said Nan ; and she went to the piano 
 and launched at once into an aria. 
 
 Nan swung about on the piano stool. "There ! " she 
 said. " Does that suit your highness ? That 11 be about 
 all." 
 
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 Octavia judged that the time had come for her to go, 
 and accordingly she went, with a word to Jack and 
 a significant glance at Nan. Jack seemed very much 
 elated about something; something more than Nan s 
 whistling, although Nan would have had no objec 
 tion to his feeling elated about that. But has a man a 
 right to feel elated over the accomplishments of his 
 his 
 
 " Nan," said Jack, breaking into the current of her 
 thoughts, " don t you want to come out on the piazza ? 
 I have something to tell you." 
 
 Nan went, without a word, feeling elated, in her turn ; 
 and a curious choking sensation supervened, as, no 
 doubt, a physician or a surgeon would have put it. But 
 Doctor Olcott would not have put it so ; he would have 
 chuckled and gone home at once, thinking that he 
 knew what it was that Jack had to tell her. Nan 
 thought that she knew. The thought made her almost 
 dizzy. It was curious that Nan Hedge should have been 
 so affected by a mere thought. One would have sup 
 posed that the experiences Nan was believed to have 
 had would have made her proof against dizziness from 
 such a cause. 
 
 Nan seated herself on a little wicker settee at the end 
 of the piazza. It was in the shadow and quite hidden 
 by vines. Why she selected just that spot, I do not know ; 
 but she must have selected it, for she had moved the 
 settee when she was out there earlier in the evening. 
 It was not heavy. Being seated, there was just room 
 
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 for Jack beside her. Indeed, there was no other place 
 for him to sit, unless he sat upon the piazza rail or upon 
 the floor at Nan s feet. Either of those places might 
 have proved uncomfortable, the railing being no more 
 than a perch where the vines would have tickled the 
 back of his neck ; and Jack was no Oriental, to sit upon 
 a floor with comfort. Not that Jack gave a thought to 
 these matters, but it may be supposed that Nan had 
 given them a thought, perhaps. 
 
 "Well, Jack," said Nan, softly, "what is the weighty 
 matter that you have to tell me?" 
 
 Jack did not answer immediately. We may fancy 
 him struggling with his emotions. 
 
 "I don t know just where to begin," he said, at last. 
 "You know my sketching and and those things." 
 
 Nan laughed. "Indeed I do." 
 
 "Well, dad has been keeping an eye on them, it 
 seems. He never said anything about them but once. 
 But he had a long talk with me to-day." 
 
 Nan was beginning to be afraid. "About the 
 sketches?" she asked, in a low voice. 
 
 " Yes, primarily. He in short, he offered to send 
 me away to study, to New York or Paris, whichever I 
 preferred, for a year or two." 
 
 When Nan spoke again, her voice sounded strained 
 and queer. "No doubt you find that very attractive. 
 Which shall you choose?" 
 
 "I think I shall try New York, first," said Jack. 
 "Then I can go to Paris, if I find that is best." 
 
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 " I was in Paris, last, two years ago," Nan remarked, 
 trying to control her voice ; she succeeded pretty well 
 pretty well, considering. " It is a year, almost, since I 
 was in New York. I suppose you are to be congratu 
 lated, Jack. But I I " 
 
 Jack thought it queer at last. Anybody, knowing 
 Nan Hedge, would have thought it queer. He could not 
 see Nan s face well it was rather dark in that corner. 
 He bent nearer, in order to see it better. He had to get 
 pretty near ; and then he saw that her teeth were shut 
 tightly over her lower lip and she was looking down at 
 her hands, without seeing them, perhaps because her 
 eyes were full of tears. He did not know. And, because 
 but I do not know the reason he did what he had 
 not contemplated doing. At least, I have no reason to 
 think that he had contemplated doing it. 
 
 He took Nan s unresisting hand. "Why, Nan!" he 
 cried softly. "Why, Nan! What is it?" 
 
 Nan leaned against his shoulder and cried gently. 
 He took her in his arms. 
 
 "Why, Nan!" he said again. "Nan, dear, don t; 
 please don t." He kissed her, again and again. "Do 
 you love me, Nan, a little ?" He was whispering, very 
 low, in her ear. 
 
 " Oh, Jack, Jack ! " she said, hiding her face. " You 
 do care, don t you, Jack? I thought " 
 
 "Of course I care," said Jack, interrupting her. He 
 seemed to resent anybody s thinking that he did not 
 care, although, five minutes before, he might not have 
 
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 resented it; he might even have agreed. "Of course 
 I care! How could I help it?" 
 
 Nan smiled somewhat bitterly; but Jack could not 
 see it. "Did you want to help it? No, you need not 
 answer. I I thought that you would have gone away 
 from me for two years without regret. And and 
 I lost control of myself. I don t often lose control 
 of myself. I m ashamed that I did then. Forgive 
 me." 
 
 He kissed her again, passionately. "Forgive you!" 
 he said. "It s lucky you did." Nan seemed to him, 
 then, much to be desired. 
 
 She put up her arms and drew his head down to hers. 
 "See, dear," she whispered. "I have never done this 
 before, whatever people may think of me." She kissed 
 him on the lips; a long kiss. 
 
 Jack still held her close. " Why, Nan ! " he said in 
 dignantly. "What makes you think that people say 
 such things of you ? They don t ; or, at least, I never 
 heard them." 
 
 Nan laughed happily. "Of course you have n t, 
 stupid. You would be the last person they would say 
 it to. I did n t say they said such things. They only 
 think them. I m not a fool, and I know very well that 
 the Old Harbor people think the worst that can be 
 imagined of me, except the dear Miss Tiltons and Miss 
 Mervin and Mr. Ransome and, possibly, your father 
 and and you, Jack, dearest." Again she hid her 
 face on his shoulder, while Jack did well, what 
 
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 would you think he would do ? What would you have 
 done, in his place? 
 
 "I ve never done anything, really," Nan went on, 
 presently. " It s only that our ways are not the same as 
 your ways. I ve had very, very few experiences that I 
 might not have had if I d been born here. I m sorry 
 for those few. They were only such as you might ex 
 pect we live a different life. I wish I had n t ! " she 
 cried. "I wish I had n t! I wish that I d been born 
 here!" 
 
 Why pursue them further? Jack did all that could 
 have been expected of him by the most exacting girl ; 
 and Nan was not exacting. She seemed, rather, grate 
 ful. It is to be remembered that Nan had fallen in love 
 with Old Harbor and its ways. She was starved for 
 affection real affection ; not the affection that buys 
 you a seal cloak and goes unconcernedly about its 
 business. Nan had had her fill of the seal cloak kind of 
 love; until within a few months, she had known no 
 thing of the kind that the Miss Tiltons had to give. It 
 is not strange, perhaps, that she liked it. 
 
 Jack was late in getting home that evening. He 
 smiled to himself as he went up the long walk ; he felt 
 dizzy, as if he had been drinking too much. His mother 
 was waiting for him, looking somewhat anxious. He 
 did not tell her. He thought the matter would keep 
 for two or three days. Indeed, he would not have 
 known just what to tell. Was he engaged ? He sup 
 posed so. Was he glad ? Again, he supposed so. Nan 
 
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 Hedge was still much to be desired. And, in the happy 
 frame of mind of the man who has been drinking a 
 little too much, but not enough to give him a headache 
 in the morning, he went up to bed and to sleep. 
 
 Nan went to bed, too, but she did not go to sleep for 
 hours.
 
 FOR a long time after Jack had gone he wrote to Nan 
 regularly and very often ; almost every day. Nan would 
 have liked to write him every day, perhaps even 
 twice a day, but she did not. She schooled herself 
 carefully to refrain from indulgence in that pastime 
 oftener than four times a week. Jack s letters were all 
 that could be desired by Nan : just enough of the news 
 and the rest just plain love-letter. Nan s were even 
 better. She did not mean that he should be cloyed with 
 sweets, and she gave him just enough of it to make him 
 wish for more. Nan was very skillful at letter-writing, 
 as she was at everything that she put her mind to. I 
 am not going to give you samples of their letters, for 
 I have n t any by me. If I had, I should n t publish 
 them. There are some kinds of letters that should not 
 be published, a good many, doubtless, and love- 
 letters are of those kinds. 
 
 The temptation was strong for Nan to go and show 
 Mrs. Catherwood parts of her letters, parts of them, 
 and to be shown, in return, parts of Jack s letters to 
 his family. She did not yield to that temptation. For 
 we may be sure that Mrs. Catherwood s attitude was 
 as obvious to Nan as it is to us. She even felt certain 
 that Jack had said nothing to his mother of their rela- 
 
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 tions their engagement, This humiliated her a little, 
 but she did not show it. Instead, she made Jack feel 
 that it was by her wish that he had not spoken of it. 
 Really, it was due to nothing but laziness on Jack s 
 part. He does not seem to be much of a hero, does he ? 
 He was not ; only a thoughtless, well-intending, essen 
 tially good and clean-minded young man. There are 
 many such. 
 
 If Nan could not have the satisfaction of showing 
 parts of her letters to Mrs. Catherwood and getting 
 something that she very much wanted in return, there 
 were the Tiltons. Jack wrote to them frequently ; not 
 every day, nor anything like it, but often. Nan went 
 there every day, as she had done for a long time, and 
 she usually had some letters of Jack s concealed about 
 her, somewhere. 
 
 She read, to her interested audience of two, Jack s 
 account of his arrival, his unavailing hunt for any of 
 those whom he had selected as possible masters. Of 
 course, they had scattered to the four winds at the 
 approach of warm weather. 
 
 " Why, Nan," said Susie, in some surprise, " does n t 
 anybody stay in New York in the summer?" 
 
 Nan laughed. "Well," she replied slowly, "nobody 
 that can get out of it. It s getting to be pretty much 
 deserted." 
 
 " Oh, sister ! " cried Miss Susie. " Think of it ! That 
 great city, of millions of inhabitants, deserted !" Miss 
 Hitty laughed. "But, Nan," continued Miss Susie, 
 
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 much puzzled, "do they shut up all the shops and the 
 offices ? How do those people manage to go away ? It 
 must cost a lot." 
 
 Nan did not laugh, this time. " Oh, they stay. They 
 have to. I ve no doubt they are very comfortable; 
 much more comfortable than they would be if they were 
 shut up in a little box of a room at a summer hotel, 
 for instance. The climate of New York is n t half 
 bad. In the tenements,! suppose, it s not comfortable. 
 I don t know anything about them." 
 
 "Oh, the poor people!" sighed Miss Susie. 
 
 " I don t know whether you could drag them away," 
 Nan returned. "I doubt it. They would be the poor 
 people wherever they were, most of them. But I ought 
 to have thought that Jack would n t find anybody he 
 wanted." 
 
 Another day she read, to the same audience of two, 
 the account of Jack s finding, at last, one of the men 
 he was after, who had retired to the mountains, as was 
 his custom during the summer, with his class at his 
 heels ; reminding one, for all the world, of a hen with 
 a brood of chickens. 
 
 " It s not so very far," said Nan, when she had read it 
 all, and had shown both the Miss Tiltons where it ought 
 to be, in their old atlas an atlas fifty years old. 
 " It s not more than two hundred miles. He ought to 
 be able to get home once in a while." 
 
 The next time Nan went there with a new letter, Miss 
 Susie hailed her delightedly from the upper landing. 
 
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 " Oh, Nan, dear, we ve got something to show you." 
 
 "Have you?" Nan replied. "So have I." 
 
 Miss Hitty heard her, and Nan found her laughing 
 quietly, in her chair by the window. 
 
 "So you ve got something to show you, have you, 
 Nancy?" she asked, holding her off by both hands. 
 "Won t you show it to us?" 
 
 "No, you old dear," Nan answered promptly, "I 
 won t. I ll read you selections from it. Expurgated, 
 you know. I don t think it would be suitable to put 
 into the hands of a female of your tender years." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks, Nancy!" cried Miss Hitty, laughing. 
 "So that s the kind of letter that Jack writes you!" 
 
 Miss Susie had listened in wide-eyed horror. " Oh, 
 sister /" she cried, in distress. "Of course Jack s let 
 ters to Nan are not not improper." 
 
 "Don t be a fool, Susie," Miss Hitty said dryly. 
 "Nobody supposed they were." 
 
 Nan was blushing. It was very becoming. "They 
 are not improper, Miss Susie," she explained ; " but I 
 can t give them to you and Miss Hitty to read, be 
 cause because 
 
 "I understand, Nancy, dear," Miss Hitty said, in a 
 low voice, leaning toward Nan to pat her hand, "per 
 fectly. I ve no doubt Susie does, too. I ve had the 
 same kind of letters myself, fifty years ago, bless 
 me, it s nearer sixty, when a letter meant more than 
 it does now. After all, I don t know as it did," she 
 added quickly. " Mine did n t. Mine were from 
 
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 but I won t tell you. You might have known him or 
 of him. Let s have your selections." 
 
 Nan had pressed Miss Kitty s hand gently when she 
 spoke of her letters, but she said nothing. She began 
 turning over the sheets of her letter, reading a passage 
 here and there, and once she read a whole page. There 
 was no news of consequence, and Miss Susie could 
 scarcely restrain her impatience; she could not dis 
 guise it. 
 
 When Nan had finished, she looked up. "You two 
 people don t seem to think much of my selections." 
 
 "They re too thoroughly expurgated," said Miss 
 Hitty, smiling. "Besides, we ve got more news than 
 you have. Show it to her, Susie." 
 
 At which Miss Susie unfolded a letter which she had 
 been holding crumpled up in her impatient hand, and 
 put it in Nan s lap, with a flourish. " There ! " she said ; 
 "read that." 
 
 Nan could not help a feeling of jealousy that any 
 body should have more news from Jack than she had, 
 but she read their letter through. It was not nearly so 
 long as hers. That made her feel better. As she got 
 near the end, her face lighted up. 
 
 " So Jack s coming home to-morrow," she said 
 softly. " I don t wonder that you thought mine tame. 
 But I confess that I m jealous. Why did n t he tell me ? " 
 
 "I ve no doubt he wanted to surprise you, dear," 
 said Miss Hitty. " I thought it would be a pity to deny 
 you the pleasure of knowing." 
 
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 "Thank you," Nan said simply. 
 
 The explanation that Miss Hitty gave may have been 
 the correct one. It did not thoroughly satisfy Nan. 
 Jack came home for three days, and, if he had had any 
 sneaking idea that he would not see Nan, he abandoned 
 it. Indeed, he was at Nan s for the whole of three long 
 evenings, although he knew that he was thereby risking 
 having to tell his mother more than he was ready to 
 tell yet. But he was not called upon to tell his mother 
 anything, and he went away unconsciously hoping that 
 she had not guessed. Mrs. Catherwood had not guessed 
 it all, but she had guessed enough to make her very un 
 comfortable, and to make her watch Nan more closely. 
 
 She would not spy upon Nan as Miss Wetherbee 
 would have done in a similar situation ; as Miss Wether- 
 bee would have liked to do, even as matters were, if she 
 had been able. Nan might have had something to say 
 about that; it is conceivable that she might even have 
 said it, for she was without fear. So, if Mrs. Cather 
 wood did not attempt to spy upon Nan, she used every 
 legitimate method of knowing more about her, even to 
 calling upon her twice in the next three weeks. It was 
 rather a strain ; the more so, as she was unable to dis 
 cover anything that was not to Nan s credit. It is to be 
 feared that Mrs. Catherwood was not cut out for a 
 detective. 
 
 "Mary Catherwood," said Miss Hitty, one after 
 noon, not long after, when Mrs. Catherwood had 
 dropped in there, if one can be said to drop up two 
 
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 OLD HARBOR 
 
 flights of stairs, " Mary Catherwood, what possesses 
 you to be so down on Nancy Hedge ? She s a good girl 
 a dear girl. I know." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood smiled rather ruefully. " My own 
 opinion," she replied, " is being forced in that direction. 
 But she has ways that that " 
 
 "Ways!" sniffed Miss Hitty, scornfully. "Fiddle 
 sticks ! Everybody has ways. No doubt our ways, here 
 in Old Harbor, seem just as queer to her and just as 
 objectionable. We have ways that are what is the 
 word ? provincial. Oh, there s no doubt about it." 
 
 For Mrs. Catherwood plainly resented being called 
 provincial, although there was some allowance to be 
 made for Miss Hitty. She was Miss Hitty Tilton, and 
 there was nobody in the whole world just like her. 
 There could not be. There might be others in some 
 other Old Harbor that were tarred with the same 
 brush. There was no other Miss Hitty. In spite of her 
 brusque manner, everybody liked Miss Hitty, even 
 MacLean. 
 
 "Has she called us provincial ?" asked Mrs. Cather 
 wood, quietly. 
 
 " Of course she has n t," snapped Miss Hitty, as 
 though she was ready to bite her visitor s head off. 
 " Of course she has n t. Nancy does n t say such 
 things. She does n t call us names, although I ve no 
 doubt much worse things have been said of her the 
 stranger within our gates by our own people." 
 
 "Not by me." 
 
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 " No," said Miss Hitty, grudgingly. " You would not, 
 but plenty have. She is every bit as good as Jack. You 
 know that I m fond of Jack, but I believe that I m 
 fonder of Nancy." 
 
 Mrs. Catherwood laughed. "Jack has his faults. I 
 should be the last to contend that he had n t." 
 
 "Well, not to hurt. He ll get over most of em." 
 
 Then Miss Susie came in and they dropped the sub 
 ject; and soon after, Mrs. Catherwood went home 
 feeling pleased, although she could not have told why. 
 
 The next time Jack came home and was starting out 
 for the evening, his mother went out into the hall to see 
 him safely off. Jack was somewhat apprehensive. 
 
 "Good-by, Jackie," she said. "Give my love to 
 Miss Hedge." 
 
 To say that Jack was surprised would be putting it 
 too mildly. His face expressed all shades of astonish 
 ment, and he laughed in embarrassed fashion. 
 
 " It has hardly reached that point, mother," he said, 
 " but I will. She 11 be glad to get the message, no 
 doubt." 
 
 Then he went out, hastily. Once outside, where he 
 had a chance to think, he was half of the mind to go 
 back and tell her. He had had the opportunity, and in 
 his haste and confusion he had almost lied. He had to 
 confess to himself that he had not shone. He had not 
 toed the mark. Instead, he had failed, lamentably, to 
 show himself the man he thought he was. But he did 
 not go back. He was already at the gate, and it would 
 
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 be time enough when he got back. So he went on to 
 Nan s. By the time he got home again, everybody had 
 gone to bed. Jack was rather glad. Some other time, 
 soon, would do. Jack had had his chance. Never again 
 would it be so easy for him to tell his mother what she 
 had a right to know. 
 
 It was some time after that that Miss Hitty began to 
 notice that there was something the matter with Nan s 
 spirits. Once forced upon her attention, she was aware 
 that it had been going on for some weeks and getting 
 worse. It is a progressive malady : progressive in one 
 direction or the other. It was her way to be direct, and 
 she spoke of it. Miss Susie was out. 
 
 " Now, Nancy," she said, " you are not as sprightly as 
 you used to be, or as you ought to be. An engaged girl 
 ought not to be down in the mouth." 
 
 Nan betrayed no emotion unless her smile expressed 
 amusement. "Perhaps it is because I don t try. If I 
 make some effuts, as our German teacher used to urge 
 me to, I might be more so. But what makes you think 
 I am engaged ? " 
 
 "Chut, Nancy!" said Miss Hitty. "Don t try to 
 deceive me. I know it as well as if you had told me. 
 Now, what s the matter? Has Jack done anything? * 
 
 " No," Nan replied, with a patient smile which wrung 
 Miss Hitty s heart ; " no, Jack has n t done anything. 
 Perhaps that s the matter or maybe I m not alto 
 gether well. I think I can be more sprightly without 
 working too hard." 
 
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 "Well," observed Miss Hitty, grimly, "when Jack 
 comes home again, I 11 see him and I 11 settle that young 
 man. If he hasn t done anything, he s responsible, 
 anyway, for our Nancy s good spirits." 
 
 Nan seized her hand. " Oh, thank you for the intent," 
 she cried, "but please don t." 
 
 "Don t what?" asked Miss Hitty. 
 
 " Don t settle him," said Nan ; and she kissed the old 
 woman on both cheeks. They both laughed softly. 
 
 Miss Hitty kept tight hold of Nan s hand. "Well, 
 Nancy, dear," she said, looking into her face more 
 affectionately than one would have thought that Miss 
 Hitty could look, "well, Nancy, dear, if you don t 
 want me to, I won t. But I mean to keep an eye on 
 you, and if I think it absolutely necessary to speak to 
 Jack, I shall have to do it. W T e are all responsible." 
 
 When Miss Susie came in, Nan bespoke their careful 
 attention. She had something important to ask them. 
 "You want to do something that will please me very 
 much, don t you?" she asked. 
 
 Miss Susie assented enthusiastically, Miss Hitty no 
 less certainly; but she wanted to know what it was 
 before she agreed to it. 
 
 " Well," said Nan, smiling, and with a pretty color, 
 "you know that I am a wild young thing and commit 
 shocking improprieties unless I am properly looked 
 after." 
 
 " Oh, Nan," cried Miss Susie, " how can you say such 
 things?" 
 
 304.
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Miss Hitty smiled at her and patted her hand. 
 
 "Oh," said Nan, "that s nothing, only an instance. 
 Octavia s much worse than I. Besides, I don t feel 
 sure that she ll be able to stay a great while longer. 
 I I thought it would be very nice very nice for 
 me if you would move back to your house again." 
 
 " Nancy, Nancy ! " Miss Hitty said, very gently for 
 her, for anybody, still patting Nan s hand and 
 smiling. There were tears in her eyes. 
 
 Miss Susie did not take it in immediately. "Why, 
 Nan," she asked, in bewilderment, "what do you 
 mean ? We have n t any house now." 
 
 "Come and live with me," Nan said quietly; "both 
 of you. You shall have your old rooms and anything 
 else you want. Please !" she urged, seeing Miss Hitty s 
 face. "I need you." 
 
 "Oh, Nan!" began Miss Susie. "I " 
 
 "Nancy, dear," said Miss Hitty, interrupting her 
 sister, "you know we can t. It is dear and kind in you 
 to want us, but we can t." 
 
 "Now, why not?" Nan insisted. "I said I needed 
 you." 
 
 Miss Hitty smiled again, with amusement this time. 
 "Oh, but you don t," she said. "You can t fool me." 
 
 Miss Hitty had been growing gradually feebler as the 
 summer went on. Nan had seen it; she was one of the 
 very few who were aware of it. Miss Hitty herself was 
 another. 
 
 Nan looked as if she would like to cry, but she did 
 305
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 not. " Do you know," she asked, " that it is very selfish 
 and mean in you to refuse my invitation and to deny to 
 a poor, unprotected girl the solace of your presence? 
 It is mean in you to make me downer in the mouth 
 than ever. How can you expect me to be sprightly?" 
 
 " You know us," remarked Miss Hitty, " and I know 
 you, Nancy Hedge." 
 
 "I m going home," said Nan, with an injured air, 
 "with my despised invitations." 
 
 She got up and kissed Miss Susie ; then, saying, " You 
 don t deserve it not in the least," she kissed Miss 
 Hitty and went out. 
 
 " Oh, sister I " cried Miss Susie, when Nan was out 
 of hearing. " How could you be so so decided ? I m 
 afraid that you hurt Nan s feelings." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" 
 
 "It would be so nice," continued Miss Susie, wist 
 fully, " if we could go back to the house with no anxie 
 ties about keeping it in order." 
 
 "Well, we can t," snapped Miss Hitty. "I m 
 ashamed of you, Susie. You re a no, you re not a 
 fool, but you don t understand. Nancy does." 
 
 At which Miss Susie began to cry softly. Her crying 
 always irritated Miss Hitty. 
 
 It was not long before Jack began to have dealings 
 with the magazines ; very slight relations they were, at 
 first, entered into through his teacher. Jack was enthu 
 siastic. His letters to Nan were full of that important 
 matter, to the almost total exclusion of everything else. 
 
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 Nan missed the everything else. She found that she did 
 not care much for the matters that Jack found so inter 
 esting. And, with important business as his excuse, he 
 wrote but once a week. 
 
 Nan threw down the third of his weekly letters, with 
 an exclamation of impatience. 
 
 " I don t care a yip " shocking expression where 
 could she have picked it up ? " for his durned old 
 magazines," she said to herself an even more shock 
 ing expression. " I want a different kind of a letter." 
 She sighed. " I 11 take it around to my old ladies ; I can 
 give it to them to read, unexpurgated. I suppose that 
 I ought to be interested. I should be, if he had only 
 written a page of the other kind." 
 
 Sighing again, she started for the Tiltons . On her 
 way, she came upon Constance, who gave her a very 
 friendly smile. Nan drew up to the curb, quickly, on 
 the impulse of the moment, and asked if she did n t 
 want to get in. Constance got in, very readily. She had 
 just come from the post-office, where she had found a 
 letter from Jack, all her own ; and Jack had said and 
 Constance rattled on, giving Nan the news with which 
 she was already familiar. But it was a comfort to have 
 Constance beside her, and to hear her talk about Jack. 
 Nan did not go directly to the Tiltons , but drove aim 
 lessly about the streets as long as Constance would. 
 No doubt MacLean saw them several times. 
 
 Jack, in his enthusiasm, even wrote to his father, 
 urging him to write some of his recollections of the Civil 
 
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 War. "Anything about the war goes, now, dad," he 
 wrote, " especially if it is personal. It can t be too 
 personal. There must be stacks of things that you could 
 haul out of the pigeon-holes of your memory. Do it. 
 The writing of them will be all right. Make them inti 
 mate just talk. They would go like hot cakes. I ll 
 venture to say that I could dispose of them at the first 
 publisher s I tried ; very likely to the first magazine I 
 tried. Colonel Francis Catherwood s Memoirs of the 
 Civil War. Will you do it ?" 
 
 Colonel Catherwood pulled out a drawer full to the 
 top with closely written sheets, and then another drawer 
 half full. He chuckled as he looked at them. 
 
 "I ll think of it, Jackie," he said. "I ll think of it. 
 Perhaps I will."
 
 NAN and Octavia had finished their dinner in a silence 
 that was almost complete, and Octavia had seated her 
 self in an easy-chair, as was her custom, and had folded 
 her hands and had been doing nothing, apparently with 
 great satisfaction, as was also her custom. Not that 
 Octavia Haight was an idle or an inefficient person, 
 but only that, when she had nothing to do, she believed 
 in doing nothing. Even her brain seemed to be a blank ; 
 but that effect was not sufficiently unusual to attract 
 attention from those who knew her well. 
 
 Nan wandered about, as she had done on another 
 occasion, aimlessly, in and out of the long window, 
 doing nothing as truly as Octavia, but making hard 
 work of it. Her restlessness irritated Octavia, who 
 looked up occasionally, but said nothing. The silence 
 continued. Octavia s method of doing nothing irritated 
 Nan, too. Octavia might have been a marble statue, 
 wonderfully colored by some great artist. She did not 
 move so much as a finger or her eyes ; only her breast 
 rose and fell slowly, with her deep and regular breath 
 ing. Nan watched it for some time. 
 
 "Octavia!" she said suddenly. It would have 
 startled most people. Octavia only looked at Nan 
 quietly, moving her head slowly for the purpose, but 
 she did not speak. 
 
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 " Octavia," said Nan, impatiently. " I wonder if you 
 would sit as immovably if I stuck a hat-pin into you." 
 
 Octavia smiled slowly. " If you stuck it into me in 
 the right place and quickly enough, I might be even 
 more immovable," she said. "But don t you try it, 
 Nan." 
 
 "I d like to try it," Nan replied maliciously. "I d 
 like to shake you." 
 
 " You may try that, if you like. I m stronger than 
 you." 
 
 "Oh, you make me angry," Nan cried. "How can 
 you sit quietly in that stuffed chair, this hot night?" 
 
 "I m very comfortable," said Octavia, with another 
 of her slow smiles. 
 
 Octavia s smiles irritated Nan, too, and her coolness 
 and her calmness generally. Nan was forgetting that 
 Octavia s olive skin marked her as suited to hot weather. 
 Nan was feeling rather low in her mind, though she 
 would hardly confess it to herself, much less to Octavia. 
 I suppose she was unduly irritable, not wholly well, 
 perhaps, and therefore not accountable for the state 
 of her temper. 
 
 "Is he coming to-night, Nan?" asked Octavia. 
 
 "I don t know, I m sure," answered Nan, impa 
 tiently. She showed none of that calm certainty which 
 she had displayed on that other occasion of w r hich 
 I have spoken. 
 
 "Don t you know whether he came home or not?" 
 persisted Octavia, surprised. 
 
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 "Yes, I know that he came home," Nan replied, 
 more impatiently than before, "but I don t know 
 whether he is coming here or not. Men have been 
 known to change their minds before now, Octavia, as 
 I reminded you once before. I don t know whether he 
 would have to change his mind to come or to stay 
 away. You will see, if you wait long enough." 
 
 " Oh," said Octavia, quietly, turning a dark red. " I 
 suppose you are only waiting, then, Nan?" she con 
 tinued sweetly. 
 
 "Only waiting," answered Nan, trying to keep a 
 clutch on her temper. She muttered something under 
 her breath. 
 
 Octavia had heard, and she laughed aloud, low and 
 lazily. Nan turned, her eyes blazing. 
 
 "Octavia!" she began; then her eyes encountered 
 Octavia s. Octavia s eyes seemed to hold a quiet scorn 
 of herself. She was laughing more at herself than at 
 Nan. Nan relented. " Are you in hard luck, too ? " she 
 asked. "Have n t you heard from him yet?" 
 
 " Not yet ; not a word. I have written three times. I 
 can t do more in self-respect." 
 
 "I m sorry, Octavia, and I beg your pardon. I m 
 nervous and tired and hot, and your appearance of cool 
 ness and calmness exasperated me. Come," she said, 
 with a change of manner, " let s be gay. I 11 whistle 
 for you." 
 
 So she did, Octavia sitting calmly, with no more 
 expression than the marble statue that she had seemed 
 
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 to resemble. At the end of an hour, Nan stopped and 
 whirled about on the piano stool. 
 
 "I guess that ll be about all," she said. "My lips 
 are tired." 
 
 "Yes," rejoined Octavia, "they must be. Thank 
 you, Nan. There are other exercises for the lips that 
 would be more agreeable, are n t there?" 
 
 Nan flushed slowly, and rose, without reply, and 
 passed out of the long window, which was open. She 
 threw herself down upon the seat in the corner of the 
 piazza, it was shielded by vines, you remember, and 
 was well in the shadow, and put her head down upon 
 her arms. It was long after nine. Again she rose and 
 went in. 
 
 "I m going to bed, Octavia. Will you put out the 
 lights when you come up?" 
 
 Octavia nodded. " So you ve given him up, Nan ?" 
 
 "It s much too late for him, now," Nan replied. 
 "You may have observed that the customs here are 
 not those to which you have been brought up." 
 
 "I could never get used to them." 
 
 "I could if I had the chance, and I would. But 
 our Jacks seem to be Knaves both of them. Good 
 night." 
 
 Nan went up to her room ; but not to bed. She sat 
 in the dark for hours at her open window, and 
 watched the lights go out in the other houses which she 
 could see through the trees, and watched the stars and 
 listened to the quiet noises of the summer night. The 
 
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 crickets throbbed overpoweringly in a chorus which 
 seemed to keep time with the beating of her heart. 
 
 What Nan could not know was that, although Jack 
 Catherwood had come home that afternoon, he had 
 come home very nearly ill. Mrs. Catherwood had 
 promptly insisted upon his going to bed, a course which 
 he was too dull and feverish to oppose. He had the 
 idea that he would be able to get up, by evening; but 
 when the evening came, he did not remember Nan or 
 his engagement, and he naturally did not remember 
 to send her word, which he would certainly have done 
 if he had had his senses about him. Mrs. Catherwood 
 might even have done it, if she had not been too much 
 occupied to think about it. She was sitting by Jack, 
 listening to his disconnected mutterings in his uneasy 
 sleep, and learning much that she had been able to do 
 no more than conjecture. It gave her something to 
 think about. She roused Jack enough to give him a 
 mustard foot-bath and a dose of some simple old- 
 fashioned remedy. I don t know what it was nitre, 
 perhaps; and it may not have done a particle of good, 
 but she had faith in it, and faith, we are told, is the 
 most potent agent. Though whether faith acts vicari 
 ously to produce auto-suggestion is a rather nice point, 
 which I will not attempt to decide, nor will I attempt 
 to trace the connection between auto-suggestion and 
 the typhoid bacillus. 
 
 At any rate, Mrs. Catherwood piled the bedclothes 
 on Jack, enough to smother him on ordinary occa- 
 
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 sions, and left him, in the most absolute faith, to 
 sweat it out. Jack, being young and strong and well 
 supplied with white corpuscles, if they have not been 
 supplanted by something else, by this time, with 
 whatever makes the fight for a man, at all events, 
 proceeded to do so. In the morning, he found himself 
 rather weak, but perfectly clear in his mind, and his 
 first thought, we may suppose, was for Nan. At least, 
 he made several attempts to get word to her. There 
 was some obvious difficulty in that without telling 
 more than he was yet prepared to tell. Then, thinking 
 that he would certainly be well enough to go to see her 
 that evening, he gave up trying. 
 
 When evening came, Jack was not quite well enough 
 to go out. His mother had no great difficulty in per 
 suading him of that, w r hich was undoubtedly true, nor 
 in persuading him to go to bed, instead, at eight o clock. 
 For Jack had faith in Nan, that she would most will 
 ingly forgive his absence when she learned the reason. 
 He would write her about it on Monday, as soon as 
 ever he could. It did not once occur to him that she 
 might not believe all that he should write about his ill 
 ness, that she might consider it an excuse and nothing 
 more; " indisposition" is capable of more than one in 
 terpretation. Nan could not know that Mrs. Cather- 
 wood made some effort to send word that night. 
 
 In this case, vicarious faith did not seem to result 
 in auto-suggestion. Instead, Nan went up to her room 
 early, and again she sat in the dark at her window. 
 
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 She had been able to make very little pretense, with 
 Mrs. Haight, of feeling other than wretched; but even 
 Octavia, making allowance for the pretense, was not 
 aware how utterly miserable Nan, alone in her own 
 room, seemed to be. She did not cry at all, which was 
 a pity. But if you have had similar feelings, you will 
 know just how she felt, without my enlarging upon 
 the matter ; if you have not, no words of mine could 
 make you understand. 
 
 Nan went about, much as usual, for the next two 
 days ; she said little, and there were dark rings under 
 her eyes, but there was no other sign. On Tuesday, 
 she got Jack s letter. No doubt Jack had made a mis 
 take in writing rather slightingly of his illness, which 
 his mother had nipped in the bud; no doubt he had 
 made an even greater mistake in writing of it as indis 
 position." He had the young man s scorn of illness, and 
 was naturally somewhat ashamed that he should have 
 come so near being guilty of it. Because of that reason 
 of Jack s, which is rather commendable than otherwise, 
 Nan, feeling as she did, took no stock in his excuses; 
 for excuses they seemed to her to be, and nothing more. 
 
 No, Nan could not know all of what was in Jack s 
 mind when he wrote, although she may have known 
 enough to justify her action ; and Jack knew even less 
 of what was passing in Nan s mind. Failing thus of a 
 complete understanding, it is not strange, perhaps, that 
 they should have fallen into a misunderstanding which 
 was more or less complete. 
 
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 For Nan, having considered the case impartially for 
 almost two days, was forced to the conclusion that 
 something was due her self-respect. Seeing no escape, 
 the two days were devoted to the search for some 
 way of escape, which would, at the same time, save her 
 self-respect, she wrote him, releasing him from the 
 engagement. It was necessary to assume that there 
 was an engagement from which to release him; but 
 Nan had no compunctions about that, as she was about 
 to release him from it. Her letter was very gentle and 
 very dignified and very friendly, and she was an inor 
 dinately long time in writing it. She must have wanted 
 Jack very much; too much, it is to be supposed, to be 
 willing to allow him to humiliate her so much. When 
 she had got the letter written, at last, and posted, and 
 had burned all of her bridges, she went up to her room. 
 She wanted to cry a little, but she did not. She sat at 
 her window, looking out and seeing nothing, and Oc- 
 tavia had to send up for her three times before she came 
 to luncheon. 
 
 Jack s reply to her letter came with suspicious 
 promptness, and in it he accepted all that Nan had 
 said, with dignity and gentleness and great friendliness 
 and readiness; almost too readily, Nan thought. But 
 Jack was unconscious of any wrong which he had done, 
 and he was stiff-necked accordingly and hurt more 
 hurt than he would have believed possible. Knowing 
 that he was guilty of nothing, he was forced to believe 
 that the engagement, such as it was, had been broken 
 
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 solely because of some whim of Nan s. Jack was too 
 young not to be proud too proud to be willing to 
 question Nan s decision or to ask her real reasons. It 
 might have done no good at all to ask them ; but it is 
 conceivable that it might have. If Jack had only known 
 enough to know it, Nan was waiting and hoping for 
 some such excuse. To Jack, Nan Hedge seemed more 
 to be desired than ever. 
 
 Miss Hitty saw it all. Nan could not hope to hide it 
 from her. She asked Nan about it, and she even wrote 
 to Jack when she found that she could get no satisfac 
 tion from Nan. 
 
 "Jack Catherwood," she wrote, "what have you 
 been doing to our Nancy? Answer me, and tell the 
 truth." 
 
 To which Jack answered, truthfully enough, that he 
 had not done anything; that Nan, herself, had written 
 him, releasing him from the engagement and giving 
 no adequate reason for her action. He did not see that 
 he had any standing at all; there seemed to be no 
 thing for him to do but to acquiesce. He supposed 
 that Nan was tired of it, for he could see no other pos 
 sible reason. 
 
 Miss Hitty did not show this letter to Nan nor to 
 Susie. It was her own private affair with Jack. But 
 she wrote him again. " Nan is not tired of it. She is 
 almost broken-hearted. There is some misunderstand 
 ing here. I shall keep my eye on you two young folks, 
 too young things, I might as well have said, both 
 
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 of you too proud to do anything to clear up misunder 
 standings. Don t let it go so, Jack. Don t do as I did 
 There! it s out. I might have been your own grand 
 mother, if I had not been a mule. This is between you 
 and me. Don t you go and tell. And hurry up about 
 your business. I may not last very much longer. Don t 
 you tell that, either." 
 
 Jack made no immediate reply to this, but Miss 
 Hitty did not expect any reply. She knew him. 
 
 As for Nan, she had taken to driving incessantly; 
 or as nearly that as was possible with but one horse 
 that she cared to drive. That horse lost flesh over it, 
 and became as lean as a horse should be. Nan may 
 have found solace in driving over the roads where she 
 had been used to find Jack; over those roads, again 
 and again, stopping now and then to let her imagi 
 nary companion get some good bit of composition, then 
 driving on. She may have done that or she may not ; she 
 never told me, and nobody else could have spoken with 
 authority. But as she was coming in over the old 
 Boston stage-road, one day, she saw Eben Joyce come 
 out of the woods. Moved by some impulse which I will 
 not try to explain, she drew up and waited for him. 
 Nan seldom tried to analyze her impulses, but acted 
 on them. To be sure, Eben Joyce was Jack s uncle; 
 but it is doubtful whether Nan consciously remembered 
 that fact. 
 
 Eben saw the horse and cart, and noted that they 
 seemed to be waiting for him. He hesitated, conquered 
 
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 his impulse to retreat and go home some other way, and 
 advanced resolutely towards Nan. It took a good deal 
 of resolution. When Nan asked him, in the most com 
 monplace tone and as if she had known him all her life, 
 if he would n t rather be driven home than walk, he got 
 in beside her, somewhat dazed. Here was Nancy Hedge, 
 whom he had never met, asking him to drive with her. 
 Obviously, there was but one thing to do. 
 
 To his great surprise, Eben found himself talking 
 freely. Nan did not say much, but the little that she did 
 say was well calculated if it was calculated at all, 
 concerning which there is a reasonable doubt to keep 
 Eben going. Presently Eben began to speak of Jack; 
 whether by his own design or by design of Nan s, there 
 is the same reasonable doubt or larger; for Eben, 
 in such matters, was no fool. He may have been mildly 
 intoxicated by Nan s nearness. She sometimes pro 
 duced that effect. 
 
 "My sister Harriet said," observed Eben, "that Jack 
 came near having a serious illness the last time he was 
 at home." 
 
 Nan sat up I do not mean that literally, for Nan 
 always sat erect when she was driving; she turned to 
 Eben so quickly that she startled both him and the 
 horse. For a minute, she had to devote her attention to 
 the horse. 
 
 "What did you say, Mr. Joyce," she asked, when she 
 had the animal quieted again, "about an illness ?" 
 
 "I said," Eben answered, "that Jack came near 
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 being seriously ill when he was at home last. Or so 
 Harriet told me." 
 
 " Oh, I am sorry to hear it," Nan said. There could 
 be no doubt of her sincerity. "Tell me about it." 
 
 So Eben told her, reporting what Harriet had said to 
 him that Mrs. Catherwood had said. It is to be borne 
 in mind that Jack was a great favorite of Harriet s 
 and that Mrs. Catherwood was his mother. It is not 
 likely that the tale lost appreciably by repetition. Nan 
 listened to Eben s story in silence. 
 
 "Thank you," she said simply, when he had made 
 an end of it. "I am very glad that Mrs. Catherwood 
 was able to bring him out of it so well." 
 
 "It is very fortunate," Eben replied. 
 
 "Very fortunate," Nan echoed. She could not say 
 anything more. She had forgotten where they were 
 going, and the horse had passed MacLean s twice 
 MacLean, himself, was at his open door, looking out 
 before she remembered to leave Eben at his gate. 
 
 Nan was regretting, bitterly. She was regretting 
 everything : her action, which now seemed to have been 
 hasty, her looks, her bringing up, her age. There was no 
 need. Although she was a year or two older than Jack, 
 she was not very old; and, certainly, there was no need 
 to regret her looks. She did. She regretted everything 
 that made her different from the others. She wished, 
 passionately, to be like them, and to have them like her. 
 In the midst of her regrets she looked up and there was 
 Constance. Without stopping to consider what Con- 
 
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 stance might think of her action, she called to her and 
 asked if she would not drive a little way with her. 
 Constance, somewhat surprised, got in beside her. 
 
 "I am almost home," said Constance, "but that 
 does n t matter. I ll go anywhere you like." 
 
 Nan was grateful. She began, at once, to question 
 Constance about Jack and his illness. Constance an 
 swered with entire frankness. Constance was no fool 
 and she liked Nan, and she could give a pretty good 
 guess at the situation; and, if she could help Nan, she 
 was quite willing to do so. 
 
 "I m going to have a good talk with Jack," she said, 
 when she had finished her story, "the next time he 
 comes home." 
 
 She did not say what the talk would be about, and 
 Nan did not ask. 
 
 "Are you?" she asked. "Will you tell him that I 
 am sorry he came so near being ill ? Tell him that I am 
 very sorry for what happened to him. Will you?" 
 
 Constance looked up quickly. "Yes," she said; 
 "I ll tell him just that." She seemed to think that the 
 subject ought to be changed, at this point. " Do you 
 know," she continued, laughing, "that our Nora came 
 to mother in a great fright yesterday. She thought she 
 had seen a ghost." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Nan. She was not interested in Nora. 
 
 "Yes," said Constance; "she thought it was the 
 ghost of Mike Loughery that she had seen the night 
 before. She had been up pretty nearly the whole ni^ht, 
 
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 saying prayers for him. She must have just about 
 worn out her rosary." 
 
 "From what I have heard of Mike Loughery," 
 replied Nan, "Nora s prayers would n t hurt him. 
 Might it not have been Mike himself?" 
 
 "Oh, no. Mike sailed on the Susan last spring. 
 She can t get in for nearly a month." 
 
 Nan murmured some reply. It did not matter what 
 she said. She was still filled with regrets, and there did 
 not seem to be anything that she could do to mend mat 
 ters. Jack must make the next move. If he should n t, 
 after that message, if her intuition should prove to 
 have been right, as is apt to be the case with woman s 
 intuition, Nan would not think of it. 
 
 That summer had not been a happy time for Nan. 
 She had not had many really happy times in all her 
 life. 
 
 MacLean kicked out his leg as he told his freshest bit 
 of gossip to the first man who came into his shop. That 
 man, unhappily for MacLean, happened to be Doctor 
 Olcott. 
 
 "Eh, mon," he said gleefully, "what 11 the Hedge 
 girl be doin noo, d ye think ? She ll be takkin oop wi 
 Eben Joyce, puir mon ! She drove 
 
 "Damn it, MacLean!" the doctor broke out, 
 sharply. " Damn it ! Will you leave Nan Hedge alone ? 
 Can t a girl do anything without setting your damned 
 tongue to wagging ? Hinged in the middle, MacLean ! 
 Damnable gossip ! " 
 
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 The doctor, still rumbling wrathfully, wheezed out 
 and slammed MacLean s door behind him; slammed 
 the door behind him, in spite of the fact that it was 
 never shut at that season, but stood open, with a chair 
 against it.
 
 EBEN was lying stretched at length on the pine 
 needles, happier than he had been for many a long day 
 for many a year, for that matter ; since that time, 
 back in the dim past, when he had run away. Clanky 
 Beg and Joe were stretched beside him, and they were 
 happy, too. It was nothing unusual for them, perhaps. 
 All three watched the patch of blue sky above the little 
 clearing, and the white clouds drifting past it, and the 
 tops of the pines that waved lazily in the summer breeze, 
 and they listened to their soft whisperings. None of the 
 three said anything. They were content to lie there and 
 breathe the spicy air and watch the summer day drift 
 by. It brought up old memories to Eben; memories 
 of Oriental ports, perhaps, and tropical seas and the 
 spicy smell of his cargo mingled with the smell of pine 
 tar and bilge-water the smell of a ship. Eben loved 
 that smell. 
 
 Suddenly, Clanky sat up and peered about; then he 
 got to his feet and vanished noiselessly. It made Eben 
 uneasy and his content was at an end ; for Eben was 
 not used to being happy, and at the first suspicion of 
 alarm, the feeling left him. It was an elusive feeling. 
 
 "What is it, Joe?" he asked. 
 
 Joe laughed, care-free. His conscience did not 
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 trouble him. "Oh," he said, "nothing, I guess. 
 Probably Clanky thinks somebody has come into the 
 woods. There s no reason why they should n t. The 
 woods are n t ours." 
 
 Eben lay back again ; but he was uneasy, and not at 
 peace. Because he was uneasy, he could not lie quiet 
 there, as he had been doing for more than an hour, but 
 in five minutes he sat up again. Opposite him, on the 
 log which had been Clanky s favorite seat all winter, 
 sat a stranger. He was a slightly undersized man, but 
 inclined to a beery corpulence, which was kept in 
 check by underfeeding. His eyes were puffy, and on 
 his flabby cheeks was a stubble of beard ; and his face 
 wore an expression of a sort of specious geniality. 
 
 At the sight of Eben a smile that was, no doubt, 
 meant to be jovial overspread this gentleman s fine fea 
 tures ; a smile that was most thoroughly belied by the 
 expression of his eyes. In them was a look like that 
 of a bird of prey or a wolf. 
 
 He slapped his leg. "Why, damn me!" he cried, 
 with a laugh intended to be round and jolly. "Damn 
 me, if it ain t Jacob Bronson! Why, Jacob," he said, 
 rising and advancing toward Eben with a slightly 
 rolling gait, "who d a thought to find you here, 
 snoozin away in this quiet spot ? Looks like you ain t 
 got a thing on your conscience. Why, Jacob " 
 
 For Eben had given a low cry of terror, had leaped 
 to his feet and fled. The stranger, with an excited 
 chuckle of delight, put out after him. He could not 
 
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 hope to overtake Eben, for Eben was not corpulent, nor 
 was he underfed now, and fear winged his heels ; but 
 at least, he could have the joy of the chase. 
 
 All this had passed too quickly for Joe to have a 
 hand or a foot in it. He could only sit up, when it was 
 too late, and watch the stranger until he disappeared, 
 which he did with a rapidity that was astonishing, and 
 listen to the sounds of the chase. " Oh, Jacob ! Oh, Mr. 
 Bronson ! " the stranger was calling continually, his calls 
 being as continually interrupted by his laughter. These 
 sounds were becoming momentarily more distant. 
 
 Joe wondered ; then he saw Clanky Beg slipping 
 through the wood with what speed he was capable of. 
 Poor Clanky! He did not run well, because his legs 
 were wobbly. He knew it well, and it was a source of 
 unending grief to him. 
 
 "Go it, Clanky!" called Joe, softly. "Go it! I m 
 sorry for that man if you get your hands on him." 
 
 Clanky did go it. It did no good, for the more he 
 ran, the farther he was behind. Clanky himself perceiv 
 ing that fact before he got to the edge of the wood, his 
 grief was so heavy that he leaned against a tree and 
 wept. As he was weeping his heart out, there was the 
 sound of mocking laughter; and Clanky looked up, 
 surprised, and there stood Mike Loughery, only a few 
 steps away. 
 
 Clanky s surprise did not prevent him from acting 
 quickly. He threw himself upon Mike in a fury, before 
 Mike could stir a foot. 
 
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 "Now Clanky s got you," he said, calmly enough, 
 as his strong arms wound about the struggling Mike. 
 " Clanky s going to kill you, Mike. Mike s a thief and 
 a liar, and he s going to die." 
 
 Mike began to believe that Clanky spoke the truth ; 
 but he made a mighty struggle. 
 
 Now it happened that William Ransome had been 
 out beyond the pines, to a point from which he could 
 get an unobstructed view of the sea. He had been sit 
 ting with his back against a great rock, for a long time, 
 engaged in introspection and in looking out over the 
 wide waters. He was tired of being unable to write, tired 
 of having something the matter with him and not know 
 ing what it was, and he had set himself the task, delib 
 erately, of searching his soul to find out, if possible, 
 what was wrong. 
 
 He had selected the spot instinctively and uncon 
 sciously, but his judgment had been sound. At least, 
 I think so. There is nothing that so helps a man to a 
 true searching of the soul as an unobstructed view over 
 wide waters. I cannot imagine a man s dealing with 
 anything but truth in the presence of the sea. All the 
 littlenesses of life fall away before it. The only trouble 
 with it, for a purpose such as William s, if it is a 
 trouble, is that it soon becomes an effort to keep your 
 soul consciously before you for examination. Your 
 soul becomes a hidden witness, none the less revealed 
 to you for that, and you are lost in contemplation before 
 you know it. Then the truth dawns on you, not sud- 
 
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 denly, but like the rising of the sun, and becomes as 
 clear as day. You know it for truth, and wonder that 
 you could have failed to see anything so palpable. You 
 even laugh at yourself for a fool. 
 
 So William, after much gazing over the wide waters, 
 and much pleasant musing, his conscious searching 
 having been long abandoned, laughed, on a sudden, 
 aloud. 
 
 "Well, William," he said, "you are you certainly 
 are a fool. I ll go and tell her now." 
 
 He did not mention who the "her" was; but he 
 knew and, I suppose, we have known for a long time. 
 Perhaps we have been inclined, more than once, to call 
 him a fool for not knowing. He sprang up, like a boy, 
 and strode off, still laughing. 
 
 He was walking over the fields of wiry grass, and he 
 had just come to the fringe of young growth near Mrs. 
 Loughery s, when he saw a man dart from the woods 
 like a frightened deer. Within the woods were sounds 
 of gasping and broken chuckling and an occasional 
 exclamation. He thought he knew the runner. 
 
 " Eben ! " he called. " Oh, Eben ! " 
 
 Eben did not turn his head, but only ran the faster. 
 
 "Well, what s the matter with him?" said William, 
 impatiently. 
 
 As he spoke, a second man came from the woods. 
 This man was a little undersized and inclined to cor 
 pulence; and he was almost breathless with the unac 
 customed exercise of his running and weak with mirth. 
 
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 "Ah, damn me!" cried this gentleman to himself 
 he had not yet perceived William. " Oh, Jacob ! Mr. 
 Bronson I say don t ye be in a hurry, now," he 
 called, as well as he could for laughing. "Damn you, 
 Jake Bronson," he added, muttering, " I got you, now, 
 I have." There was quite a different expression in his 
 face as he finished his muttering. " I don t care whether 
 you gets away at the present go off or not. I m out 
 o this race." 
 
 He sat down on the grass, and alternately laughed 
 and chuckled and pressed his hand over his heart. " It s 
 a powerful strong stitch," he said ; and he swore a string 
 of oaths at the stitch in his side. 
 
 William had come up and stood close behind him. 
 "Well, my friend," he said, "you seem very merry and 
 to have lost your wind." 
 
 The man looked up, surprised. "Hello, bo!" he 
 said. "You come along mighty quiet. Might startle 
 me so t I d have heart disease. Nothin but a damned 
 stitch, though. Takes me sudden, sometimes, specially 
 when I run. That s why I don t run none to speak of. 
 But merry s the word. You d be merry f you d a 
 seen him start." 
 
 " Why were you chasing Mr. J that man ? " 
 
 " Well, tween you an me, t was cause I wanted to 
 catch im." A cunning leer went with this reply. 
 
 "Why," continued William, imperturbably, "did 
 you wish to catch him?" 
 
 "Well, bo, is it any business o yours?" 
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 "Yes," said William. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " I am a friend of his." 
 
 "Oh," said the stranger. "Well, I m a friend o his, 
 too. So, there you are." 
 
 "What is your name?" asked William. 
 
 "Well, ol pal,"- the manner was becoming less jo 
 vial, " that s no business o yours. They ain t no doubt 
 about that. But I 11 tell you. My name s James 
 Gunn, Esquire, at your service. What s yours?" 
 
 William laughed. "Mr. James Gunn, Esquire, my 
 name is Ransome." 
 
 "On the Grampus hills me father fed his flocks," 
 continued James Gunn, Esquire. "A humbil swine. 
 Kind o low down in him, callin his father a swine, 
 wa n t it ? Say, I d forgot I knew that. I learned it once 
 when I was a kid at school. That s a longtime ago." 
 
 "I can readily believe that," William remarked. 
 
 "These the Grampus hills?" asked Mr. Gunn, with 
 a wave of his hand. 
 
 "They may do duty as the hills in question," an 
 swered William, laughing again. 
 
 "Leavin the hills alone," said Mr. Gunn, "I ain t 
 never done nothin to you, have I?" 
 
 "Nothing," said William. 
 
 "Well, then," returned Mr. Gunn, triumphantly, 
 "what you down on me for?" 
 
 "What were you chasing my friend for?" 
 
 "Jake Bronson ?" asked Mr. Gunn, a wave of illu- 
 330
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 mination breaking over his face. " So that s it. Jacob 
 Bronson an I was shipmates together." 
 
 "Indeed!" William sat down on a stone. There 
 might be information to be gathered here. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," continued Mr. Gunn. "Maybe 
 you ve been shipmates with im." 
 
 "No," said William. "I have never been to sea." 
 
 "Indeed!" returned Mr. Gunn, with a very good 
 imitation of William s manner. " Well, sir, all I can 
 say is that you have missed a great pleasure." 
 
 William laughed again. Mr. Gunn seemed an amus 
 ing rascal. " I believe it," he said. 
 
 "Yes, sir," Mr. Gunn went on, "you have missed 
 an experience, sir, that is well worth having. If you 
 want to be in hell, clear down to the bottomless bottom 
 of hell, just you ship as a common sailor in a ship that 
 sails with Jacob Bronson as mate, and on a long voy 
 age where you don t touch anywhere for three or four 
 months not long enough to get out of it." 
 
 "So?" asked William. This was a new phase of 
 Eben s character, supposing it to be true, which it prob 
 ably was not. 
 
 " So," said Mr. Gunn. " I just happened to be passin 
 through this piece o woods when who should I see 
 but that self-same Jake Bronson, snoozin under a tree, 
 as quiet an peaceable as if he had n t got nothin on 
 his conscience. Wantin to shake ban s with an ol pal 
 like him, jus natu lly, I spoke to him. He looks up an 
 sees who it is, an jus flies." Mr. Gunn was overcome 
 
 331
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 with mirth, at this point. "Yes, sir, he jus flies fer 
 home. That did n t make no difference in me feelin s 
 towards him, an I, still wantin to take s han in mine, 
 I puts out after im. But he beat me out." Mr. Gunn 
 gave way to his mirth, and chuckled until he had to roll 
 on the ground. 
 
 William made no reply of any kind. Mr. Gunn, 
 having had his roll, first sat up, then got somewhat 
 laboriously to his feet. 
 
 "Yes, sir," he resumed indignantly, "there he was, 
 snoozin as peaceable as if he did n t have nothin on 
 his conscience. An he has. Has n t he ? I asks you, 
 has he or has n t he?" 
 
 William was obliged, in the interests of truth, to con 
 fess to himself that Eben did seem to have something 
 on his conscience. But he did not confess it to Mr. 
 James Gunn. 
 
 "I asks you," Mr. Gunn went on, "an you don t 
 answer. Now, what would you say if I sh d tell you t 
 Jake Bronson did a murder at sea, on a voyage the like 
 o the one I spoke of near four months at sea, we were 
 a murder of a sailor what was givin no offense?" 
 
 William smiled. Mr. Gunn had ceased to be amusing, 
 " I should say," he replied, " that it was probably a lie." 
 
 Mr. James Gunn seemed to be much excited. "A 
 lie, damn you! Me lie?" 
 
 William rose from his rock. Mr. Gunn was appar 
 ently meditating an attack. " Yes," he said, still smil 
 ing, "undoubtedly a lie." 
 
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 At the word, Gunn launched himself at William and 
 aimed a blow at his face. William parried, without 
 difficulty, and promptly returned a right arm swing 
 which took Gunn behind the jaw, lifted him off his feet, 
 and sent him sprawling. He lay quiet for a minute and 
 William watched him; watched him while he sat up, 
 dazed and dizzy, and looked about him. Then he saw 
 William. 
 
 " Now, Gunn," said William, " if you want to follow 
 up the matter you were speaking of, you can arrange 
 to be at Colonel Catherwood s office to-morrow morn 
 ing. Anybody will direct you to it. I will agree to pro 
 duce the man you call Jacob Bronson, and you can 
 make any charges you have to make." 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Gunn, humbly. "What did ye 
 say was the gentleman s name, sir?" 
 
 "Catherwood; Colonel Catherwood." 
 
 "Catherwood Catherwood." Gunn was still half 
 dazed, which was not to be wondered at. "Seems to 
 me, sir, our owners had some such name. Maybe he 
 owns the Susan. Do ye know, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, he owns the ship Susan. " 
 
 " T is the same ship. If I c d collect me wits, which 
 you knocked out of me, or into me, I sh d say t 
 me podner told me that. An where is me podner ? 
 Me podner that promised to be wi me in a jiff ? Where 
 in in these Grampus hills ? If ye know, Mr. 
 Norville, it 11 be a favor to tell me. He d help me. 
 Maybe he d direct me to the colonel s place. He 
 
 333
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 lives hereabouts, som eres. Me podner, I mean, not 
 the colonel." 
 
 William was laughing again. "I don t know your 
 partner." 
 
 "Course you don t, sir," said Mr. Gunn. "How 
 thoughtless of me ! You don t know a devil like Mike 
 Loughery 
 
 "Mike Loughery!" William exclaimed. "Is he 
 here? How did he get here? Where did you meet 
 him?" 
 
 " I 11 answer your questions in order, Mr. Neville, * 
 Mr. Gunn replied. He was sitting up, now, gesticu 
 lating. "He is here, or he was a half hour ago. He 
 we got here by fast freight, which is none too fast, it 
 takin us a good three months, makin use of the hos 
 pitality of the hostelry kep up at the public expense. 
 An excellen good hostelry, Mr. Neval, an I d recom 
 mend it freely. I met Mike in front of a bar in Second 
 Avenue. He d just lef the Susan, secretly an by 
 night, as ye may say, not carin much fer goin to South 
 Ameriky. He ain t no sailor, Mike ain t. Now, / 
 am. By the by, Mr. Naval, is the colonel ye spoke of 
 a magistrate?" 
 
 "No," said William, "he is n t. But he is a man of 
 considerable influence in this town. Any man that he 
 considers an undesirable citizen is apt to have to go 
 in one way or another." 
 
 " Oh !" Mr. Gunn looked thoughtful. "As much as 
 to say but we won t say it, as tween frien s. Grand 
 
 334
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 panjandrom, is he ? Fast freight an the public hostelry 
 to be preferred, eh? Now, Mr. Nuvalle, I ll be goin* 
 to look up me podner, if ye 11 help me a bit. Ye made 
 me dizzy wi joy, ye did." 
 
 William did not move. Mr. Gunn looked indignant. 
 
 " Will ye help me up or will ye not ? I asks you. Will 
 ye leave a poor victim grovelin on the groun ? Never 
 fear, sir." 
 
 " I have no fear," said William, smiling. 
 
 " Nor y* have n t any need to," Gunn muttered. " I 
 know." 
 
 "Give me your knife," William returned, "and I ll 
 help you." 
 
 Gunn looked the very picture of injured innocence. 
 "Me knife? What knife?" 
 
 "The sheath knife that is in your belt just by your 
 hip." 
 
 " Why, coitainly. I clean forgot that knife, sir. Sail 
 ors allus carries one, sir." 
 
 William made no reply, but took the knife, sheath 
 and all, which Gunn held out to him. 
 
 "Now, sir," said Gunn, "if you ll lend a hand 
 Thank ye, sir." 
 
 They set off together into the woods. " Ye re a sharp 
 un, Mr. Naville, you are," said Gunn, after he had 
 taken a few unsteady steps. " Ye handle y r fists pretty, 
 too. Do ye do that often, jus for amusement, so to 
 speak?" 
 
 " No," William answered. " Not now. I used to spar 
 335
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 pretty well, I think. But I m long out of practice 
 twelve or fifteen years." 
 
 "Oh," said Gunn, a note of respect in his voice. 
 "Then I m glad I did n t run agin ye when ye were 
 in practice. I d be a corp at this minute. Say, ye 
 would n t teach me that punch ye handed me ? Do, 
 now, sir, Mr. Norvulle. It d be a handy one f r a sailor 
 man to know." 
 
 "No," said William. 
 
 Mr. Gunn sighed deeply. "I thought as much," he 
 replied; "I thought as much. They re all down on 
 us lads." 
 
 They were well into the pines by this time, and faint 
 sounds came to them from near at hand. Mr. Gunn 
 pricked up his ears. 
 
 "They s murder bein done," he cried. " I know the 
 sound of it. Come on, quick." 
 
 He broke away from William and ran, unsteadily. 
 William followed, and overtook him just as he threw 
 himself upon two figures on the ground. The figure 
 that was uppermost was that of Clanky Beg. William 
 knew the misshapen legs. The under man was about 
 gone. His legs twitched spasmodically. 
 
 " Clanky ! " William cried. " Clanky ! Let that man 
 up."- 
 
 Clanky threw off the groggy Gunn, and rose. 
 
 " Yes, sir," he said, beginning to weep again. " Mike s 
 a thief and a liar, and I was killing him. It was most 
 done. He ought to die." 
 
 336
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Gunn sat where Clanky had thrown him. "Well, 
 blast me /" he said, in astonishment. " He s a rum un. 
 Do ye have many o them aroun here, Mr. Narvalle ?" 
 
 "There s only one Clanky Beg," said William, smil 
 ing involuntarily. Mike was beginning to gasp. He 
 raised his hand to feel his throat. 
 
 "Well, that s lucky," Gunn returned. "Say, young 
 feller, if ye go to murderin all the liars, ye 11 have y r 
 han s full. It ll keep ye busy." 
 
 "Clanky," said William, solemnly, "you mustn t 
 do that. You must never do that. Never try to kill 
 anybody. Promise me that you will not. Will you pro 
 mise that, Clanky?" 
 
 "Must n t Clanky kill Mike? "he asked. "Mike is 
 a thief and a liar." 
 
 " You must never try to kill him or anybody. Promise 
 me that you will not." 
 
 Clanky Beg gave a sigh of regret. "Well, I won t, 
 then. But Clanky s sorry you came." 
 
 "I suppose so," said William; "but I m very glad. 
 It was very lucky, Clanky, Hello!" 
 
 For Mike had taken advantage of the talk with 
 Clanky Beg and had crawled to Gunn; and they had 
 both got upon their feet and were making off unstead 
 ily. Clanky would have started after ; but William laid 
 a hand on his arm. 
 
 "No," he said; "let them go." 
 
 Gunn turned and waved his hand. "Don t ye wait 
 f r me, bo, if I ain t there," he called. 
 
 337
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 William watched them out of sight, and then he let 
 Clanky go. He did not see Abbie that afternoon, and 
 he did not much care. The news had kept so long 
 there was no hurry it would keep a day or two longer. 
 He was content. 
 
 Eben did not stop running until he was safe within 
 his own door. Panting and breathless and stricken with 
 fear, he threw himself down upon the settle in the hall. 
 Harriet heard him and came out to him. 
 
 "What in the world s the matter with you, Eben?" 
 she asked, wondering. 
 
 "I ve killed a man, Harriet," whispered Eben. 
 
 "Mercy on us!" cried Harriet, laughing lightly; she 
 did not take Eben seriously. "How exciting! There 
 are several men I would like to murder. When was it, 
 Eben, just now?" 
 
 "Don t, Harriet," said Eben, shuddering. "Don t 
 joke. I I shot him, and then I broke his head with a 
 belaying-pin an iron pin. It was four years ago." 
 
 He got up, and with his head sunken upon his breast, 
 he went slowly up the stairs and locked himself into his 
 room. He would not meet Harriet s eyes ; he knew how 
 they would be filled with horror and pity, and with hate 
 of his deed. It was a pity that he did not meet her eyes. 
 She knew that he spoke the truth, and her heart was 
 filled full of sorrow for Eben and sympathy, and her 
 eyes showed nothing else.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THERE was an unusual amount of little sicknesses 
 about, for the season colds and such ailments. The 
 doctor had just come from a visit to Miss Hitty ; a call 
 which was, ostensibly, social and non-professional. 
 He often dropped in there and dragged himself, wheez 
 ing, up two flights of stairs to satisfy himself of her 
 bodily condition, if he could be said to satisfy himself 
 when he was as dissatisfied as possible. 
 
 He went in to find his wife, she was waiting for 
 him, just inside the door, and, incidentally, to get 
 ready for supper. It was not a desolate supper, but a 
 very merry one; one that the doctor was in no hurry 
 to get through. Although, at this season, it was eaten 
 by daylight and not by lamplight, the period of un 
 shaded lamps was over. Not a single unshaded lamp 
 was tolerated in the house. Even the housekeeper and 
 cook, who had resolutely declined to leave Doctor 
 Olcott under any circumstances, unless removed by 
 force, was resigned to the change. In evidence whereof, 
 she had a shade for the lamp in her own room ; a won 
 derful shade, delicately tinted a shell-pink above and a 
 beautiful pea-green below, and tastefully adorned with 
 birds and flowers such as never were on land or sea. 
 At least, she was overheard by Sophy murmuring some- 
 
 339
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 thing about the light that never was on land or sea, and 
 if she did not refer to her lamp-shade, what in the world 
 did she refer to ? 
 
 The doctor had not quite got through with his jour 
 nals, that evening, when there came a knock at the door. 
 He looked up, surprised, and then glanced at the clock. 
 It was not time for the housekeeper and cook to appear 
 with the beer; it lacked five minutes of beer-time. 
 Never, in all his experience, had the doctor known her 
 to be so far off as five minutes. Perhaps the clock was 
 wrong. He compared it with his watch, which he could 
 depend upon. No, the clock was just right. The knock 
 was repeated, more timidly this time. That was never 
 his housekeeper and cook. 
 
 "Come!" called the doctor; and he swung half 
 around in his chair, taking down one foot in order 
 to execute that manoeuvre the better. His "Come" 
 sounded like a clap of thunder. 
 
 The door opened slowly and Eben came in. 
 
 "Why, hello, Eben," the doctor cried, taking down 
 the other leg and getting to his feet as fast as he could. 
 " It s kind of you to come around to see an old man. 
 Here, sit down." 
 
 He tumbled the books off an old easy-chair. The 
 books made a tremendous noise as they fell to the floor ; 
 such a noise that Eben could not help the start he gave, 
 although he had been expecting the noise. The doctor 
 drew the chair up opposite his own. 
 
 " There ! " he said. " Now, sit down. The old chair s 
 340
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 comfortable, if it is n t very handsome. Hope you don t 
 mind smoke." The doctor smiled and looked around 
 at the dim and smoke-filled corners of the room, and at 
 the slowly waving green wreaths that still hung above 
 his own chair. 
 
 " But perhaps you 11 have a pipe ? I ve got one 
 another one right here." 
 
 "Thank you, not now. I came to tell you my story, 
 if you ll listen to it." 
 
 " Listen to it ! I ve been dying to hear it, any time, 
 these eight months and more. Drive ahead wait a 
 minute. Here s my housekeeper." 
 
 There was another knock at the door, not a timid 
 knock this time, and the door opened and the house 
 keeper appeared. She had in her hands two bottles of 
 beer and two glasses, and on her face a grim smile. 
 The smile was new, since the doctor s marriage, and 
 she had not got wholly used to it, yet ; but it was there, 
 and she was beginning to get used to it. 
 
 "Here s your beer, doctor," she said. "I thought, 
 maybe, Mr. Eben d like some, too. So I brought two 
 bottles." 
 
 " Why, that was thoughtful," replied the doctor, sur 
 prised ; not so much surprised as he would have been 
 some months before. "That was kind of you. Pretty 
 smoky in here, is n t it?" 
 
 "None to hurt," was the curt answer. "I guess 
 t won t hurt none. Good-night, doctor." 
 
 " Good-night," said the doctor, " and thank you." 
 341
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "No call to thank me," said the housekeeper; 
 and she went out and shut the door softly behind 
 her. 
 
 Eben opened his beer in a manner that showed that 
 his hand was used to the operation. And the doctor 
 filled his pipe afresh and lighted it, and then he opened 
 his bottle. But he said nothing. 
 
 "Doctor," began Eben, at last, "you remember the 
 night when I ran away?" 
 
 (< " I remember the next day well," replied the doctor. 
 " Your father came to see me, and he was very much 
 distressed." 
 
 "He might have been. I have been sorry for him, 
 but I should do the same thing, if I had it to do over 
 again," Eben said. His lips were compressed a trick 
 of Harriet s. 
 
 "Yes, damn it, an unfortunate business," said the 
 doctor. " Most unwise, Eben, although he thought he 
 was acting for the best. But let that pass. It can t be 
 helped." 
 
 Eben was silent a little while, musing ; then he roused 
 himself. "I ll begin with that night," he said. "My 
 adventures may be said to have begun then." 
 
 " I knew you fairly well, Eben," remarked the doctor, 
 smiling, "up to that night. At least, I thought I did. 
 Then I began to wonder whether I had known you at 
 all. But go ahead." 
 
 Eben thoughtfully sipped his beer. "I had no 
 money," he said at last. " I never had much, but after 
 
 342
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 that that thrashing, I felt that I would rather take 
 my chances of starving than take any of my father s 
 money, although he had given me some only a few days 
 before. I left it on my bureau, I remember. The 
 thrashing was for some little peccadillo such as boys 
 are continually committing. Five minutes kind talk 
 would have done the business. But father did n t be 
 lieve in that method of bringing up boys." 
 
 Eben fell silent again. The doctor said nothing, and 
 after some minutes Eben resumed. 
 
 " It does n t do much good for me to get to thinking," 
 he said, smiling gravely, "and I will go on with my 
 story. I concealed myself on the night freight. Before 
 getting far, I was found by the crew, and, the next morn 
 ing, taken to the man they called the yard boss. I made 
 up a story, which consisted of parts of the truth, and 
 asked the yard boss for a job. I don t know whether 
 he believed the story and was sorry for me or not, but 
 he gave me a job which soon developed into that of 
 freight brakeman. My name, for fifteen years, was 
 Jacob Bronson. Why, for some months, I went through 
 here every other night. I was glad enough that it was 
 in the night. Once or twice a week, I coupled in a car 
 here. It was a wonder that I did n t get smashed in 
 doing it, for I was very nervous ; but the smash was to 
 come. 
 
 "You may wonder why I was not found; I won 
 dered. It would have been easy to find me. At last, 
 I got so nervous with thinking about it, that I man- 
 
 343
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 aged to get transferred to another run, and, within 
 two years, I was running into the Mott Haven yards, 
 still a freight brakeman. I was a pretty good brake- 
 man, though. Then I came upon a gang of freight 
 thieves." 
 
 Eben raised his hand to hide his face. " Then I fell 
 down. They persuaded me, no doubt they found me 
 easy, and I let them get away with some of their plun 
 der. I got my share, of course. But that was a lesson 
 to me. It got to be a regular thing for something to be 
 stolen from my train. It was too regular and I remon 
 strated ; and they laughed and said they could n t let 
 a good thing go quite so soon. Since that time, I have 
 been strictly honest ; a noble trait that, that is enforced 
 by experience, is n t it, doctor ? Honesty is a policy 
 which may or may not prove to be the best. That is 
 beautiful teaching." 
 
 Eben laughed shortly. The doctor rumbled in his 
 throat; he seemed enraged at something. 
 
 "Well," said Eben, taking up his story again, "I 
 was coupling cars in the big yard, and I was nervous, 
 for I did n t know how soon I would be found out; 
 I knew they must have their eyes on me, and I got 
 caught between two cars and was smashed up. Not 
 very badly, several ribs broken, but it sent me to 
 the hospital for six months. No doubt it saved me from 
 jail, too ; but I lost my job, and did n t dare make a fuss 
 about it. It would n t have done any good, anyway. 
 I used up all my money there, in the hospital. Why, 
 
 344
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 when I walked out of that hospital, I had just one dol 
 lar in my pocket, and that was given to me by one of 
 the internes. I was n t well enough to be sent out, 
 considering the weather. The streets were a mass of 
 slush, and it came on a cold rain the second day. 
 
 " I had spent every cent by that time, and I had been 
 looking for work all the time. But I was n t able to 
 work, and, no doubt, I showed it. I could n t find any 
 work. Everybody seemed to have more help than was 
 at all necessary, and to be on the point of letting some 
 of the men go. By afternoon, I was tired and wet 
 through, and cold and hungry, and more than half sick 
 and thoroughly discouraged. I felt as if it would be a 
 relief to be dead, and I went down on one of the wharves 
 to try to drown myself. Not that I preferred that man 
 ner of killing myself, but I had no money to buy a 
 revolver or poison or chloroform. I should have pre 
 ferred chloroform, I think, but, probably, if I had had 
 the money to buy it, I should have kept going a little 
 longer. The police would n t let me drown myself in 
 peace." 
 
 Doctor Olcott had been fidgeting in his chair. 
 "Damn it, Eben!" he said then. "Damn it, why 
 did n t you let some of us know ? We d have taken care 
 of you." 
 
 " I know, doctor, I could n t. It was impossible. 
 I would rather die, and so would you, in my place." 
 
 Again the doctor rumbled in his throat. Eben 
 went on. 
 
 845
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "About dusk I went off the wharf to find another 
 less frequented. On the way I met a girl ; a girl whom 
 I had known when I when I was running with the 
 gang. She was handsome; strikingly handsome, in a 
 way, and young, she could n t have been more than 
 eighteen or nineteen, but old in her knowledge of the 
 world her world. In short, the less said about her, 
 the better. She persuaded me to go with her. I was so 
 sick that I hardly knew what I was about, and I went. 
 She nursed me through a long illness." 
 
 "Who was she, Eben?" asked the doctor. 
 
 "She did n t know, herself," Eben answered. "She 
 was brought up in the streets. She did n t even know 
 how old she was. If you 11 excuse me, doctor, I d rather 
 not talk about her. But she took care of me through 
 my sickness. I was very sick. When I got well, I felt 
 grateful to her and I married her." 
 
 "What!" cried the doctor. "You married, Eben? 
 Well, it might have been a good job, too." 
 
 " It did n t turn out to be a good job. Life with her 
 began to be unbearable, almost at once. I need n t go 
 into the reasons, doctor. In the course of the next three 
 years, I sounded the uttermost depths of wretchedness. 
 I left her, I have never seen her nor heard of her from 
 that day to this, and I went to sea. I had always longed 
 to go to sea. Those were the first days of anything like 
 happiness that I had known for years. Even the fore 
 castle, filled with bad smells, and with men of all sorts, 
 good, bad, and worse, mostly worse, was like a 
 
 346
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 home. I was contented, in a way. I have been all 
 over the world, as much as a man can be, in sailing- 
 ships, in ten years. 
 
 " Well, in the course of seven years I had risen to be 
 first mate ; Jacob Bronson, mate. You would not have 
 known me, doctor. I was a reckless man, worked my 
 crews hard, though no harder than I worked myself, 
 and I have no doubt that Jacob Bronson had a bad 
 reputation among the men, although I know that his 
 reputation with owners was good. I maintained strict 
 discipline, but I never had had to use force. Then I 
 shipped in the Susan. " 
 
 "What!" cried the doctor. "Frank Catherwood s 
 Susan ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Eben, smiling, " Frank Catherwood s 
 Susan. I shipped in New York and intended to leave 
 her in New York. But a little mutiny brewed just 
 before we got in. There were only three or four men 
 concerned in it. It was directed against me. I had to 
 shoot a man ; and, as the shot did n t stop him, I 
 grabbed an iron belaying-pin and hit him. I heard the 
 bone crunch as the heavy pin hit his skull." Eben 
 shuddered and covered his face as he recalled it. " That 
 moment," Eben resumed, taking down his hand after 
 a while, "that moment fear seized upon me; fear of 
 what I had done and of the possible consequences. But 
 I was not to blame, doctor," he said earnestly; "I was 
 not to blame. The man was coming at me with a knife 
 in his hand. He was mutinous, and there were three 
 
 347
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 others coming behind him. Jim Gunn was one of 
 them." 
 
 "Jim Gunn who s Jim Gunn?" 
 
 "I ll come to him in a few minutes," Eben replied. 
 "He was one of the three others. It happened that we 
 were practically alone on the deck, at the time. There 
 were some more of the men there, but they were away 
 up forward, half hidden behind the foresail and the 
 other gear. It is n t likely that they knew that anything 
 was going on. 
 
 " Well, when I hit the man and he went down in a 
 heap, that ended the mutiny. I don t think I showed 
 that I was afraid. At any rate, I had no trouble no 
 more trouble. I had enough." Eben laughed ; but not 
 merrily. "I managed to keep up appearances before 
 the men and before the captain. The man was n t dead 
 when we got in, it s extraordinary what hold they 
 have on life, and I had not been confined. The cap 
 tain seemed to think that I had done the right thing. 
 He kept me at work. He intended to send the man to 
 some hospital ; not that he thought it would be of any 
 use, for he did n t see, and I don t, how any man so hurt 
 could possibly get well. He must have died within a 
 day or two. I did n t wait to see. 
 
 " We got in to quarantine along about dark, and were 
 kept there overnight. I slipped away in a quarter boat 
 and rowed quietly for some time, until I was out of 
 sight of the Susan. Before morning, I had boarded 
 an Italian barque, outward bound, and shipped as a 
 
 348
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 common sailor. My conscience was easy about the 
 quarter boat, for there was pay enough coming to me, 
 which I did n t get, to pay for more than one boat. 
 Frank did n t lose anything by me. 
 
 "The Italian carried me to several Mediterranean 
 ports, and I shipped on an English vessel for India as 
 a common sailor. I could have done better, but I 
 did n t dare. Well, I knocked about the world for 
 almost three years more, with that obsession of fear 
 upon me. It made it worse. I should have been ready 
 to back up my action. That was my mistake in running 
 away from the Susan. I saw it long ago. At last, I 
 drifted back to this country, landed at Savannah a year 
 ago last May, and began to beat my way north. I had 
 no definite idea of coming here, but it seemed as if I 
 simply had to come. It took me nearly six months to 
 get here, and I was pretty nearly done. You know the 
 rest." 
 
 " Ought to have come sooner, Eben. You might have 
 been happy, just as well. Eben Joyce could have gone 
 to sea as well as Jacob Bronson. Frank would have 
 seen to that." 
 
 "Yes," said Eben, "I know he would." 
 
 "Eben," the doctor went on, "as to that man you 
 knocked in the head, it served him just right ; it is n t 
 likely that will ever be raked up. If it should be 
 
 "Doctor Olcott," said Eben, interrupting, "I saw 
 Jim Gunn this afternoon, and he saw me and knew me. 
 Like a fool, I ran ; I had no time to think. And he ran 
 
 349
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 after me, calling to Jacob Bronson to stop. It is raked 
 up already. I was in the woods with Clanky and Joe." 
 
 "H m!" said the doctor, looking at Eben thought 
 fully. "What do you intend to do about it?" 
 
 "I ve been wrestling with that question for the last 
 three hours," replied Eben. "I ve come to a decision. 
 I m going to try to find Gunn again, and I m going to 
 take him to Frank and put the whole case before him, 
 fully. I want to stand trial for it, if that is necessary. 
 But whether it is or not, and whatever the outcome 
 I m tired of being afraid. I d rather hang." 
 
 "Good, Eben!" the doctor cried. "Good! Do you 
 want me to go with you to Frank s office, to-morrow ? 
 I shall be glad to, if you do. That is," he added, smil 
 ing, "if no one needs me worse than MissWetherbee." 
 
 "Thank you, doctor. I don t know whether I do or 
 not. I ve got to find Gunn." 
 
 "H mph!" the doctor growled. "Gunn! Guess 
 you 11 have a job. I would n t waste any time over him. 
 If you do find him, just call me, will you? I want 
 to be there." 
 
 Eben smiled and nodded. He rose. "Well, doctor, 
 I 11 go along. It has been good of you to listen. I feel 
 better than I have for years."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 EBEN did not find James Gunn, Esquire, although 
 he searched for him faithfully. But he did find William 
 Ransome, who gave him the latest news that was to be 
 obtained of Gunn. 
 
 " That Gunn seems to have gone off," said William, 
 smiling quietly; and Eben laughed with a heartiness 
 that was new to William, and they went to Colonel 
 Catherwood s office together. It was the middle of the 
 afternoon, for Eben had wasted the whole of the morn 
 ing in his fruitless search for Gunn. 
 
 The colonel seemed to be waiting for him. He nodded 
 to William and took Eben s hand in his. 
 
 Eben smiled. " I m afraid/ he said, " that you know 
 my errand already. Doctor Olcott must have been 
 here." 
 
 " He has been," replied the colonel ; " and he has told 
 me the story that you told him. Eben, why why in 
 the world could n t you have told some of us sooner? 
 I could have saved you much unhappiness. That sailor 
 that you laid out did not die; he got well after four 
 months in hospital. The surgeons said it was a most 
 extraordinary case. But even if he had not, you had 
 nothing to fear. And, Eben, here is a chair." 
 
 For Eben seemed to have grown weak in the knees, 
 351
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 suddenly, and was looking about him in a dazed way. 
 The revulsion of feeling was too sudden. He sank into 
 the chair and put both hands over his face ; but only 
 for a minute. 
 
 "Thank you, Frank," he said then, looking up; 
 " thank you. It takes a weight off my mind a great 
 weight. It is a great responsibility, the life of a man, 
 even although it was necessary to take it to save my 
 own life; and justifiable. I am more glad than I can 
 tell you that he got well." 
 
 The colonel smiled. "It may not be a benefit to the 
 community," he returned. " I believe he is a hard char 
 acter still as bad as he was before. But I am glad, for 
 your sake, Eben. I am glad, too, to know Jacob Bron- 
 son at last. I have been looking for him for some years. 
 He was the best mate that the Susan ever had." 
 
 The colonel was still looking down at Eben and 
 smiling. "Was he, Frank?" asked Eben, wistfully. 
 " Do you mean it ? Would you would you give him 
 that berth again?" 
 
 " If he would take it. That is the main reason why 
 I wanted so much to find him." 
 
 "I ll take it!" Eben fairly shouted. "I ll take it! 
 Frank, I have n t been so happy for oh, ever." He 
 sprang to his feet and wrung the colonel s hand. 
 " Now," he said, " now, Frank, I must call you Colonel 
 Catherwood and be most respectful. For are you not 
 my owner?" 
 
 The colonel laughed. " Bosh, Eben ! " he replied. " I 
 352
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 don t believe William knows what we are talking 
 about." 
 
 " Partly," said William. " I am a pretty good guesser. 
 A part I can t even guess." 
 
 "Don t you think, Eben," the colonel suggested, 
 " that you might tell William the story ? He is sure to 
 hear it, and he had better hear it from you." 
 
 " Of course," said Eben. " I meant to tell him." 
 
 William sat down, and Colonel Catherwood sat in 
 his chair, again, before his desk, and absent-mindedly 
 took up some loose sheets that he seemed to have been 
 looking over, and slipped them into a drawer. Wil 
 liam s practiced eye noted it. Eben told his story again ; 
 but he said no more than he was obliged to about the 
 girl, and he did not mention his marriage. 
 
 William listened well, but toward the end of the 
 story, he surreptitiously looked at his watch twice. 
 When Eben had made an end of it, William thanked 
 him for it, and expressed his interest. He had really 
 been interested in Eben s story ; but he was much more 
 vitally interested in something else. He excused him 
 self, on the score of an engagement, and left Eben 
 with the colonel. William, it must be confessed, had 
 no engagement; but he had hopes. He went up the 
 street hastily ; almost on a run. 
 
 As he got near the head of the street, he saw her. 
 She was walking slowly, as if she hoped that somebody 
 in particular would overtake her ; at least, that seemed 
 a possible explanation. William whistled, and Abbie 
 
 353
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 looked around, quickly; and, seeing her look, William 
 waved his hat and began to run. Abbie, in the most 
 brazen and barefaced manner, waved in return and 
 stood stock-still and waited for him, smiling as though 
 the very somebody in particular had turned up, at last. 
 
 William came up, rather breathless and rather ex 
 cited. 
 
 "William, William," Abbie said, "you must n t run 
 so. You get all out of breath, and it might be bad 
 for your heart. You are not so young as you were." 
 
 "No," retorted William. "Neither is anybody else. 
 Do you know why I envy Sir Launcelot?" 
 
 Abbie laughed quickly. "No," she said. "He has 
 been dead a long time." 
 
 " That is not the reason. Sir Tristram was accounted 
 a big man, and a strong knight of his hands, but Sir 
 Launcelot was better breathed. That is not in quota 
 tion marks. They must, all of them, have been well- 
 breathed men." 
 
 "I am afraid, William, you have 
 
 " Oh, yes," William interrupted, " I have been read 
 ing Sir Thomas ; second volume I don t remember 
 the page, but about the middle. As for my heart, we 
 will speak of that later." 
 
 " William," asked Abbie, laughing, " what is the mat 
 ter with you?" 
 
 "Nothing," William replied ; " nothing at all. There 
 was something the matter, and I did n t know what it 
 was. Since I have found out what it is, it is not a matter 
 
 354
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 any longer, although I am just as much affected as ever ; 
 more so, I think. Do I make myself clear?" 
 
 " You certainly do not. I should call you just a plain 
 lunatic. But come along and tell me where you have 
 been these last few days." 
 
 William laughed delightedly. " I have been engaged 
 in introspection; trying to find out just what was the 
 matter with me. It was n t until yesterday that I dis 
 covered. I was coming, as fast as I could, to share my 
 guilty secret with you, when something occurred to 
 detain me. To-day, I just missed missing you by the 
 skin of my teeth. And you rebuked me for running ! " 
 
 "You deserve the rebuke," replied Abbie, "for al 
 lowing anything to detain you yesterday, if not for 
 running to-day. What was it, William, that detained 
 you ? Account for yourself." 
 
 Accordingly, William launched forth into the story of 
 Eben Joyce, incidentally including that of Gunn. It 
 took some time. 
 
 " Eben did not tell me the whole of it," he said, when 
 he had finished ; " I am certain of that. I don t know 
 the rest. Perhaps you do. I could guess it, I think." 
 
 Abbie did not reply directly. "So Eben is likely to 
 be a man again. I am very glad, very glad." 
 
 " Likely to, in time," William returned. " A man can 
 hardly be expected to shake off the habit of fear at 
 once. But let us hope it won t take long." 
 
 Abbie echoed his last words. "It won t take long. 
 Mike Loughery is back again." 
 
 355
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "He seems to have deserted the Susan in New 
 York. But, Abbie, enough said about Eben, for the 
 present. He s happy. There s a little affair of my own 
 that I want to talk about." 
 
 They had got well beyond the houses while William 
 had been telling Eben s story, and they had come to a 
 little patch of oak woods. A wood-road, little used, 
 went winding in among the trees. 
 
 " Well," Abbie replied, " why don t you talk about it, 
 then?" 
 
 "I will," said William. "Come in here. It looks 
 inviting." 
 
 " Just as if we did n t know, exactly, every road and 
 path within reach ! " But Abbie went, willingly enough. 
 
 Just as if you did n t know, Abbie, exactly what 
 William was going to say! But Abbie did not know 
 exactly. If she had known, it is to be supposed that it 
 would have made no difference. The same old formula 
 seems to possess the same old attraction for all of them, 
 when it is attractive at all. 
 
 " My heart, you know," said William, smiling ; " we 
 were to speak of that later." 
 
 Abbie was looking at the ground before her feet, and 
 she was smiling, too. 
 
 " Oh, were we ? Well, your heart what s the mat 
 ter with it? Not your running, I hope." 
 
 The grass-grown road on which they were walking 
 so very slowly took a turn here. William waited until 
 they were well around the turn. 
 
 356
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "No, Abbie, not my running." 
 
 There was a venturesome pine tree which had grown 
 in the road, between the rut and the hoof-track; had 
 grown just as high as the axles which passed above it. 
 William would not let a tree come between him and 
 Abbie. Perhaps he was superstitious. He crossed to 
 her side. There was hardly room for two. 
 
 "I find, Abbie," said he then, "that my heart 
 Well, I have n t got it." 
 
 As he spoke, she, walking on the edge of the rut, 
 almost lost her balance. William put his arm about her 
 quickly. 
 
 She did not draw away ; to be sure he had not ex 
 pected that she would, but she raised her eyes to his. 
 Her eyes were very soft and shining. 
 
 "Oh, William," she cried gently, laughing low, 
 "how absurd we are! Just like two young lovers." 
 
 "Well," he contended stoutly, "we are." 
 
 "Not young," said she; "not so very young." 
 
 "As young as youth itself," he said. " I will not yield 
 in that matter to the youngest youth ever made love. 
 And I hold you to be as young as the youngest woman 
 ever was made love to." 
 
 "You hold me, it is true." 
 
 He raised her chin and kissed her full on the mouth. 
 
 " You should n t have done that, William," she said, 
 with a fine color. " You are not to think that I did n t 
 like it; for I did. But you should n t have done it." 
 
 He was plainly astonished. In that, he showed his 
 357
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 inexperience. If he had had experience of women, 
 he would never have been astonished at anything a 
 woman did or said. 
 
 "Well, why," he asked, "for heaven s sake?" But 
 it is to be noted that he kept his arm about her. 
 
 "We are not even engaged." 
 
 "Not even engaged!" William laughed. 
 
 " You have n t asked me anything yet," Abbie an 
 swered demurely. 
 
 "Will you have me on my knees?" asked William. 
 "Wait until I find a soft spot." He dropped upon one 
 knee. "Abbie, I love you. Will you be my wife?" 
 
 Laughing, she put both her hands upon his shoul 
 ders. "Yes," she said promptly. "I will, if you will 
 promise to let me read everything that you write as you 
 write it, and talk to me freely about it." 
 
 "I m dying to," William said, jumping to his feet. 
 " Now, Abbie, are we engaged ? " 
 
 "Yes," she answered, raising merry eyes to his. 
 
 "And I may kiss you?" 
 
 "If you want to." 
 
 "Like the other?" 
 
 She only nodded. But he did not have to raise her 
 chin ; her arms were about his neck. 
 
 "Oh, William, William!" she sighed contentedly.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 "ABBIE MERVIN," said Harriet Joyce, decidedly, 
 " now that Eben is all settled and fixed nicely, I want 
 to get you and William off my mind." 
 
 " Why, Harriet," replied Miss Mervin, falteringly, 
 it was not like her to falter, " what makes you 
 think " 
 
 "Fiddlesticks, Abbie! You have been looking posi 
 tively beaming for more than a week, and so has 
 William, when I have seen him. Did you think that 
 nobody would know unless you told them ? " 
 
 Abbie laughed happily. " Forgive me, Harriet," she 
 said. "I should have told you at once, but but 
 Oh, why make any bones of it ? I was afraid that you 
 might not like it. William was devoted to you for so 
 long ! But / don t care." 
 
 "Truly, why make any bones of it ?" smiled Harriet. 
 " If I could n t make up my mind in all that time, it 
 is n t likely that I should grudge him to you now. It 
 would serve me right if I did. I am not a dog in the 
 manger, I hope. To tell the truth, I find that I am 
 rather relieved. William was a tremendous responsi 
 bility. I suppose I should have taken him at last, 
 merely on that account. But I am happy to resign him 
 to you, Abbie. I wish you happiness." 
 
 359
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "Thank you, Harriet," said Abbie, coldly. 
 
 Harriet noticed it. " Now don t you go and get mad, 
 Abbie," she said. " I know very well that I had no 
 thing to resign. It was merely a figure of speech. When 
 are you going to get married ?" 
 
 A slow blush mounted intoAbbie s cheeks, the rose- 
 tint upon porcelain. " I don t know. William wants to 
 very soon. I guess we shall, Harriet; I guess we shall." 
 
 "I m glad, Abbie. Then I can keep you both," said 
 Harriet, with satisfaction. " I give you warning, I shall 
 ask you to tea often, and I shall expect you to come. 
 That will suit me very much better than having to get 
 married myself. I was not cut out to be a married 
 woman." 
 
 " What nonsense, Harriet !" cried Abbie, indignantly. 
 " Every woman is cut out for it. Your thinking so only 
 shows that W T illiam was not the right man. And I m 
 glad of that." 
 
 Abbie kissed her. Harriet sniffed contemptuously, 
 and withdrew. 
 
 " I am not your William," she said dryly. 
 
 Abbie laughed gayly. " Did you think that I mistook 
 you for him?" 
 
 " No, I did n t. Have you made any plans, Abbie ? 
 Where shall you live? Has William thought of a 
 house?" 
 
 "Well, yes, he has. But I ve got a surprise for him. 
 We may as well live in my house; that is, if William 
 agrees." 
 
 360
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "If William agrees!" cried Harriet. "If William 
 did n t agree to such an eminently suitable arrange 
 ment, I would n t marry him." 
 
 Again Abbie laughed delightedly. "But, Harriet," 
 she said softly, " you know it will have to be as William 
 wishes." 
 
 Harriet looked at her as if she could not believe her 
 ears. "Faugh!" she exclaimed, in disgust. "Abbie 
 Mervin, do you mean to tell me that you have n t any 
 more to say than a cat ? I had better say a dog, for 
 a cat would, at least, live where she wanted to." 
 
 " So shall I live where I want to. I want to live where 
 William does." 
 
 " So would a dog." 
 
 " So much the better for the dog," returned Abbie, 
 undisturbed. "He puts a higher value on the society 
 he keeps than on the mere place. But let s not quarrel 
 about it, Harriet. I have no doubt William will agree 
 readily enough. He s an agreeing person." 
 
 "No doubt," said Harriet, rather scornfully; 
 although it is difficult to see what William had done to 
 deserve it. " With only your mother and your aunt in 
 that great house, it does seem as if you ought to be able 
 to find room. It s convenient to the bank." 
 
 Abbie flushed again. "Any house in Old Har 
 bor would be convenient to the bank, for that mat 
 ter," she replied. "But, Harriet, prepare for a shock. 
 William has promised me that he will give up the 
 bank." 
 
 361
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 Harriet was as shocked as anybody could have 
 wished. "Give up the bank!" she cried. "He has 
 promised you! Abbie Mervin, are you crazy?" 
 
 Abbie positively chuckled at it. "No," she said, 
 " I m not. He s going to have time to write, and he s 
 going to write. It s a shame that he has n t been able 
 to devote his whole time to it. I m going to give him 
 the southwest front room, father s old room, you 
 know. It s a nice, sunny room, where he won t be 
 disturbed. Of course, he does n t know it yet." 
 
 "Well!" Harriet said. "Well! I can t find words 
 that would be at all suitable for me to say. Doctor 
 Olcott might help me out, or even Eben. He does n t 
 use bad language, but he must have heard a lot. W 7 hat 
 are you going to live on?" 
 
 " William has some money and so have I, you know. 
 That will be enough until he makes some with his 
 writing." 
 
 "Makes money with his writing!" cried Harriet, 
 incredulously. " Sell that stuff ! You are a fool, Abbie." 
 
 Abbie did not resent it ; she only laughed. " Wait and 
 see," she said. "It won t be any great harm if he 
 doesn t. He ll be doing the work that he loves." She 
 glanced out of the window. "Here s Eben, now. You 
 might get him to supply you with language, Harriet. 
 My, how it blows ! And it s beginning to rain. I guess 
 I d better be getting home, Harriet." 
 
 Eben came running up the walk and burst in at the 
 front door. "Harriet!" he called. 
 
 362
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 " In here, Eben," Harriet answered calmly. " What s 
 the matter? Is the house afire?" 
 
 " No," said Eben, laughing. "Hello, Abbie ! Where 
 are my oil-skins, Harriet ? The Susan s sighted, .and 
 it ll be blowing a living gale o wind in three hours. 
 She gets in in the nick o time, with this dirty weather 
 coming." 
 
 " Oh," said Harriet. " I 11 get your oil-skins, Eben. 
 I hung them out in the back hall." 
 
 She was gone only a few minutes, and came back 
 with the oil-skins and sou wester. Eben took them 
 from her. 
 
 " I don t know when I shall be back, Harriet ; prob 
 ably not to supper. Don t sit up for me. I may as well 
 get a bite of something now." 
 
 He went as suddenly as he had come. 
 
 "I can t get used to Eben s new ways," Harriet re 
 marked. "They are very different from his old ones." 
 
 Abbie murmured something it did not matter in the 
 least what it was and began to put on her things. 
 
 " Eben 11 be sailing as soon as he can get the Susan 
 ready," Harriet continued. She laughed a little. "To 
 tell the truth, Abbie, I shan t be sorry, and it will be 
 a welcome change for him. I shall feel rather relieved 
 to have my house to myself. And he will be doing what 
 he likes best in the world." 
 
 "That s the way I feel about William s writing." 
 
 " But, Abbie," Harriet remonstrated, in tones which 
 she could not keep from seeming shocked, not that 
 
 363
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 she tried, "our we have been sea-captains and 
 ship-owners for oh, as far back as I know anything 
 about us. It s so different!" 
 
 Abbie laughed. " I really believe, Harriet," she said, 
 "that you can t see through a- Well, good-by." 
 
 She went out, and the wind, careering around the 
 house, seized upon her, and had blown her off the walk 
 and up against one of the great elms before she knew 
 what it was up to. Then, in pure joyousness, she 
 laughed aloud; and, entering into the freakish spirit 
 of the wind, which had not settled down to anything 
 in particular yet, but came in gusts, she struggled back 
 to the walk and out at the gate, and at last, home. It 
 had not begun to rain in earnest ; only a hard, driving 
 mist, coming with the gusts of wind. 
 
 Nobody in Old Harbor slept much that night, except 
 the children. They, for the most part, would have 
 slept soundly through anything. Such small things as 
 the lashing of the rain upon the windows and the roar 
 ing of the wind and the breaking of branches and the 
 occasional crash of a tree and the thunder of the surf 
 upon the distant beaches would not bother healthy 
 children. The roar from the Middle Breaker was tre 
 mendous ; it sounded as if the surf were just outside the 
 windows. 
 
 Abbie, having dismissed William and warned him 
 to be careful and to go right home, went to bed to lie 
 awake, listening happily to the noise of the elements. 
 And William, having listened smilingly to Abbie s 
 
 364
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 warning, went down to Colonel Catherwood s office 
 to offer his help. William and the colonel and Eben 
 and many another good man worked hard all that 
 night, and went home in the morning drenched through, 
 after making the "Susan " as safe as she could be made 
 and seeing her ride out the storm until daylight. Most 
 of the lesser vessels were safe, too; but three of them 
 were blown ashore at the upper end of the harbor. 
 Nobody took the trouble to count the dories and skiffs 
 that were smashed up. The old shipyard was devas 
 tated, and the scaffolding, which had stood for so many 
 years, was knocked down and carried off by wind and 
 tide, to be distributed along the shores. A row of fisher 
 men s huts which had stood on a long sand -spit was 
 swept clean away during the night ; the sand-spit itself 
 was not there in the morning, and the sea had even 
 breached the sea-wall that had stood at the root of it, 
 and had carried the stones away, or covered them so 
 deep with sand that they could not be found to make 
 repairs. The wall has not been repaired yet. And 
 another long sand-spit now runs in over what was once 
 a meadow. 
 
 It was at this break in the sea-wall that Clanky Beg 
 was found, drenched with salt water, sitting in the rain 
 beside Mike Loughery s dead body and weeping as 
 though his heart would break. To those w r ho found 
 him there, he would say nothing, nothing intelligible, 
 but to call for William Ransome. William had just 
 got home ; but he went out again and down to the re- 
 
 365
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 mains of the sea-wall and to the remains of Mike, 
 Clanky had resolutely refused to leave Mike, and still 
 sat beside his body; and all that William was able to 
 get out of him was a passionate denial that he had 
 killed Mike, and a lament that he had not been able to 
 save him. Mike s death remained a mystery. Clanky 
 seemed to be satisfied when he had, in a measure, 
 accounted to William. Clanky felt an obligation, dim 
 and hazy, no doubt, to satisfy him. Then he went 
 with him, readily enough, to Mrs. Loughery s. 
 
 Miss Hitty Tilton and Miss Susie had tried to occupy 
 themselves as usual, the evening before, but they had 
 not been able to. Miss Hitty found herself listening to 
 the increasing roar of the Middle Breaker, and Miss 
 Susie was plainly nervous. 
 
 " I don t know as I ever heard Old Middle so loud," 
 remarked Miss Hitty, calmly ; " any way, not since the 
 September gale of sixty-nine or was it sixty-seven or 
 seventy-one ? When was it, Susie ? W T hen was it that 
 old Mis Marsh got blown across the street and broke 
 her leg? Don t you know?" 
 
 "I m afraid I don t, sister," answered Miss Susie, 
 plaintively. "Don t you know? I depend upon you 
 to remember all those things." Miss Susie laughed to 
 conceal her nervousness. A fiercer gust shook the house 
 and lashed the rain against the panes ; it seemed to have 
 blown off Miss Susie s glasses, which dangled now at 
 the end of their black ribbon. "Mercy!" she cried. 
 " Oh, sister, was n t that awful ? Do you do you 
 
 366
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 suppose there s any danger that the house will blow 
 down? I d like to be prepared." 
 
 Miss Hitty laughed. "Well, Susie, you can t do 
 better than get your stockings all darned up. Then 
 you d better put on your best pair and go to bed. I d 
 advise you to lie out straight and fold your hands across 
 your stomach. It ll look better and save trouble." 
 
 Miss Susie looked relieved, and secured her glasses 
 again by running her fingers quickly down the ribbon ; 
 a movement made perfect by long practice. She stuck 
 the glasses on her nose again. 
 
 " Now, sister, you re poking fun at me. But, really, 
 it seemed as if there might be danger that the house 
 would blow down. It shakes so at every gust." 
 
 " This old house has stood many a harder blow than 
 this," said Miss Hitty, dryly. "Don t you worry, 
 Susie." 
 
 " Well, I won t, if you think there is no danger. But 
 I m sorry for the sailors out at sea." 
 
 "So am I," agreed Miss Hitty, quickly. "So should 
 every one be that knows anything about sailors. But 
 don t you remember the poem ? Don t you hear it 
 roar, now ? Lordy ! But I m sorry for all unhappy 
 folks ashore, now ! 
 
 " I seem to remember it," replied Miss Susie. " But, 
 if you 11 pardon me, sister, it does n t strike me that 
 you have quoted it just right. It seems to me to have 
 too many feet." 
 
 "Feet, hands, ears, or eyes!" sniffed Miss Hitty, in 
 367
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 disgust. " It is the sentiment I wished to make you see; 
 the point of view of the sailor. Although I don t be 
 lieve," she continued, "that any sailor ever looked at it 
 in that way. If he did, he d be a fool. Can you quote 
 it any better, Susie?" 
 
 "I m afraid not." 
 
 Miss Hitty was silent for some time. A great limb 
 crashed down from one of the trees. 
 
 "Oh!" Miss Susie cried. "I wonder what branch 
 that was." 
 
 "I ve got it, Susie," said Hitty, with satisfaction. 
 
 "Oh, have you, sister? What tree do you think 
 it was?" Miss Susie laid her work in her lap and 
 looked up. 
 
 "Not that, Susie," said Miss Hitty, impatiently; 
 " the quotation. Oh, Lordy ! How I pities all unhappy 
 folks on shore, now. There ! Now I m going to bed." 
 She got out of her chair with the quick motion that 
 had always been characteristic of her. It was not easy 
 for her to move quickly, now ; no one knew how hard 
 it was. "Good-night, Susie. The house won t blow 
 down. But remember to lie out straight with your 
 hands clasped over your stomach." 
 
 "Oh, sister!" cried Miss Susie. 
 
 But Hitty was gone. She got herself into her own 
 bed, settled herself with a sigh, and was lulled to sleep 
 by Old Middle. Miss Hitty could never understand 
 how any sensible person could be kept awake by the 
 noise of the surf. Although she went to sleep readily, 
 
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 OLD HARBOR 
 
 she woke long before light. It was one of the penalties 
 of old age. She lay there patiently waiting for day 
 light ; and when it began to be gray and there was light 
 enough to see, she dressed herself quietly and sat by 
 her window, looking out at the devastation. 
 
 The street was covered with leaves and twigs ; and 
 there was a huge limb torn off one of the elms, nearly 
 opposite her window, that pretty nearly blocked the 
 street. She could see the long scar running down 
 towards the ground, where the bark had been stripped 
 from the tree. It made her wonder how their own trees 
 had fared Nancy s trees, now. There was one near 
 their fence that she was afraid it was an old tree, 
 and she was afraid that it might have gone. In half 
 an hour she had made up her mind. 
 
 "I m not going to die but once," she said cheerfully, 
 to herself; and she got her things on her old 
 bonnet and her long cloak a present from Nancy 
 and her rubbers. "It s not much use to take an 
 umbrella," she murmured, "but I ll take it a sop 
 to Cerberus. It will be a sop." She laughed at the 
 fancy. 
 
 As she opened her door, she heard Susie pottering 
 about in her room, and she stole downstairs quietly, 
 chuckling to herself and feeling like a guilty child. 
 
 It was still blowing hard, although not nearly so hard 
 as it had been, and the rain came down in hard, driving 
 showers. An umbrella was of no use, and Miss Hitty 
 took hers under her cloak. She made her way slowly 
 
 369
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 and with difficulty past the fallen limbs and amid 
 general ruin toward Nancy s. At the corner she saw 
 Abbie Mervin. 
 
 " Dear me ! " she said to herself. " Now I m in for it. 
 I ll hold on here and perhaps she won t see me." 
 
 So she held to the fence, she was glad of that sup 
 port, she found, but Abbie had seen her, and came 
 over. 
 
 "Why, Miss Hitty!" she cried. "You ought never 
 to be out in this weather. Let me take you home. You 
 might catch your death." 
 
 "Now, Abbie Mervin," Miss Hitty said decidedly, 
 " if I want to risk my life, I 11 take the responsibility. 
 I m going to Nancy Hedge s to see if any of our trees 
 have been blown down. It s only a step farther. Don t 
 you try to manage me. You ll have your hands full 
 managing William." 
 
 Abbie blushed. "I ll go with you," she said. "It s 
 not that I want to manage you, Miss Hitty, but that it s 
 important to all of us to have you take care of yourself. 
 Will you go in to Miss Hedge s?" 
 
 "Yes, I will, if that will satisfy you," replied Miss 
 Hitty, smiling, "and be glad enough to. I know, as 
 well as you do, Abbie, that I had no business to come 
 out this morning, but I just had to. What are you 
 up to?" 
 
 "Oh, I m looking for William," answered Abbie, 
 sighing. " I had a presentiment that he had not gone 
 right home last night, as I told him to, and I ve been 
 
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 down to see. He was n t at home all night. And no 
 sooner was he back this morning than he went out 
 again. I don t know why. Now, I m looking for him. 
 What ever am I to do with him, Miss Hitty ?" 
 
 "Marry him," snapped Miss Hitty. "Marry him 
 right away. He ll never take care of himself. You 
 won t be making any mistake, nor he, either." 
 
 Abbie laughed. "That s what I d about made up 
 my mind to do." 
 
 They had been going on as fast as Miss Hitty was 
 able, and now they were almost at Nan s gate. Miss 
 Hitty saw that her old tree that she was anxious about 
 still stood ; but almost half of it had split off and lay in 
 the yard. She stood silent, her eyes full of tears, for 
 some minutes. Then she began to cough and to shiver. 
 Abbie looked about her and saw William coming. She 
 beckoned to him. 
 
 Nan had been standing at the library window. It was 
 really too early for Octavia, and Nan was compassion 
 ately regarding the ruined tree. " There s Miss Hitty," 
 she said suddenly to herself. " She has no business to 
 be out in this storm. I m going to get her in." Before 
 anybody could have stopped her, Nan had darted out 
 into the rain, just as she was. 
 
 She met them, William and Abbie supporting Miss 
 Hitty, halfway to the house. Miss Hitty smiled and 
 her lips moved. Nan bent down. 
 
 "Yes, you dear," she said. "It shall be all patched 
 up, with bricks and cement, as good as new. Come 
 
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 OLD HARBOR 
 
 in quickly. You are going to your very own room, 
 Miss Hitty, and I m going to send right off for Miss 
 Susie." 
 
 "Well, Nancy, dear," whispered Miss Hitty, "I m 
 glad."
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 Miss SUSIE came, in the closed carriage, bringing 
 with her some of Miss Kitty s things. Nan gave her her 
 old room, too. There were rooms enough in the old 
 house. Miss Susie fluttered about, her sole aim being 
 to be of some use and comfort to Hitty, and her sole 
 wish, beyond that, to be reassured as to her condition. 
 Doctor Olcott, poor man, could give her but little reas 
 surance ; he only patted her on the back, as if she had 
 been a child, and mumbled something about being as 
 cheerful as she could. Miss Susie went to her own room 
 and cried softly. 
 
 Nan waylaid him as he was going out. " Well ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 The doctor shook his head. "Not well, at all, Miss 
 Hedge," he said. " Damn it, it is n t well. Be as good 
 to her as you can, my dear, for we are all as fond of her 
 as you are." Nan s eyes filled. " Hitty Tilton is a won 
 derful old woman, with an extraordinary amount of 
 vitality and a will that has kept her alive for the last six 
 months," continued the doctor; "but she s as stubborn 
 as a mule. Damn it, there is n t a mule that can hold 
 a candle to her. She may pull through this yet, but I 
 won t hold out any false hopes ; I don t expect it. Damn 
 it! Good-by." The doctor went out hastily, and shut 
 
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 OLD HARBOR 
 
 the door softly after him, Nan knew that he would 
 have liked to slam it, and ambled down the walk to 
 the Polar Bear. 
 
 For the next two days their hopes and their fears 
 alternated ; then their hopes dwindled. Nan was sitting 
 beside Miss Hitty, on the late afternoon of the second 
 day. 
 
 "Nancy, dear," whispered Miss Hitty. 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Nan. " Have you any pain ? " 
 
 "Not a mite," was the cheerful reply. " Nancy, will 
 you look after Susie ? Is it too much to ask ?" 
 
 " No, you dear. She s come home, and here she stays, 
 and so do you. You 11 get well, Miss Hitty, if you only 
 make up your mind to." 
 
 Miss Hitty smiled merrily. " Fiddlesticks, my dear ! " 
 she said, with some approach to a return of her old 
 energy. "Stuff and nonsense! If Doctor Olcott told 
 you that, he s a fool, and you can tell him I said so. He 
 knows better." 
 
 She was silent for a minute, gathering strength. Nan 
 made no reply, but pressed the withered old hand she 
 held. 
 
 "I m a stubborn old woman, Nancy. But if I ve 
 got to take as much care of myself as though I was 
 a china doll, I don t want to live. Thank you about 
 Susie, Nancy, dear. There s one more thing I want to 
 ask." 
 
 Nan bent low. "Anything, Miss Hitty, that you 
 would like, I promise." 
 
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 Again Miss Hitty smiled. "Don t be rash, my dear. 
 I wanted to ask you if you would be willing to find 
 room for our furniture. There s a good deal of it, but 
 they re all nice things. I want to get them back in the 
 old house, and I want you to have em, Nancy ; that is, 
 if you want em." 
 
 "I shall be glad to have anything that has been 
 yours," Nan replied, smiling through her tears, " after 
 you have got through with it. You and Miss Susie can 
 use the things here." 
 
 "Oh, I m through with em," said Miss Hitty, dryly. 
 
 " Can t you find anything harder to ask me ? " 
 
 " I guess I can, Nancy. Will you send word to Mary 
 Catherwood and Jack that I d like to see them ? Jack s 
 at home, is n t he ? This is his day." 
 
 Nan nodded. "I believe he is," she said. "But 
 but, Miss Hitty, if it s anything to do with me, please 
 don t." 
 
 " Fiddlesticks, my dear ! " said the old woman. " Stuff 
 and nonsense ! Why should it be ? If you won t send, 
 Nancy, I ll have to ask somebody else. But I guess 
 to-morrow 11 do." 
 
 So Nan sighed and sent. WTien the morrow came, 
 Mrs. Catherwood and Jack appeared. What Miss Hitty 
 had to say to Mrs. Catherwood that was of such im 
 portance, I do not know. It did not take long for her 
 to say it not more than five minutes. When Mrs. 
 Catherwood came out, looking anxious but relieved, 
 too, Nan was waiting for her. 
 
 375
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 She did not waste any time. " How does she seem 
 to you, Mrs. Catherwood?" she asked. "I have been 
 seeing her constantly, of course, and can t judge." 
 
 "She seems surprisingly strong," Mrs. Catherwood 
 replied ; " much better than I had any reason to expect. 
 I really don t see why we should give up hope yet, Nan, 
 dear." Then Mrs. Catherwood flushed and smiled. 
 " You must pardon me. The name slipped out before 
 I knew it. But I should be glad if you would let me 
 keep on using it. You are one of us, you know, and you 
 have been very good to Miss Hitty and Miss Susie and 
 to my Jack. Do you mind ?" 
 
 Nan s eyes filled quickly, and her lip quivered a 
 little. " It would make me very happy if you would," she 
 answered. "I have wan ted so much to be one of you." 
 She gave a little flicker of a smile. " But I don t deserve 
 any credit for being good to Miss Hitty and Miss Susie. 
 Nobody could help it; and I have denied myself no 
 thing. I only hope Miss Hitty will be willing to stay 
 here if she gets well." 
 
 " Let us hope that she will. There is no reason for 
 giving up yet." Mrs. Catherwood put an arm around 
 Nan impulsively and kissed her. 
 
 Meanwhile Miss Hitty was talking to Jack. She 
 spoke very low, that was to be expected, but with 
 vigor. Knowing Miss Hitty, you would have expected 
 that, too. 
 
 "Well, Jack Catherwood," she said, "you have gone 
 and got into a pretty mess with our Nancy. Explain 
 
 376
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 yourself, sir. What do you mean by making her 
 unhappy?" 
 
 " But, Miss Hitty, " Jack began, smiling and 
 stammering. 
 
 " Oh, I know just what you would like to say," said 
 Miss Hitty, stopping him. "It would be a waste of 
 time to let you. Of course, it s her fault; we ll take 
 that for granted. What do you propose to do about 
 it?" 
 
 " I was n t going to say that at all," Jack returned. 
 " I Ve no doubt it is my fault, although I don t see how. 
 But neither do I see how 
 
 " Oh, fiddlesticks ! Never mind whose fault it is, and 
 never mind how. Make it up with her. She 11 meet you 
 more than halfway. I m very fond of Nancy, Jack, 
 even more fond of her than I am of you. I came very 
 near being your grandmother, Jack. If I had n t been 
 so stiff-necked and stubborn, bothering about such 
 unimportant matters as whose fault it was, I should 
 have been saved many an unhappy day. I just won t 
 have Nancy going through my experience. But would 
 you like to make it up with her?" 
 
 "Very much, Miss Hitty," acknowledged Jack, 
 soberly. 
 
 " Well, then, go and do it right away. Your mother 
 won t object. I ve been talking to her. Now, run along. 
 I m tired. It s all because of you, you bad boy." 
 
 " I hope not, grandmother," said Jack ; " I hope not." 
 He bent over her and kissed her. 
 
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 Miss Hitty smiled. " There, there ! " she said, " now 
 run along. Tell her that I m going to sleep, and don t 
 want to be disturbed for an hour." 
 
 Miss Hitty closed her eyes, and Jack went out. He 
 saw Nan down the hall, and caught her before she could 
 reach her own room. 
 
 "Come, Nan," he said. "I have something to tell 
 you. Miss Hitty is going to sleep, and she wanted me to 
 say that she did n t wish to be disturbed for an hour." 
 Nan smiled faintly at the transparent ruse; but she 
 went. Jack stopped before the door of the library. " Is 
 there anybody in here?" 
 
 Nan shook her head. Jack drew her inside and 
 closed the door. 
 
 What passed behind that closed door, I do not know. 
 Miss Hitty s hour was very nearly up when those two 
 came out again, and Nan looked very happy and so did 
 Jack. Jack kissed her at the door, it is to be pre 
 sumed that I shall not be far wrong if I say that he 
 kissed her again at the door, after making sure that 
 nobody was in sight. And Nan, she would not have 
 cared whether anybody was in sight or not, she put 
 her arms about his neck and returned his kiss. 
 
 " There ! " she whispered. " It would never do for me 
 to keep it." 
 
 "I shall stay," Jack said, "until until there is no 
 need." 
 
 " Will you come in every day ? " 
 
 Jack smiled. "Well, rather!" he said. "I have no 
 378
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 doubt I shall be in several times a day three or four. 
 Good-by, dear." 
 
 "Good-by." Nan smiled at him as he went down 
 the steps. Then she turned and ran up the stairs to Miss 
 Kitty s room. She was sure that it would be good for 
 Miss Hitty to hear the news ; not too much of it. 
 
 Miss Hitty was awake, and she did not know Nan. 
 Her mind seemed to be wandering about among the 
 mazes of that time, more than half a century before, 
 when she had had her own misunderstanding and had 
 been too stubborn to clear it up. Nan was alarmed and 
 sent for Doctor Olcott. 
 
 Thereafter, for nearly a week, the good doctor was at 
 Nan s even more than Jack was. He got a nurse for 
 Miss Hitty ; not a trained nurse, there were no trained 
 nurses in Old Harbor, but just a plain, middle-aged 
 nurse. The ways of that nurse did not meet with Miss 
 Hitty s approval. Miss Hitty had her lucid moments, 
 and during one of them, she seemed to want to say 
 something. Nan bent low. 
 
 "What is it, dear?" she asked. 
 
 " That nurse is a fool," whispered Miss Hitty. " Send 
 her away." 
 
 Nan smiled at the characteristic speech and sent the 
 nurse away. 
 
 "Damn it," said Doctor Olcott, explosively, when 
 Nan told him ; " just like her, just like her ! But what 
 are we going to do now ? Nurses don t grow on every 
 bush." 
 
 379
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 "I will take care of her," said Nan. 
 
 "You, my dear?" asked the doctor. "It is hard 
 work, hard work. It may wear you out, the hours 
 and the anxiety." 
 
 " It won t wear me out," Nan replied, smiling quietly. 
 " If a nurse can stand it, I can. Perhaps Miss Susie can 
 help me." 
 
 Doctor Olcott shook his head. "She is willing 
 enough ; anxious enough. But I doubt the wisdom of 
 it. She would n t be much help." 
 
 " Don t deny me, doctor. I 11 make it go, somehow. 
 I m sure that Miss Hitty would like it." 
 
 " Like it ! " growled the doctor. " Of course she d like 
 it. Who would n t? You re a jewel, my dear. Jack 
 Catherwood should be a proud man." 
 
 Nan blushed very prettily. "He is," she said. 
 
 The doctor was just going out. He stuck his head in 
 at the door again. 
 
 " I m a fool," he said. " I 11 get Hattie. It s just her 
 chance, and she s just the woman." 
 
 He got Hattie; and she stood watch with Nan, and, 
 incidentally, she came to know her. She knew Nan 
 better, in those few days and nights, than Octavia knew 
 her, after all her years of acquaintance. 
 
 There came a night when Harriet, in giving up her 
 place at Miss Kitty s side, paused at the door. She was 
 smiling. 
 
 "She is sleeping quietly," she said. "I have hopes, 
 Nan." 
 
 380
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 The tears came into Nan s eyes. "I m glad," she 
 sighed. "Oh, I m glad!" 
 
 Miss Harriet kissed her ; and then, as if ashamed of 
 such an unaccustomed display of emotion, she passed 
 out quickly. 
 
 Daylight was coming in under the close-drawn shades 
 and around the shutters when Miss Hitty opened her 
 eyes and smiled at Nan, sitting there. Nan smiled back 
 at her. 
 
 "Now you re all right, dear," she said. 
 
 "Nancy," returned Miss Hitty, faintly, "I ve about 
 decided to get well. I ve changed my mind. It ll be 
 a good joke on the doctor, and I want to see you and 
 Jack married before I go." 
 
 "I m thankful," said Nan. And she put her head 
 down on the bed and cried for a minute, softly. 
 
 The doctor came very early. He had more than half 
 expected to be sent for during the night, and he had lain 
 awake for hours, awaiting the sound of his bell. It 
 would never do to tell that to the profession; though 
 his patients, I am afraid, were so lost to the sense of 
 fitness that they would only have thought the better 
 of him for it. Nan was waiting for him. 
 
 "Well?" he growled. "You didn t send for me. 
 How is she? Living?" 
 
 Then Nan told him. "She has changed her mind, 
 doctor. She is going to get well. She said so." 
 
 The doctor s face broke into a smile. " Damn it ! " he 
 said. "Damn it! The old jade!" He laughed and 
 
 381
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 went wheezing and chuckling up the stairs, damning 
 it delightedly at every step. 
 
 Miss Kitty s recovery was as rapid as was to have 
 been expected, under the circumstances ; and that is not 
 saying much. But Nan, thinking it best that her bridges 
 should be burned before she was well enough to use 
 them again, had her furniture moved one day. In spite 
 of carefully closed doors and explicit instructions to the 
 men, it was impossible to keep from Miss Hitty the fact 
 that something was up. 
 
 "Nancy," she said, "what in the world are you up 
 to?" 
 
 Nan laughed. "Oh, nothing of consequence." 
 
 "It sounds like men tramping through the house," 
 continued Miss Hitty, "and trying to keep quiet." 
 
 Nan laughed again, merrily. "So it does." 
 
 " What are they doing, Nancy ? " Miss Hitty looked 
 sharply at the merry girl. "Nancy, I do believe that 
 you ve gone and had my things moved." 
 
 " You don t have to guess again," said Nan. " Right, 
 the first time. Forgive me, dear. I was afraid that you 
 might change your mind about it. I warn you, I shall 
 make it as hard as I can for you to do that." 
 
 Miss Hitty put out a hand to Nan s. " No," she said, 
 " I shan t change my mind about that. Maybe you 11 
 come to wish I had. You might just tell those men that 
 they don t have to keep quiet. They can t, anyway, and 
 it makes me nervous to have them trying." 
 
 So Nan went down to tell the men. Seeing the door 
 382
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 of the drawing-room ajar, she looked inside before she 
 shut it. What she saw almost took her breath away. 
 
 " Well ! " she said. " Jack Haight ! " 
 
 For there stood Octavia, her head on the breast of a 
 tall man with a handsome face that was marked with 
 many fine lines. It was a handsome face, as I have 
 said, but it seemed to repel Nan; a face that was full 
 of scorn, and doubt of something the motives of 
 others, perhaps, as well as his own. But I do not know ; 
 I did not know Jack Haight. Nan did, it is to be sup 
 posed. 
 
 "Oh, how d ye do, Nan," he remarked. "Pardon 
 my not offering my hand. As you see, it is otherwise 
 occupied." 
 
 Nan inclined her head. Octavia turned to her a face 
 full of happiness. "You see, Nan," she said, "I shall 
 be going this afternoon. You don t need me any more." 
 
 Nan smiled. "I see, Octavia," she replied gently. 
 " May you keep your happiness ! " 
 
 As Nan went out, she heard Jack Haight laughing. 
 It was not a pleasant laugh.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 PERHAPS you have seen a copy of "War-Time 
 Memories," by Francis Catherwood, late Colonel of 
 Cavalry. It is Harriet s joy and pride. 
 
 " That, now," she says to her friends, when she is 
 showing them her autographed copy, " that is worth 
 while." Which is as much as to say that this kind of 
 thing is not ; concerning which point there may well be 
 an honest difference of opinion and her view of it the 
 right one. She has made her remark to me. She has not 
 made it, I have reason to believe, to William Ransome 
 
 she wants to be considerate ; but he has no illusions 
 as to her opinion. It does not disturb him. 
 
 Jack Catherwood found the manuscript of "War- 
 Time Memories" while he was rummaging through 
 his father s desk after something else, on the day the 
 "Susan" sailed away with Eben. He seized upon the 
 pile of written sheets, and held them up and shook them 
 at his father. 
 
 " So you ve been at it, dad ! " he cried. " Contraband 
 
 plainly contraband. Findings, keepings. I shan t 
 give up my prize." He laughed. 
 
 Colonel Catherwood started to take his precious 
 papers away from Jack. Then he laughed, too. " Well, 
 Jackie," he said, " you may take them if you want them. 
 
 384
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 I have had my fun in doing them, and they re fin 
 ished. If you find them good for anything, I shall be 
 very glad. I don t suppose they are." 
 
 Jack was reminded of his half-forgotten intention to 
 try to induce William Ransome to publish, too. He 
 went to William and used all his powers of persuasion ; 
 and William listened with a smile upon his face. 
 
 " I shall have to refer you to my wife," he said, when 
 Jack had finished. "She is my agent. I may say, in 
 confidence, that she is my manager, as well. Don t let 
 her know that I know it." 
 
 Abbie, who was present, blushed William always 
 liked to make her blush ; he contended that her blush 
 was lovely and protested. "William!" she cried. 
 " When you know that the only reason I married you 
 was so that you should take proper care of yourself! 
 Gratitude!" 
 
 "I am afraid that gratitude has no place, my dear; 
 no standing at all," said William. 
 
 For Abbie, true to the determination she had ex 
 pressed to Miss Hitty, had married him within the 
 month. But all this bother about manuscripts and 
 stories, which are of no manner of consequence, came 
 after the sailing of the "Susan." 
 
 The "Susan" sailed on the tenth of November. 
 Colonel Catherwood was there, of course; and Eben, 
 equally of course. The ship could scarcely sail without 
 her mate. Indeed, Eben had been as busy as a mate 
 should be in getting her ready. Eben had changed 
 
 385
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 much in those few weeks ; and if there was still, occa 
 sionally, a trace of the fear which had become a habit, 
 it was but a trace, and the colonel had faith that it 
 would disappear. It takes more than a few weeks to 
 get rid of a habit of years standing. 
 
 They were all there to see Eben sail, even to Miss 
 Hitty, who had been driven down with Nan and Miss 
 Susie ; for it was one of those warm and beautiful days 
 that we sometimes have in November. They all gath 
 ered about the carriage all but Eben. A mate has 
 no time for standing about carriages when his ship is 
 sailing. Clanky and Joe stood a little apart, with Mrs. 
 Loughery, who looked somewhat mournful, as was only 
 fitting. She even had on a black dress, in honor of 
 Mike. Had he not kept out of jail, and died so far as 
 anybody knew, unless Clanky knew; and he had not 
 told and died, so far as anybody knew, in the honor 
 able pursuit of an honorable calling ? She had not 
 thought it best to inquire too closely about that. It was 
 best to let sleeping dogs lie ; a comfortable habit that has 
 much to recommend it. On the whole, Mrs. Loughery 
 seemed relieved; which was but natural, too, in the 
 circumstances. 
 
 Eben came ashore, at the last minute, to say a brief 
 good-by. He shook hands with Miss Hitty, who leaned 
 out to pat his shoulder and to say a few words ; and he 
 had to submit to being kissed by Mrs. Catherwood, and 
 Miss Harriet, who displayed no emotion, but presented 
 a sisterly cheek. Constance called out to him, gayly, 
 
 386
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 and he smiled at her as he replied. He had called on 
 Abbie and William the evening before, a distinction 
 which surprised and pleased them. Now, he went to 
 Doctor Olcott and took his hand in a close grasp, but 
 said nothing. The doctor smiled at him and said no 
 thing, in his turn. Then Eben turned to Clanky and 
 Joe where they stood waiting. 
 
 Clanky and Joe had known Eben better than any 
 body else in Old Harbor, and he seemed to have more 
 to say to them than to any of the others. Clanky Beg 
 was crying, he made no effort to conceal it, and 
 Eben put his arm about his shoulders and talked to him 
 for some minutes. I do not know what he said, but 
 Clanky s blubbering ceased and his face brightened. 
 Eben said good-by to the smiling Joe and to Mrs. 
 Loughery, who overwhelmed him with her blessings. 
 Then, with a shake of Colonel Catherwood s hand and 
 a wave to them all, he was gone. 
 
 They watched him as he w r ent up over the side like a 
 cat. The anchor had already been hove short, and, as 
 he came aboard, they could hear the slow clank of the 
 chain. The jibs went up, one at a time, and the clank 
 of the chain continued, and they saw the shank of the 
 anchor rise out of the water like some ungainly sea- 
 animal with great blobs of mud on his head ; and, the 
 wind being gentle and fair, and blowing straight out of 
 the harbor, the " Susan " sailed slowly out, without help, 
 unfolding one sail after another as she went, with great 
 deliberation. There was no hurry. Eben waved to them 
 
 387
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 again, and they watched the ship until she was far out 
 upon the broad ocean with all her wings spread, dim 
 and vague; a dream ship. 
 
 Doctor Olcott spoke to Miss Harriet. " So you 11 be 
 living alone again, Hattie." 
 
 She turned to him and smiled. " Yes," she said, it 
 seemed to the doctor that she spoke with some satisfac 
 tion, " yes, I shall live alone, now ; alone with my 
 silver and my china and my habits. And I 11 tell you, 
 doctor, in confidence, that I think I shall get a cat. 
 Miss Wetherbee is not very near." 
 
 And the doctor laughed and went to look for the 
 Polar Bear. On his way up the street, taken by a 
 sudden impulse, he stopped at MacLean s. That 
 gentleman was at his door, with his nose flattened 
 against the glass. He made way when he saw the doc 
 tor clambering out of his buggy, and he opened the 
 door. 
 
 The doctor mounted the three steps, smiling, and 
 to MacLean s unbounded surprise and somewhat to 
 his discomfort, gave the little man a resounding clap 
 upon the back. 
 
 " Ouch ! " he cried. " But, doctor, it 11 be a love-pat, 
 nae mair?" 
 
 "No more than a love-pat," the doctor replied. 
 " Why should it be ? What do you think of it, Mac- 
 Lean?" 
 
 "The ship s sailed, I tak it," said MacLean. 
 "That ll be the last o Eben Joyce, I m thinkin ." He 
 
 388
 
 OLD HARBOR 
 
 wagged his head wisely. " They 11 a be gey fou s. But 
 they ll be happy eneuch, I mak na doubt. An* that 
 Nan Hedge, I didna think it o her, that she d be sae 
 guid ta puir Miss Hitty. I didna think it o her. It 11 
 be aye t her ereedit."
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 GAYLORD 
 
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