delightful in
the grasp of his hand, warm and clean, as if it never touched anything
but the comfortable woolen yarn, instead of cold sea water and slippery
fish.

"What are the painted stakes for, down in the field?" I hastened to ask,
and he came out a step or two along the path to see; and looked at the
stakes as if his attention were called to them for the first time.

"Folks laughed at me when I first bought this place an' come here to
live," he explained. "They said 'twa'n't no kind of a field privilege at
all; no place to raise anything, all full o' stones. I was aware 'twas
good land, an' I worked some on it--odd times when I didn't have nothin'
else on hand--till I cleared them loose stones all out. You never see
a prettier piece than 'tis now; now did ye? Well, as for them painted
marks, them's my buoys. I struck on to some heavy rocks that didn't show
none, but a plow'd be liable to ground on 'em, an' so I ketched holt
an' buoyed 'em same's you see. They don't trouble me no more'n if they
wa'n't there."

"You haven't been to sea for nothing," I said laughing.

"One trade helps another," said Elijah with an amiable smile. "Come
right in an' set down. Come in an' rest ye," he exclaimed, and led the
way into his comfortable kitchen. The sunshine poured in at the two
further windows, and a cat was curled up sound asleep on the table that
stood between them. There was a new-looking light oilcloth of a tiled
pattern on the floor, and a crockery teapot, large for a household
of only one person, stood on the bright stove. I ventured to say that
somebody must be a very good housekeeper.

"That's me," acknowledged the old fisherman with frankness. "There ain't
nobody here but me. I try to keep things looking right, same's poor dear
left 'em. You set down here in this chair, then you can look off an' see
the water. None on 'em thought I was goin' to get along alone, no way,
but I wa'n't goin' to have my house turned upsi' down an' all changed
about; no, not to please nobody. I was the only one knew just how she
liked to have things set, poor dear, an' I said I was goin' to make
shift, and I have made shift. I'd rather tough it out alone." And he
sighed heavily, as if to sigh were his familiar consolation.

We were both silent for a minute; the old man looked out the window, as
if he had forgotten I was there.

"You must miss her very much?" I said at last.

"I do miss her," he answered, and sighed again. "Folk