barrow of fish to a store in town. At noon, somebody else appeared.

"There's Mr. Walton," said Aunt Stanshy.

"And there's Tony with him," said Charlie.

"Where's his father?"

"Tony says he is in Europe."

"He the one that people say is an Italian, and--and--nobody knows what he
is up to?"

"That's the one, aunty."

The minister and Tony, hand in hand, passed out of sight.

"This is the kind of day when Mr. Walton's mother will be watching the
weather, looking up at the vane. People say that she has a great deal to
say about the sea, and takes a great interest in sailors."

"What for?"

"Because they say she has a son somewhere at sea."

"And don't any one know where he is really?"

"No; and they have hinted and suspected and guessed and done every thing,
except ask old Miss Walton right out, but they can't find out a thing.
She's close as a clam in this matter."

By and by there appeared in the lane a drunken man. As he staggered along
he was exposed to all the pitiless pelting of the wild north east rain,
and moved away like a dark, forlorn shadow.

"Poor fellow!" the sympathizing Charlie exclaimed. "Who's that, I wonder?"

"Where?"

"A drunken man in the lane."

"If people would only take the water inside and the rum outside, sort of
turnin' things round, it would be much better, better," said Aunt Stanshy,
going to the window. She gave one look and came back to her ironing.
Charlie thought he heard her sigh. He had already noticed that Aunt
Stanshy never made fun of drunken people.

"Who is it?" he asked.

She did not answer, but taking up her flat-iron again, pounded the clothes
with it vigorously, as if trying to call attention from herself to her
work.

"Is she crying?" thought Charlie.

As if wet with her tears, her spectacles gleamed sharply. The muscles of
her arms swelled as she pounded the innocent sheet before her, and Charlie
was reluctant to ask again. For some time there was silence, the only
interrupting sound being Aunt Stanshy's pound--pound--pound. Charlie sat
in his chair, looking steadily out upon the somber, dripping rain.

"Don't you want to play something?"

It was Aunt Stanshy speaking. A troubled look on her face had passed away
and she was ironing quietly again.

"Yes;" said Charlie, "you--you sick?"

Aunt Stanshy gave no answer to this, but asked again, "Don't you want to
play?"

"Play what?"

"Boat."

"Boat! how!"

"O make believe, you know."

Cha