nly the accessible harbors have been utilized by man, and but
few of these are, even to-day. At the head of one of these, and forming
the only safe harbor of the Isle au Haut, there clustered a little
fishing hamlet forty years ago, the largest house of which was one
occupied by Captain Obed Pullen, a retired sea captain, his wife, two
sons--Frank and Obed, Jr., and one daughter.

The house was a white, square, two-story one with a flat roof built with
bulwarks around it, having portholes like those of a man-of-war. There
was a small yard in front surrounded by a board fence, and on a knoll
just back of the house was a small enclosure containing a few white
headstones. Captain Pullen, having amassed sufficient of this world's
goods, lived in peaceful seclusion, far removed from the worldly strife
he wished to avoid. With his two sons, he tilled a few acres of land. He
fished a little as a pastime, and visited the mainland but seldom. He
was a blunt-spoken, but warm-hearted man, with shaggy white beard and
hair, and a voice and handshake as hearty as a gale of wind.

To this abode of simple cordiality and good will, one summer day, and by
invitation of the old captain's son Frank, came our battle-scarred and
love-lorn friend Manson. He and young Pullen had much in common, for
both loved the sea, and their friendship, formed when both were
environed by the dangers of war, made them now the most affectionate of
friends. Manson found himself at once welcomed by the entire family as a
valued friend and one whom they all seemed proud to entertain.

"We don't put on style down here," said the old captain to him at the
first meal, and in a voice that made the dishes rattle, "but we're right
glad to see ye, and we'll give ye some fun if the wind holds out. Be ye
fond o' fishin'?"

As fishing was a mania with Manson, and as his opportunities had been
limited to the peaceful seclusion of brooks, or the calm waters of mill
ponds, it is needless to say that he admitted he was fond of that sport.

"Frank tells me," continued the captain with blunt directness, "that ye
have got a sweetheart ye left to come here visitin', but ye best quit
thinkin' 'bout her if ye go fishin'."

Whether our young friend did or not does not matter; but it is certain
that the days which followed, passed amid such surroundings, were red
letter ones in his history. With two young men of about his own age for
companions, a trim and staunch fishing sloop