though, to hev the feller go off 'thout none on us speakin' to him. He
's got a hard furrer to plough; and yet I don't s'pose there 's much
harm in him, 'f Eliphalet only keeps quiet."

"Eliphalet!" said a young sailor, contemptuously. "No fear o' him!
They say he 's so sca't of Eph he hain't hardly swallowed nothin' for a
week."

"But where will he live?" asked a short, curly-haired young man, whom
Eph had seemed not to recognize. It was the new doctor, who, after
having made his way through college and the great medical school in
Boston, had, two years before, settled in this village.

"I believe," said Mr. Adams, rubbing his hands, "that he wrote to Joshua
Carr last winter, when his mother died, not to let the little place she
left, on the Salt Hay Road; and I understand that he is going to make
his home there. It is an old house, you know, and not worth much, but it
is weather-tight, I should say."

"Speakin' of his writin' to Joshua," said Doane, "I have heard such a
sound as that he used to shine up to Joshua's Susan, years back. But
that 's all ended now. You won't catch Susan marryin' no jailbirds."

"But how will he live?" said the doctor. "Will anybody give him work?"

"Let him alone for livin'," said Doane. "He can ketch more fish than
any other two men in the place--allers seemed to kind o' hev a knack o'
whistlin' 'em right into the boat. And then Nelson Briggs, that settled
up his mother's estate, allows he 's got over a hundred and ten dollars
for him, after payin' debts and all probate expenses. That and the place
is all he needs to start on."

"I will go to see him," said the doctor to himself, as he went out upon
the requisition of a grave man in a red tippet, who had just come for
him. "He does n't look so very dangerous, and I think he can be tamed. I
remember that his mother told me about him."

Late that night, returning from his seven miles' drive, as he left
the causeway, built across a wide stretch of salt-marsh, crossed the
rattling plank bridge, and ascended the hill, he saw a light in the
cottage window, where he had often been to attend Aunt Lois. "I will
stop now," said he. And, tying his horse to the front fence, he went
toward the kitchen door. As he passed the window, he glanced in. A
lamp was burning on the table. On a settle, lying upon his face, was
stretched the convict, his arms beneath his head. The canvas bag lay on
the floor beside him. "I will not disturb him now," sai