me street in a factory district, secretary and stenographer to an
architect. She was little changed--a little stouter, not so carefree,
industrious, patient. His boy, the petted F----, could not even recall
his father, the girl not at all of course. And in the place were a few
of his prints, two or three Chinese dishes, pottered by himself, his
loom with the unfinished rug. I remained for dinner and dreamed old
dreams, but I was uncomfortable and left early. And Mrs. Peter,
accompanying me to the steps, looked after me as though I, alone, was
all that was left of the old life.

_A Doer of the Word_

Noank is a little played-out fishing town on the southeastern coast of
Connecticut, lying half-way between New London and Stonington. Once it
was a profitable port for mackerel and cod fishing. Today its wharves
are deserted of all save a few lobster smacks. There is a shipyard,
employing three hundred and fifty men, a yacht-building establishment,
with two or three hired hands; a sail-loft, and some dozen or so shops
or sheds, where the odds and ends of fishing life are made and sold.
Everything is peaceful. The sound of the shipyard axes and hammers can
be heard for miles over the quiet waters of the bay. In the sunny lane
which follows the line of the shore, and along which a few shops
struggle in happy-go-lucky disorder, may be heard the voices and noises
of the workers at their work. Water gurgling about the stanchions of the
docks, the whistle of some fisherman as he dawdles over his nets, or
puts his fish ashore, the whirr of the single high-power sewing machine
in the sail-loft, often mingle in a pleasant harmony, and invite the
mind to repose and speculation.

I was in a most examining and critical mood that summer, looking into
the nature and significance of many things, and was sitting one day in
the shed of the maker of sailboats, where a half-dozen characters of the
village were gathered, when some turn in the conversation brought up the
nature of man. He is queer, he is restless; life is not so very much
when you come to look upon many phases of it.

"Did any of you ever know a contented man?" I inquired idly, merely for
the sake of something to say.

There was silence for a moment, and one after another met my roving
glance with a thoughtful, self-involved and retrospective eye.

Old Mr. Main was the first to answer.

"Yes, I did. One."

"So did I," put in the sailboat maker, as he stopped in