“And has your friend no home—­no place in which to put his family?”

“Neither home nor family, my good mother.” answered Marble for himself; “and so much the greater reason, you will think, why I ought to begin to think of getting both as soon as possible.  I never had father or mother, to my knowledge; nor house, nor home of any sort, but a ship.  I forgot; I was a hermit once, and set myself up in that trade, with a whole island to myself; but I soon gave up all to natur’, and got out of that scrape as fast as I could.  The business didn’t suit me.”

The old woman looked at Marble intently.  I could see by her countenance that the off-hand, sincere, earnest manner of the mate had taken some unusual hold of her feelings.

“Hermit!” the good woman repeated with curiosity; “I have often heard and read of such people; but you are not at all like them I have fancied to be hermits.”

“Another proof I undertook a business for which I was not fit.  I suppose a man before he sets up for a hermit ought to know something of his ancestors, as one looks to the pedigree of a horse in order to find out whether he is fit for a racer.  Now, as I happen to know nothing of mine, it is no wonder I fell into a mistake.  It’s an awkward thing, old lady, for a man to be born without a name.”

The eye of our hostess was still bright and full of animation, and I never saw a keener look than she fastened on the mate, as he delivered himself in this, one of his usual fits of misanthropical feeling.

“And were you born without a name?” she asked, after gazing intently at the other.

“Sartain.  Everybody is born with only one name; but I happened to be born without any name at all.”

“This is so extr’or’nary, sir,” added our old hostess, more interested than I could have supposed possible for a stranger to become in Marble’s rough bitterness, “that I should like to hear how such a thing could be.”

“I am quite ready to tell you all about it, mother; but, as one good turn deserves another, I shall ask you first to answer me a few questions about the ownership of this house, and cove, and orchard.  When you have told your story, I am ready to tell mine.”

“I see how it is,” said the old woman, in alarm.  “You are sent here by Mr. Van Tassel, to inquire about the money due on the mortgage, and to learn whether it is likely to be paid or not.”

“We are not sent here at all, my good old lady,” I now thought it time to interpose, for the poor woman was very obviously much alarmed, and in a distress that even her aged and wrinkled countenance could not entirely conceal.  “We are just what you see—­people belonging to that sloop, who have come ashore to stretch their legs, and have never heard of any Mr. Van Tassel, or any money, or any mortgage.”

“Thank Heaven for that!” exclaimed the old woman, seeming to relieve her mind, as well as body, by a heavy sigh. “’Squire Van Tassel is a hard man; and a widow woman, with no relative at hand but a grand-darter that is just sixteen, is scarce able to meet him.  My poor old husband always maintained that the money had been paid; but, now he is dead and gone, ’Squire Van Tassel brings forth the bond and mortgage, and says, ’If you can prove that these are paid, I’m willing to give them up.’”