Captain Gillis, as might be assumed, was not a native of the province of Quebec, but merely a carpet-bagger, who moved north in the summer and returned in early autumn about the time the wild geese went south, and all for reasons known only to himself.  He hailed from down East, and voted in a small town not many miles from the historic shell-heaps and the ancient city of Pemaquid.

Our meeting with the down-East skipper was entirely one of accident.  Wandering along the beach at Bic, we had come upon a boat, half dory, half nondescript, which from the possession of certain peculiarities was claimed by one of the party to be of Maine origin, and, to settle the dispute, a little house a few hundred yards higher up was visited.

It was like many others along shore,—­single-storied, painted white, with green blinds, with a small garden in the rear, in which grew old-fashioned flowers and an abundance of “yarbs” that bespoke a mistress of Thompsonian leanings.  A stack of oars, seine-sticks, and harpoon-handles leaned against the roof; gill-nets festooned the little piazza, while a great iron caldron, that had evidently done service on a New Bedford whaler, had been utilized by the good housewife to capture the rain-water from the shingled roof.

“Mornin’ to ye, gentlemen.  Been lookin’ at the bot?” queried a tall, thin, red-faced man, with an unusually jolly expression, stepping out from a shed.

“Yes.  We thought she was of Maine build,” replied the disputant.

“Wall, so she is,” said the mariner,—­“so she is; and there ain’t none like her within forty mile of Bic.  I’m of Maine build myself,” he added.  “But I ain’t owner.  I’m sorter second mate to Sol Grillis; sailed with him forty year come Christmas.  Don’t ye know him?  What! don’t know Sol Gillis!” And a look of incredulity crept into the old man’s eye.  “Why, I thought Sol was knowed from Bic to Boothbay all along shore.  But come in, do.  I know ye’re parched,” continued the friend of the skipper, dropping his palm and needle and motioning the visitors toward the little sitting-room.  “Mother,” he called, “here’s some folks from daown aour way.”

As the old man spoke, a large-framed woman appeared in the door-way, holding on to the sides for support, and bade us welcome.  Her eyes were turned upward, and had a far-away look, as if from long habit of gazing out to sea, but, as we drew nearer, we saw that she was blind.

Leading the way into the kitchen, which was resplendent with shining pans and a glistening stove, all the work of the thrifty but blind housewife, she began to entertain us in her simple manner, and described a model of a full-rigged ship that rested on a table, though she had never seen it, with an exactness that would have done credit to many a sailor:  even the ropes and rigging were pointed out, and all their uses dwelt upon with a tenderness strangely foreign to the subject.

“And Captain Sam built it?” we asked.