“I should think it would be very pleasant after all the storms and the tossings.  And yet the sea—­the sea, the glorious sea—­has always had a great fascination for me—­even though I’ve never seen it.”

“Nev—­nev—­never seen salt water!” This amazedly.

“Never.”  This sadly.  “I’ve been kept—­I’ve stayed very closely at my home.  Being a single lady, I’ve had no one to talk to me or take me about.  I have read books about the ocean, but I’ve never had any chance to hear a real and truly mariner tell about the wonderful waste of waters and describe foreign countries.  I suppose you have been ’way, ’way out to sea, Cap’n Sproul—­across the ocean, I mean.”

She had timidly edged up and taken one of the chairs on the porch, gazing about her at the curios.

“Well, ma’am,” remarked the Cap’n, dryly, as he seated himself in another chair, “I’ve waded across a cove wunst or twice at low water.”

“I should love so to hear a mariner talk of his adventures.  I have never had much chance to talk with any man—­I mean any sailor.  I have been kept—­I mean I have stayed very closely at home all my life.”

“It broadens a man, it sartain does, to travel,” said the skipper, furtively slipping a sliver of tobacco into his cheek and clearing his throat preparatory to yarning a bit.  The frank admiration and trustful innocence in the eyes of the pretty woman touched him.

“I suppose you have been out at sea in some awful storms, Cap’n.  I often think of the sailormen at sea when the snow beats against the window and the winds howl around the corner.”

“The wu’st blow I ever remember,” began the skipper, leaning back and hooking his brown hands behind his head like a basket, “was my second trip to Bonis Airis—­general cargo out, to fetch back hides.  It was that trip we found the shark that had starved to death, and that was a story that was worth speakin’ of.  It—­”

There was a hoarse bellow of “Giddap!” up behind the willows.  Then into sight came galloping the tall, gaunt horse of Colonel Gideon Ward.  The Colonel stood up, smacking his whip.

With one leap the Cap’n was at his rope, and began to haul in hand over hand.

The big gate at the mouth of the bridge squalled on its rusty hinges.

“You mustn’t shut that gate—­you mustn’t!” shrieked the little woman.  She ran and clutched at his sturdy arms.  “That’s my brother that’s coming!  You’ll break his neck!”

The gate was already half shut, and the doughty skipper kept on pulling at the rope.

“Can’t help it, ma’am, if it’s the apostle Paul,” he gritted.  “There ain’t nobody goin’ to run toll on this bridge.”

“It will kill him.”

“It’s him that’s lickin’ that hoss.  ’Tain’t me.”

“It’s my brother, I tell you!” She tried to drag the rope out of his hands, but he shook her off, pulled the big gate shut, set his teeth, clung to the rope, and waited.