“She oughter be kinder married, you know—­ter be like a mother,” stammered Prosper.

“Oh, ay.  I see,” returned the manager, again illuminated by Prosper’s unexpected wisdom.

He mused for a moment.  “There is,” he began tentatively, “a lady in reduced circumstances—­not an inmate of this house, but who has received some relief from us.  She was the wife of a whaling captain who died some years ago, and broke up her home.  She was not brought up to work, and this, with her delicate health, has prevented her from seeking active employment.  As you don’t seem to require that of her, but rather want an overseer, and as your purpose, I gather, is somewhat philanthropical, you might induce her to accept a ‘home’ with you.  Having seen better days, she is rather particular,” he added, with a shrewd smile.

Simple Prosper’s face was radiant.  “She’ll have a Chinaman and a Biddy to help her,” he said quickly.  Then recollecting the tastes of his comrades, he added, half apologetically, half cautiously, “Ef she could, now and then, throw herself into a lemming pie or a pot of doughnuts, jest in a motherly kind o’ way, it would please the boys.”

“Perhaps you can arrange that, too,” returned the manager, “but I shall have to broach the whole subject to her, and you had better call again to-morrow, when I will give you her answer.”

“Ye kin say,” said Prosper, lightly fingering his massive gold chain and somewhat vaguely recalling the language of advertisement, “that she kin have the comforts of a home and no questions asked, and fifty dollars a month.”

Rejoiced at the easy progress of his plan, and half inclined to believe himself a miracle of cautious diplomacy, Prosper, two days later, accompanied the manager to the cottage on Telegraph Hill where the relict of the late Captain Pottinger lamented the loss of her spouse, in full view of the sea he had so often tempted.  On their way thither the manager imparted to Prosper how, according to hearsay, that lamented seaman had carried into the domestic circle those severe habits of discipline which had earned for him the prefix of “Bully” and “Belaying-pin” Pottinger during his strenuous life.  “They say that though she is very quiet and resigned, she once or twice stood up to the captain; but that’s not a bad quality to have, in a rough community, as I presume yours is, and would insure her respect.”

Ushered at last into a small tank-like sitting room, whose chief decorations consisted of large abelone shells, dried marine algae, coral, and a swordfish’s broken weapon, Prosper’s disturbed fancy discovered the widow, sitting, apparently, as if among her husband’s remains at the bottom of the sea.  She had a dejected yet somewhat ruddy face; her hair was streaked with white, but primly disposed over her ears like lappets, and her garb was cleanly but sombre.  There was no doubt but that she was a lugubrious figure, even to Prosper’s optimistic and inexperienced mind.