The nurse was ready with lint and bandages and a dark, pleasant-smelling balsam in a bottle. Carolyn May, who had untackled Prince on the porch, stood by, and watched Miss Amanda’s skilful fingers in wonder. The old sailor did not even groan, so the child had no idea that the drops of perspiration that gathered on his brow, and which Miss Amanda finally wiped away so tenderly, were called into being by acute suffering. When the last bandage was adjusted and the injured man’s eyes were closed, Mr. Parlow offered him a wine-glass of a home-made cordial. The sailor gulped it down, and the colour began to return to his cheeks. “Where was you goin’, anyway?” demanded the carpenter. “This ain’t no good day to be travellin’ in. I don’t see what that child was a-thinkin’ on, to be out playin’ in such weather.” “Lucky for me she was out,” said the sailor, more vigorously. “Ya-as, I reckon that’s so,” admitted Mr. Parlow. “But, where was you goin’?” “Lookin’ for a job, mate,” said the sailor. “There’s them in town that tells me I’d find work at Adams’ camp.” “Ha! didn’t tell you ’twas ten mile away from here, did they?” “Is it? Well, no, they didn’t tell me that,” admitted the visitor, “or I’d not started so late. You see, I come up on a schooner. This here lake boatin’ ain’t in my line. I’m deep-water, I am.” “So I should s’pose,” said Mr. Parlow. “How’d you git up here, anyway?” “The war,” said the visitor. “The war done it. Couldn’t git a good berth in any deep-water bottom. So I thought I’d try fresh-water sailin’. And now they tell me this here lake’ll be froze up solid and all the traffic stopped all winter long.” “Likely to be,” admitted Mr. Parlow. “Don’t it beat all?” murmured the sailor. “And me up in this cold country—and full of rheumatiz. I tell you, matey, I been workin’ as quartermaster’s mate on the old Cross and Crescent Line, a-scootin’ ’cross to Naples from N’York—there and back—goin’ on ten year. I ain’t goin’ to like it up here in this here cold, northern, snowbound country, I don’t believe.” “What did you leave your boat for?” asked the carpenter curiously. “What boat? This here lake schooner? I told you.” “No. The other.” “Oh, she was sunk. There’s things happenin’ over to the other side of the ocean, mate,” said the injured man earnestly, “that you wouldn’t believe—no, sir! The Cross and Crescent Line’s give up business till after the war’s over, I reckon.” “You’d better not encourage him to talk any more, father,” interposed Miss Amanda, coming into the room again. “The best thing he can do for himself is to sleep for a while.” “Thank ye, ma’am,” said the sailor humbly. “I’ll try.” The carpenter went back to work. Miss Amanda took Carolyn May out into the kitchen. She looked at her rather curiously, and once she seemed about to speak seriously—perhaps about the injured sailor. Carolyn May sidetracked this, however, by asking: