Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, she made her inquiries and took her train. It was one that stopped at every station, and when, after three quarters of an hour of this sauntering, she alighted on a desolate and unpromising platform, her first thought was to inquire in the small depot for the first train back. The little house seemed to be deserted for the moment, however, and she observed an elderly man with a short white beard, who, with trousers tucked into his boots and thumbs hooked in his armholes, stood at a little distance, regarding speculatively the lady in the gray suit and floating gray veil. Near where he was standing a carryall was waiting by the platform. In Mrs. Porter's indecision she looked again within the weather-beaten station, then across at the motionless, weather-beaten face. "There doesn't seem to be any one in here," she said. "I cal'late Joe's out in the shed luggin' wood," responded the man. His pleasant tone, his drawl, the sea-blue of his eyes, caused her to move toward him as the needle to the magnet. She knew the type. All the suspended Maine exhilaration rushed back upon her. How clean he was! How rough! How adorable! "I've come," she said, gazing up into the eyes regarding her steadily, and said no more. "Want me to haul ye?" he asked kindly, not changing his position. "Yes." "Where to?" "I don't know." The sunlight of her smile evoked a grin from him. "Come on a chance, have ye?" "Yes, So did you, I should think. Nobody but little me getting off here." "No, 't ain't time for 'em really to come yet." "Who? Summer people, do you mean?" "Yes. Folks is beginnin' to think they like it down here; but we don't take summer boarders to the Cape, ye'll have to know that." A prodigious wink enveloped one sea-blue eye. "Oh, I'm so sorry." Mrs. Porter's smile vanished in her earnestness. "Wouldn't--wouldn't your wife, perhaps--" "Haven't got none." "Oh, I'm sorry." "I ain't. Ben glad on't always. Hain't ever repented." "Then you mean you never were married." "That's what I mean." The speaker nodded as if to emphasize a triumph. "But isn't there some one in your--your village--I suppose it's a village, isn't it?" "Shouldn't wonder if 'twas." The visitor tasted that "'t wa-a-as" with appetite, and echoed it mentally. "Some one who would take a boarder if--if I want to stay?" The monotonous landscape was not inviting. "Wall, for accawmodation's sake I cal'late they would; but it's only for accawmodation's sake, ye understand." The speaker winked again. "The Cape don't take boarders." "Oh, I see," laughed the visitor. "But you must have expected somebody. You're here." "Usually git somebody. I haul 'em for hard cash, not for accawmodation's sake, so ye see I'm on hand." "I should hope so. What should I have done if you hadn't been here?" "Oh, they'se a car you could git over there a little piece." The speaker unhooked one thumb and gestured. "I'd far rather go with you, Mr.--Mr.--"