“Stim’lates,” she explained scornfully. “No, Santin never was in the war,” said Mrs. Todd with lofty indifference. “It was a cause of real distress to him. He kep’ enlistin’, and traveled far an’ wide about here, an’ even took the bo’t and went to Boston to volunteer; but he ain’t a sound man, an’ they wouldn’t have him. They say he knows all their tactics, an’ can tell all about the battle o’ Waterloo well’s he can Bunker Hill. I told him once the country’d lost a great general, an’ I meant it, too.” “I expect you’re near right,” said Mrs. Caplin, a little crestfallen and apologetic. “I be right,” insisted Mrs. Todd with much amiability. “’Twas most too bad to cramp him down to his peaceful trade, but he’s a most excellent shoemaker at his best, an’ he always says it’s a trade that gives him time to think an’ plan his manœuvres. Over to the Port they always invite him to march Decoration Day, same as the rest, an’ he does look noble; he comes of soldier stock.” I had been noticing with great interest the curiously French type of face which prevailed in this rustic company. I had said to myself before that Mrs. Blackett was plainly of French descent, in both her appearance and her charming gifts, but this is not surprising when one has learned how large a proportion of the early settlers on this northern coast of New England were of Huguenot blood, and that it is the Norman Englishman, not the Saxon, who goes adventuring to a new world. “They used to say in old times,” said Mrs. Todd modestly, “that our family came of very high folks in France, and one of ’em was a great general in some o’ the old wars. I sometimes think that Santin’s ability has come ’way down from then. ’Tain’t nothin’ he’s ever acquired; ’twas born in him. I don’t know’s he ever saw a fine parade, or met with those that studied up such things. He’s figured it all out an’ got his papers so he knows how to aim a cannon right for William’s fish-house five miles out on Green Island, or up there on Burnt Island where the signal is. He had it all over to me one day, an’ I tried hard to appear interested. His life’s all in it, but he will have those poor gloomy spells come over him now an’ then, an’ then he has to drink.” Mrs. Caplin gave a heavy sigh. “There’s a great many such strayaway folks, just as there is plants,” continued Mrs. Todd, who was nothing if not botanical. “I know of just one sprig of laurel that grows over back here in a wild spot, an’ I never could hear of no other on this coast. I had a large bunch brought me once from Massachusetts way, so I know it. This piece grows in an open spot where you’d think ’twould do well, but it’s sort o’ poor-lookin’. I’ve visited it time an’ again, just to notice its poor blooms. ’Tis a real Sant Bowden, out of its own place.”