He walked on aimlessly at a slow pace until the houses ended and the road became a lane shaded with tall trees and flanked by hawthorn hedges. Along this he walked a little way, and then, nervously fingering a note in his jacket pocket, retraced his steps. “I’ll see her and speak to her anyway,” he muttered. “Here goes.” He walked slowly back to the house, and, with his heart thumping, and a choking sensation in his throat, walked up to the door and gave a little whisper of a knock upon it. It was so faint that, after waiting a considerable time, he concluded that it had not been heard, and raised the knocker again. Then the door opened suddenly, and the knocker, half detained in his grasp, slipped from his fingers and fell with a crash that made him tremble at his hardihood. An elderly woman with white hair opened the door. She repressed a start and looked at him inquiringly. “Cap’n Jackson in?” inquired the skipper, his nerves thoroughly upset by the knocker. “Who?” said the other. “Cap’n Jackson,” repeated the skipper, reddening. “There is no such man here,” said the old woman. “Are you sure it is Captain Jackson you want?” she added. “I’m—I’m not sure,” said Wilson truthfully. The old woman looked at him eagerly. “Will you come in?” she said slowly, and, without giving him time to refuse, led the way into the small front room. The skipper followed her with the conscience of a fox invited into a poultry yard, and bringing up in the doorway, gazed uncomfortably at the girl who had risen at his entrance. “This gentleman is inquiring for a Captain Jackson,” said the old woman, turning to the girl. “I thought he—he doesn’t seem quite sure whether it is Captain Jackson he wants—he may bring news,” she concluded incoherently. “It’s not likely, mother,” said the girl, regarding the adventurous mariner by no means favorably. “There is no Captain Jackson here, sir.” “Have you been looking for him long?” inquired the mother. “Years and years,” said the other, forgetting himself. The old woman sighed sympathetically. “Won’t you sit down?” she said. “Thank you,” said the skipper, and took the edge of the sofa. “You’re not quite certain of the name?” suggested the girl coldly. “It—it sounded like Jackson,” murmured the intruder in a small, modest voice. “It might have been Blackson, or Dackson, or even Snackson—I won’t swear to it.” The old woman put her hand to her brow. “I thought perhaps you might have brought me some news of my poor husband,” she said at length. “I lost him some years ago, and when you came here inquiring for a seafaring man I thought you might somehow have brought news.” “You must see, mother, that this gentleman is looking for somebody else,” said the girl; “you are hindering him from finding Captain Jackson.” “If he’s been looking for him for years,” said the old woman, bridling mildly, “a few minutes will not make much difference.”