He leaned in the window and watched her safely out of sight, then went across the room, recaptured “The Pirate,” and chuckled in the tickling pleasure of a forbidden thing, “asked the blessing,” drank his tea shrewdly, knowing it would deteriorate, and settled to his book. The brown soft dusk settled, shade by shade; moths fluttered around the lamp; sleepy birds twittered in the maples. But the beat of the surf on the Shetland Islands was closer than these. Cleveland and Mordaunt Mertoun were busy, and Norna--“really, Norna was a remarkable woman”--and an hour slipped past. Some one hemmed! close by and scraped his feet. It was a large man who stood there, dusty and ragged, one boot on the porch, with a red handkerchief knotted under his thick tangled beard and jovial red face. He had solid limbs and shoulders, and a stomach of sloth and heavy feeding. The stranger did not resemble the comely pirate, Cleveland; his linen was not “seventeen hun'red;” it seemed doubtful if there were any linen. And yet, in a way there was something not inappropriate about him, a certain chaotic ease; not piratical, perhaps, although he looked like an adventurous person. Father Wiliston took time to pass from one conception of things to another. He gazed mildly through his glasses. “I ain't had no supper,” began the stranger in a deep moaning bass; and Father Wiliston started. “Bless my soul! Neither have I.” He shook out his napkin. “Bettina, you see “-- “Looks like there's enough for two,” moaned and grumbled the other. He mounted the porch and approached the window, so that the lamplight glimmered against his big, red, oily face. “Why, so there is!” cried Father Wiliston, looking about the table in surprise. “I never could eat all that. Come in.” And the stranger rolled muttering and wheezing around through the door. “Will you not bring a chair? And you might use the bread knife. These are fried eggs. And a little cold chicken? Really, I'm very glad you dropped in, Mr.”-- “Del Toboso.” By this time the stranger's mouth was full and his enunciation confused. “Why”--Father Wiliston helped himself to an egg--“I don't think I caught the name.” “Del Toboso. Boozy's what they calls me in the push.” “I'm afraid your tea is quite cold. Boozy? How singular! I hope it doesn't imply alcoholic habits.” “No,” shaking his head gravely, so that his beard wagged to the judicial negation. “Takes so much to tank me up I can't afford it, let alone it ain't moral.” The two ate with haste, the stranger from habit and experience, Father Wiliston for fear of Bettina's sudden return. When the last egg and slice of bread had disappeared, the stranger sat back with a wheezing sigh. “I wonder,” began Father Wiliston mildly, “Mr. Toboso--Toboso is the last name, isn't it, and Del the first?” “Ah,” the other wheezed mysteriously, “I don't know about that, Elder. That's always a question.” “You don't know! You don't know!”