"Is this Summer Street?" I inquired of an old darky who was strolling cityward in the cool of the evening. An umbrella was under his arm and an evening paper under his spectacled nose. "Bress de Lord!" he said, looking vaguely around. "Ah couldn't say. Ah knows dat street--been on it fifty times--but Ah never did know de name. Ha, ha, ha!" The hills about echoed his hearty laugh. "You don't happen to know Charlie Potter?" "Oh, yas, sah. Ah knows Charlie Potter. Dat's his house right ovah dar." The house in which Charlie Potter lived was a two-story frame, overhanging a sharp slope, which descended directly to the waters of the pretty river below. For a mile or more, the valley of the river could be seen, its slopes dotted with houses, the valley itself lined with mills. Two little girls were upon the sloping lawn to the right of the house. A stout, comfortable-looking man was sitting by a window on the left side of the house, gazing out over the valley. "Is this where Charlie Potter lives?" I inquired of one of the children. "Yes, sir." "Did he live in Noank?" "Yes, sir." Just then a pleasant-faced woman of forty-five or fifty issued from a vine-covered door. "Mr. Potter?" she replied to my inquiry. "He'll be right out." She went about some little work at the side of the house, and in a moment Charlie Potter appeared. He was short, thick-set, and weighed no less than two hundred pounds. His face and hands were sunburned and brown like those of every fisherman of Noank. An old wrinkled coat and a baggy pair of gray trousers clothed his form loosely. Two inches of a spotted, soft-brimmed hat were pulled carelessly over his eyes. His face was round and full, but slightly seamed. His hands were large, his walk uneven, and rather inclined to a side swing, or the sailor's roll. He seemed an odd, pudgy person for so large a fame. "Is this Mr. Potter?" "I'm the man." "I live on a little hummock at the east of Mystic Island, off Noank." "You do?" "I came up to have a talk with you." "Will you come inside, or shall we sit out here?" "Let's sit on the step." "All right, let's sit on the step." He waddled out of the gate and sank comfortably on the little low doorstep, with his feet on the cool bricks below. I dropped into the space beside him, and was greeted by as sweet and kind a look as I have ever seen in a man's eyes. It was one of perfect courtesy and good nature--void of all suspicion. "We were sitting down in the sailboat maker's place at Noank the other day, and I asked a half dozen of the old fellows whether they had ever known a contented man. They all thought a while, and then they said they had. Old Mr. Main and the rest of them agreed that Charlie Potter was a contented man. What I want to know is, are you?"