It was a tentative reply, the man having a seafaring appearance. Her father was not at home, and Pleasant knew it. “Take a seat by the fire,” were her hospitable words when she had got him in; “men of your calling are always welcome here.”

“Thankee,” said the man.

His manner was the manner of a sailor, and his hands were the hands of a sailor, except that they were smooth. Pleasant had an eye for sailors, and she noticed the unused colour and texture of the hands, sunburnt though they were, as sharply as she noticed their unmistakable looseness and suppleness, as he sat himself down with his left arm carelessly thrown across his left leg a little above the knee, and the right arm as carelessly thrown over the elbow of the wooden chair, with the hand curved, half open and half shut, as if it had just let go a rope.

“Might you be looking for a Boardinghouse?” Pleasant inquired, taking her observant stand on one side of the fire.