oak-tree, and the outer edges of some had
been left untrimmed. From a nail in the midmost beam hung a small
rusty key, around which the spiders wove webs and the children many
speculations: for the story went that a brother of the old Doctor's--
the scapegrace of the family--had hung it (the key of his quadrant)
there, with strong injunctions that no one should take it down until
he returned--which he never did. So Mrs Penhaligon's feather-brush
always spared this one spot in the room, every other inch of which
she kept scrupulously dusted. She would not for worlds have
exchanged lodgings with Nicky-Nan, though his was by far the best
bedroom (and far too good for a bachelor man); because from her
windows she could watch whatever crossed the bridge--folks going to
church, and funerals. But the children envied Nicky-Nan, because
from his bedroom window you could--when he was good-natured and
allowed you--drop a line into the brawling river. Of course there
were no real fish to be caught, but with a cunning cast and some luck
you might hook up a tin can or an old boot.

Now Nicky-Nan was naturally fond of children, as by nature he had
been designed for a family man; and children gave him their
confidence without knowing why. But in his early manhood a girl had
jilted him, which turned him against women: later, in the Navy, the
death of a friend and messmate, to whom he had transferred all the
loyalty of his heart, set him questioning many things in a silent
way. He had never been able to dissipate affection or friendship:
and his feelings when hurt, being sensitive as the horns of a snail,
withdrew themselves as swiftly into a shell and hid there as
obstinately: by consequence of which he earned (without deserving) a
name not often entered upon the discharge-sheets of the Royal Navy.
But there it stood on his, in black upon white--"A capable seaman.
_Morose_."

He had carried this character, with his discharge-sheet, back to
Polpier, where his old friends and neighbours--who had known him as a
brisk upstanding lad, sociable enough, though maybe a trifle shy--
edged away from the taciturn man who returned to them. Nor did it
help his popularity that he attended neither Church nor Chapel: for
Polpier is a deeply religious place, in its fashion.

Some of the women-folk--notably Mrs Polsue, the widow-woman, and Miss
Cherry (Charity) Oliver, a bitter spinster--spoke to the Wesleyan
Minister about this.

The Mini