s 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?"

I looked quizzically into his eyes to see what effect this would have,
and if there was no evidence of a mist of pleasure and affection being
vigorously restrained I was very much mistaken. Something seemed to hold
the man in helpless silence as he gazed vacantly at nothing. He breathed
heavily, then drew himself together and lifted one of his big hands, as
if to touch me, but refrained.

"Yes, brother," he said after a time, "I _am_."

"Well, that's good," I replied, taking a slight mental exception to the
use of the word brother. "What makes you contented?"

"I don't know, unless it is that I've found out what I ought to do. You
see, I need so very little for myself that I couldn't be very unhappy."

"What ought you to do?"

"I ought to love my fellowmen."

"And do you?"

"Say, brother, but I do," he insisted quite simply and with no evidence
of chicane or make-believe--a simple, natural enthusiasm. "I love
everybody. There isn't anybody so low or so mean but I love him. I love
you, yes, I do. I love you."

He reached out and touched me with his hand, and while I was inclined to
take exception to this very moral enthusiasm, I thrilled just the same
as I have not over the touch of any man in years. There was something
effective and electric about him, so very warm and foolishly human. The
glance which accompanied it spoke, it seemed, as truthfully as his
words. He probab