“He the one that people say is an Italian, and—­and—­nobody knows what he is up to?”

“That’s the one, aunty.”

The minister and Tony, hand in hand, passed out of sight.

“This is the kind of day when Mr. Walton’s mother will be watching the weather, looking up at the vane.  People say that she has a great deal to say about the sea, and takes a great interest in sailors.”

“What for?”

“Because they say she has a son somewhere at sea.”

“And don’t any one know where he is really?”

“No; and they have hinted and suspected and guessed and done every thing, except ask old Miss Walton right out, but they can’t find out a thing.  She’s close as a clam in this matter.”

By and by there appeared in the lane a drunken man.  As he staggered along he was exposed to all the pitiless pelting of the wild north east rain, and moved away like a dark, forlorn shadow.

“Poor fellow!” the sympathizing Charlie exclaimed.  “Who’s that, I wonder?”

“Where?”

“A drunken man in the lane.”

“If people would only take the water inside and the rum outside, sort of turnin’ things round, it would be much better, better,” said Aunt Stanshy, going to the window.  She gave one look and came back to her ironing.  Charlie thought he heard her sigh.  He had already noticed that Aunt Stanshy never made fun of drunken people.

“Who is it?” he asked.

She did not answer, but taking up her flat-iron again, pounded the clothes with it vigorously, as if trying to call attention from herself to her work.

“Is she crying?” thought Charlie.

As if wet with her tears, her spectacles gleamed sharply.  The muscles of her arms swelled as she pounded the innocent sheet before her, and Charlie was reluctant to ask again.  For some time there was silence, the only interrupting sound being Aunt Stanshy’s pound—­pound—­pound.  Charlie sat in his chair, looking steadily out upon the somber, dripping rain.

“Don’t you want to play something?”

It was Aunt Stanshy speaking.  A troubled look on her face had passed away and she was ironing quietly again.

“Yes;” said Charlie, “you—­you sick?”

Aunt Stanshy gave no answer to this, but asked again, “Don’t you want to play?”

“Play what?”

“Boat.”

“Boat! how!”

“O make believe, you know.”

Charlie thought in silence.

“You lend me a box, aunty?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“And that little broom you sweep with?”

The amateur ship-carpenter went to work.

“There is my mast,” said Charlie, securing the broom to the bottom of the box which he had turned over.  “Now I must have sails.  It is going to be a monitor, too, like what I read about in a book the other day.”

After some effort, and more tribulation, there appeared a splendid piece of naval architecture, a monitor with a turret, the deck bordered with a twine-railing, two sails hanging down from Aunt Stanshy’s small broom.