“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 probably did love me—­or thought he did.  What difference?

We lapsed into silence.  The scene below was so charming that I could easily gaze at it in silence.  This little house was very simple, not poor, by no means prosperous, but well-ordered—­such a home as such a man might have.  After a while I said: 

“It is very evident that you think the condition of some of your fellowmen isn’t what it ought to be.  Tell me what you are trying to do.  What method have you for improving their condition?”