“Wal, near’s I can find out,” said Odbar Broadway from behind his counter, where he was counting eggs out of Old Man Jordan’s bucket, “the Cap’n had a club in one hand and power of attorney from Kun’l Gid’s sister in the other—­and a threat to divide the Ward estate.  The way Gid’s bus’ness is tied up jest at present would put a knot into the tail of ’most any kind of a temper.”

“I’m told the Cap’n is makin’ her a turrible nice husband,” observed one of the store loungers.

Broadway folded his specs into their case and came from behind the counter.

“Bein’ a bus’ness man myself,” he said, “I come pretty nigh knowin’ what I’m talkin’ about.  Kun’l Gid Ward can never flout and jeer that the man that has married his sister was nothin’ but a prop’ty-hunter.  I’m knowin’ to it that Cap’n Sproul has got thutty thousand in vessel prop’ty of his own, ’sides what his own uncle Jerry here left to him.  Gid Ward has trompled round this town for twenty-five years, and bossed and browbeat and cussed, and got the best end of every trade.  If there’s some one come along that can put the wickin’ to him in good shape, I swow if this town don’t owe him a vote of thanks.”

“There’s a movement on already to ask Cap’n Sproul to take the office of first s’lec’man at the March meetin’,” said one of the loafers.

“I sha’n’t begretch him one mite of his popularity,” vowed the storekeeper.  “Any man that can put Kun’l Gid Ward where he belongs is a better thing for the town than a new meetin’-house would be.”

But during all this flurry of gossip Cap’n Aaron Sproul spent his bland and blissful days up under the shade of the big maple in the Ward dooryard, smoking his pipe, and gazing out over the expanse of meadow and woodland stretching away to the horizon.

Most of the time his wife was at his elbow, peering with a species of adoration into his browned countenance as he related his tales of the sea.  She constantly carried a little blank-book, its ribbon looped about her neck, and made copious entries as he talked.  She had conceived the fond ambition of writing the story of his life.  On the cover was inscribed, in her best hand: 

    From shore to shore

    Lines from A mariner’s adventures

   The Life Story of the Gallant Captain Aaron Sproul

   Written by His Affectionate Wife

“I reckon that Providunce put her finger on my compass when I steered this way.  Louada Murilla,” said the Cap’n one day, pausing to relight his pipe.

He had insisted on renaming his wife “Louada Murilla,” and she had patiently accepted the new name with the resignation of her patient nature.  But the name pleased her after her beloved lord had explained.