“Well, Charlie,” observed Mr. Winslow, on one occasion, a raw November morning of the week before Thanksgiving, “how’s the bank gettin’ along?”

Charles was a bit more silent that morning than he had been of late.  He appeared to be somewhat reflective, even somber.  Jed, on the lookout for just such symptoms, was trying to cheer him up.

“Oh, all right enough, I guess,” was the reply.

“Like your work as well as ever, don’t you?”

“Yes—­oh, yes, I like it, what there is of it.  It isn’t what you’d call strenuous.”

“No, I presume likely not, but I shouldn’t wonder if they gave you somethin’ more responsible some of these days.  They know you’re up to doin’ it; Cap’n Sam’s told me so more’n once.”

Here occurred one of the lapses just mentioned.  Phillips said nothing for a minute or more.  Then he asked:  “What sort of a man is Captain Hunniwell?”

“Eh?  What sort of a man?  You ought to know him yourself pretty well by this time.  You see more of him every day than I do.”

“I don’t mean as a business man or anything like that.  I mean what sort of man is he—­er—­inside?  Is he always as good-natured as he seems?  How is he around his own house?  With his daughter—­or—­or things like that?  You’ve known him all your life, you know, and I haven’t.”

“Um—­ye-es—­yes, I’ve known Sam for a good many years.  He’s square all through, Sam is.  Honest as the day is long and—­”

Charles stirred uneasily.  “I know that, of course,” he interrupted.  “I wasn’t questioning his honesty.”

Jed’s tender conscience registered a pang.  The reference to honesty had not been made with any ulterior motive.

“Sartin, sartin,” he said; “I know you wasn’t, Charlie, course I know that.  You wanted to know what sort of a man Sam was in his family and such, I judge.  Well, he’s a mighty good father—­almost too good, I suppose likely some folks would say.  He just bows down and worships that daughter of his.  Anything Maud wants that he can give her she can have.  And she wants a good deal, I will give in,” he added, with his quiet drawl.

His caller did not speak.  Jed whistled a few mournful bars and sharpened a chisel on an oilstone.

“If John D. Vanderbilt should come around courtin’ Maud,” he went on, after a moment, “I don’t know as Sam would cal’late he was good enough for her.  Anyhow he’d feel that ‘twas her that was doin’ the favor, not John D. . . .  And I guess he’d be right; I don’t know any Vanderbilts, but I’ve known Maud since she was a baby.  She’s a—­”

He paused, inspecting a nick in the chisel edge.  Again Phillips shifted in his seat on the edge of the workbench.

“Well?” he asked.

“Eh?” Jed looked up in mild inquiry.  “What is it?” he said.

“That’s what I want to know—­what is it?  You were talking about Maud Hunniwell.  You said you had known her since she was a baby and that she was—­something or other; that was as far as you got.”