"Seems as if he just lives on that memory. He can't get out in the boats
any more, being so crippled up, and he can't see to read much, so there's
lots of time for him to sit and think on the past. If it wasn't for the
nets he'd about lose his mind. I wouldn't say it out, and you needn't
repeat it, but sometimes I think it's already touched a mite. You see the
two of them lived there together so long alone, that Emmett was all in
all to his father. I suppose that's why Emmett is all he can talk about
now."

When they reached the cottage Mr. Potter was sitting out in front as
usual, busy with his work. Georgina was glad that he did not offer to
shake hands. His were so dirty and black with tar she felt she could not
bear to touch them. He was a swarthy old man with skin like wrinkled
leather, and a bushy, grizzled beard which grew up nearly to his eyes.
Again Georgina wondered, looking at Belle in her crisp, white dress and
white shoes. How could she care for this unkempt old creature enough to
call him Father?

As she followed Belle around inside the dreary three-room cottage she
wanted to ask if this would have been her home if Emmett had not been
drowned, but she felt a delicacy about asking such a question. She
couldn't imagine Belle in such a setting, but after she had followed her
around a while longer she realized that the house wouldn't stay dreary
with such a mistress. In almost no time the place was put to rights, and
there was a pan of cookies ready to slip into the oven.

When the smell of their browning stole out to the front door the old man
left his bench and came in to get a handful of the hot cakes. Then, just
as Belle said he would, he told Georgina all that had happened the night