DYER’S HOLLOW. t5 
houses standing along the valley road were 
occupied by Western Islanders. I was 
crossing a field belonging to one of them 
when the owner greeted me; a milkman, 
as it turned out, proud of his cows and of 
his boy, his only child. ‘* How old do you 
think he is?” he asked, pointing to the 
young fellow. It would have been inexcus- 
able to disappoint his fatherly expectations, 
and I guessed accordingly: “Seventeen or 
eighteen.” “Sixteen,” he rejoined,— “six- 
teen!” and his face shone till I wished I had 
set the figure a little higher. The additional 
years would have cost me nothing, and there 
is no telling how much happiness they might 
have conferred. ‘‘ Who lives there?” I in- 
quired, turning to a large and well - kept 
house in the direction of the bay. “My 
nephew.” ‘Did he come over when you 
did?” “No, I sent for him.’”’ He himself 
left the Azores as a cabin boy, landed here 
on Cape Cod, and settled down. Since 
then he had been to California, where he 
worked in the mines. “Ah! that was where 
you got rich, was it?” said I. “Rich!” — 
this in a tone of sarcasm. But he added, 
“Well, I made something.” His praise of 
