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Old Country, rose the village of New Carlisle. No church graced the cluster of homes, but these villagers had certainly found a way to make a fine living. Would they want to share it?
    He climbed the dirt road and strode down one of the streets. The town was laid out on a grid, which had not caught his attention before on the short visit two years ago when he had come to post a letter to his mother and had thereby met the Garretts and spent the night. In Paspébiac, he knew the grid was based upon the seigneurial system, so the lots were narrower and stretched further back, whereas here the grid was square, perhaps because the English had settled here. He also noticed on the road back, two more houses being built. A good sign. People are more and more making a go of it, he thought with satisfaction, in spite of the grumblings and complainings the Loyalists were known for. A fractious lot, as his French co-workers had asserted.
    He heard the sound of hammer against metal, and paused. A blacksmith! Perhaps he needed a helper? He turned northward up the dirt road toward the sound. He passed several smaller houses, simple squares with high, peaked roofs to shed the heavy snows, four windows in front, one on each side of the centre door and two on the second floor for bedrooms. Every house was whitewashed and had red ochre trim under black roofs with tarred shingles. Few had verandas, though further on he passed a couple with simple platforms across the front. On one, he saw an elderly lady rocking and knitting, and waved. She smiled and called out a greeting. “Fine weather.”
    “The best,” he replied, and kept going. Good idea if he did apprentice to a blacksmith: he might learn something of the trade that might be almost a necessity at his brook, being so isolated. Why not, indeed, set up a small forge to make the nails he needed, hinges for doors, latches, any number of items so necessary for a new home? Yes, he’d love that; his pace quickened and soon he turned in at an unpainted structure in front of a neat house.
    The interior, darkened by years of smoke, was illuminated by the glowing fire spitting sparks as a huge redhaired smith pumped vigorously at his homemade bellows.
    The newly named James doffed his hat. “Good morning, sir.”
    The smith grunted a reply.
    “Fine shop you have here.”
    Another grunt signified agreement.
    James leaned against one of the four posts used for a horse being shod. “Tap-tap-tap, dong-dong,” sang the smith’s hammer as he beat a thin, flat iron into a rosetteshaped piece, expertly punching holes in the glowing metal with small hardies, devices made to fit precisely into the holes of the anvil.
    The smith chucked the metal into a half-barrel of water, and the sizzling gave rise to bubbles and smoke. He straightened. “What can I de fer ye?” he asked in a strong Scots accent.
    “Well sir,” James replied, “I wondered if you might need a bright young assistant?”
    The smith eyed him. “I’m nae a money-bags, laddie, I’m a smith!”
    “Oh no, sir. Of that I am well aware. But perhaps another body might increase your output, or avoid you turning down those many offers.” James Alford smiled.
    The smith replied by hauling out a large red handkerchief and blowing a resounding toot. “I have in mind some able-bodied man, but until I get all these offers ye speak of, I cannae afford one.”
    James wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Well, sir, that sounds like you might want an apprentice — someone who would work for nothing.”
    “Does it now?” He grinned and with his heavy pincers selected another piece of iron to begin another rosette, probably for a doorpost. James had noticed such decoration in front of the better appointed houses. Tap-tap-tap, dong-dong, went the hammer once again. “I might indeed.”
    “Well sir,” James allowed, “’tis an offer to be thought over, for sure. If you would be good enough to hold it open for a day or two.”
    The smith’s