EXCEPT FOR a few stray guests, islanders or from the inland country, to whom Mrs. Todd offered the hospitalities of a single meal, we were quite by ourselves all summer; and when there were signs of invasion, late in July, and a certain Mrs. Fosdick appeared like a strange sail on the far horizon, I suffered much from apprehension. I had been living in the quaint little house with as much comfort and unconsciousness as if it were a larger body, or a double shell, in whose simple convolutions Mrs. Todd and I had secreted ourselves, until some wandering hermit crab of a visitor marked the little spare room for her own. Perhaps now and then a castaway on a lonely desert island dreads the thought of being rescued. I heard of Mrs. Fosdick for the first time with a selfish sense of objection; but after all, I was still vacation-tenant of the schoolhouse, where I could always be alone, and it was impossible not to sympathize with Mrs. Todd, who, in spite of some preliminary grumbling, was really delighted with the prospect of entertaining an old friend.

For nearly a month we received occasional news of Mrs. Fosdick, who seemed to be making a royal progress from house to house in the inland neighborhood, after the fashion of Queen Elizabeth. One Sunday after another came and went, disappointing Mrs. Todd in the hope of seeing her guest at church and fixing the day for the great visit to begin; but Mrs. Fosdick was not ready to commit herself to a date. An assurance of “some time this week” was not sufficiently definite from a free-footed housekeeper’s point of view, and Mrs. Todd put aside all herb-gathering plans, and went through the various stages of expectation, provocation, and despair. At last she was ready to believe that Mrs. Fosdick must have forgotten her promise and returned to her home, which was vaguely said to be over Thomaston way. But one evening, just as the supper-table was cleared and “readied up,” and Mrs. Todd had put her large apron over her head and stepped forth for an evening stroll in the garden, the unexpected happened. She heard the sound of wheels, and gave an excited cry to me, as I sat by the window, that Mrs. Fosdick was coming right up the street.

“She may not be considerate, but she’s dreadful good company,” said Mrs. Todd hastily, coming back a few steps from the neighborhood of the gate. “No, she ain’t a mite considerate, but there’s a small lobster left over from your tea; yes, it’s a real mercy there’s a lobster. Susan Fosdick might just as well have passed the compliment o’ comin’ an hour ago.”

“Perhaps she has had her supper,” I ventured to suggest, sharing the housekeeper’s anxiety, and meekly conscious of an inconsiderate appetite for my own supper after a long expedition up the bay. There were so few emergencies of any sort at Dunnet Landing that this one appeared overwhelming.

“No, she’s rode ‘way over from Nahum Brayton’s place. I expect they were busy on the farm, and couldn’t spare the horse in proper season. You just sly out an’ set the teakittle on again, dear, an’ drop in a good han’ful o’ chips; the fire’s all alive. I’ll take her right up to lay off her things, as she’ll be occupied with explanations an’ gettin’ her bunnit off, so you’ll have plenty o’ time. She’s one I shouldn’t like to have find me unprepared.”

Mrs. Fosdick was already at the gate, and Mrs. Todd now turned with an air of complete surprise and delight to welcome her.

“Why, Susan Fosdick,” I heard her exclaim in a fine unhindered voice, as if she were calling across a field, “I come near giving of you up! I was afraid you’d gone an’ ‘portioned out my visit to somebody else. I s’pose you’ve been to supper?”

“Lor’, no, I ain’t, Almiry Todd,” said Mrs. Fosdick cheerfully, as she turned, laden with bags and bundles, from making her adieux to the boy driver. “I ain’t had a mite o’ supper, dear. I’ve been lottin’ all the way on a cup o’ that best tea o’ yourn,—some o’ that Oolong you keep in the little chist. I don’t want none o’ your useful herbs.”

“I keep that tea for ministers’ folks,” gayly responded Mrs. Todd. “Come right along in, Susan Fosdick. I declare if you ain’t the same old sixpence!”

As they came up the walk together, laughing like girls, I fled, full of cares, to the kitchen, to brighten the fire and be sure that the lobster, sole dependence of a late supper, was well out of reach of the cat. There proved to be fine reserves of wild raspberries and bread and butter, so that I regained my composure, and waited impatiently for my own share of this illustrious visit to begin. There was an instant sense of high festivity in the evening air from the moment when our guest had so frankly demanded the Oolong tea.

The great moment arrived. I was formally presented at the stair-foot, and the two friends passed on to the kitchen, where I soon heard a hospitable clink of crockery and the brisk stirring of a tea-cup. I sat in my high-backed rocking-chair by the window in the front room with an unreasonable feeling of being left out, like the child who stood at the gate in Hans Andersen’s story. Mrs. Fosdick did not look, at first sight, like a person of great social gifts. She was a serious-looking little bit of an old woman, with a birdlike nod of the head. I had often been told that she was the “best hand in the world to make a visit,”—as if to visit were the highest of vocations; that everybody wished for her, while few could get her; and I saw that Mrs. Todd felt a comfortable sense of distinction in being favored with the company of this eminent person who “knew just how.” It was certainly true that Mrs. Fosdick gave both her hostess and me a warm feeling of enjoyment and expectation, as if she had the power of social suggestion to all neighboring minds.

The two friends did not reappear for at least an hour. I could hear their busy voices, loud and low by turns, as they ranged from public to confidential topics. At last Mrs. Todd kindly remembered me and returned, giving my door a ceremonious knock before she stepped in, with the small visitor in her wake. She reached behind her and took Mrs. Fosdick’s hand as if she were young and bashful, and gave her a gentle pull forward.

“There, I don’t know whether you’re goin’ to take to each other or not; no, nobody can’t tell whether you’ll suit each other, but I expect you’ll get along some way, both having seen the world,” said our affectionate hostess. “You can inform Mis’ Fosdick how we found the folks out to Green Island the other day. She’s always been well acquainted with mother. I’ll slip out now an’ put away the supper things an’ set my bread to rise, if you’ll both excuse me. You can come an’ keep me company when you get ready, either or both.” And Mrs. Todd, large and amiable, disappeared and left us.

Being furnished not only with a subject of conversation, but with a safe refuge in the kitchen in case of incompatibility, Mrs. Fosdick and I sat down, prepared to make the best of each other. I soon discovered that she, like many of the elder women of the coast, had spent a part of her life at sea, and was full of a good traveler’s curiosity and enlightenment. By the time we thought it discreet to join our hostess we were already sincere friends.

You may speak of a visit’s setting in as well as a tide’s, and it was impossible, as Mrs. Todd whispered to me, not to be pleased at the way this visit was setting in; a new impulse and refreshing of the social currents and seldom visited bays of memory appeared to have begun. Mrs. Fosdick had been the mother of a large family of sons and daughters,—sailors and sailors’ wives,—and most of them had died before her. I soon grew more or less acquainted with the histories of all their fortunes and misfortunes, and subjects of an intimate nature were no more withheld from my ears than if I had been a shell on the mantelpiece. Mrs. Fosdick was not without a touch of dignity and elegance; she was fashionable in her dress, but it was a curiously well-preserved provincial fashion of some years back. In a wider sphere one might have called her a woman of the world, with her unexpected bits of modern knowledge, but Mrs. Todd’s wisdom was an intimation of truth itself. She might belong to any age, like an idyl of Theocritus; but while she always understood Mrs. Fosdick, that entertaining pilgrim could not always understand Mrs. Todd.

That very first evening my friends plunged into a borderless sea of reminiscences and personal news. Mrs. Fosdick had been staying with a family who owned the farm where she was born, and she had visited every sunny knoll and shady field corner; but when she said that it might be for the last time, I detected in her tone something expectant of the contradiction which Mrs. Todd promptly offered.

“Almiry,” said Mrs. Fosdick, with sadness, “you may say what you like, but I am one of nine brothers and sisters brought up on the old place, and we’re all dead but me.”

“Your sister Dailey ain’t gone, is she? Why, no, Louisa ain’t gone!” exclaimed Mrs. Todd, with surprise. “Why, I never heard of that occurrence!”

“Yes’m; she passed away last October, in Lynn. She had made her distant home in Vermont State, but she was making a visit to her youngest daughter. Louisa was the only one of my family whose funeral I wasn’t able to attend, but ‘twas a mere accident. All the rest of us were settled right about home. I thought it was very slack of ‘em in Lynn not to fetch her to the old place; but when I came to hear about it, I learned that they’d recently put up a very elegant monument, and my sister Dailey was always great for show. She’d just been out to see the monument the week before she was taken down, and admired it so much that they felt sure of her wishes.”

“So she’s really gone, and the funeral was up to Lynn!” repeated Mrs. Todd, as if to impress the sad fact upon her mind. “She was some years younger than we be, too. I recollect the first day she ever came to school; ‘twas that first year mother sent me inshore to stay with aunt Topham’s folks and get my schooling. You fetched little Louisa to school one Monday mornin’ in a pink dress an’ her long curls, and she set between you an’ me, and got cryin’ after a while, so the teacher sent us home with her at recess.”

“She was scared of seeing so many children about her; there was only her and me and brother John at home then; the older boys were to sea with father, an’ the rest of us wa’n’t born,” explained Mrs. Fosdick. “That next fall we all went to sea together. Mother was uncertain till the last minute, as one may say. The ship was waiting orders, but the baby that then was, was born just in time, and there was a long spell of extra bad weather, so mother got about again before they had to sail, an’ we all went. I remember my clothes were all left ashore in the east chamber in a basket where mother’d took them out o’ my chist o’ drawers an’ left ‘em ready to carry aboard. She didn’t have nothing aboard, of her own, that she wanted to cut up for me, so when my dress wore out she just put me into a spare suit o’ John’s, jacket and trousers. I wasn’t but eight years old an’ he was most seven and large of his age. Quick as we made a port she went right ashore an’ fitted me out pretty, but we was bound for the East Indies and didn’t put in anywhere for a good while. So I had quite a spell o’ freedom. Mother made my new skirt long because I was growing, and I poked about the deck after that, real discouraged, feeling the hem at my heels every minute, and as if youth was past and gone. I liked the trousers best; I used to climb the riggin’ with ‘em and frighten mother till she said an’ vowed she’d never take me to sea again.”

I thought by the polite absent-minded smile on Mrs. Todd’s face this was no new story.

“Little Louisa was a beautiful child; yes, I always thought Louisa was very pretty,” Mrs. Todd said. “She was a dear little girl in those days. She favored your mother; the rest of you took after your father’s folks.”

“We did certain,” agreed Mrs. Fosdick, rocking steadily. “There, it does seem so pleasant to talk with an old acquaintance that knows what you know. I see so many of these new folks nowadays, that seem to have neither past nor future. Conversation’s got to have some root in the past, or else you’ve got to explain every remark you make, an’ it wears a person out.”

Mrs. Todd gave a funny little laugh. “Yes’m, old friends is always best, ‘less you can catch a new one that’s fit to make an old one out of,” she said, and we gave an affectionate glance at each other which Mrs. Fosdick could not have understood, being the latest comer to the house.

XIII. Poor Joanna

ONE EVENING my ears caught a mysterious allusion which Mrs. Todd made to Shell-heap Island. It was a chilly night of cold northeasterly rain, and I made a fire for the first time in the Franklin stove in my room, and begged my two housemates to come in and keep me company. The weather had convinced Mrs. Todd that it was time to make a supply of cough-drops, and she had been bringing forth herbs from dark and dry hiding-places, until now the pungent dust and odor of them had resolved themselves into one mighty flavor of spearmint that came from a simmering caldron of syrup in the kitchen. She called it done, and well done, and had ostentatiously left it to cool, and taken her knitting-work because Mrs. Fosdick was busy with hers. They sat in the two rocking-chairs, the small woman and the large one, but now and then I could see that Mrs. Todd’s thoughts remained with the cough-drops. The time of gathering herbs was nearly over, but the time of syrups and cordials had begun.

The heat of the open fire made us a little drowsy, but something in the way Mrs. Todd spoke of Shell-heap Island waked my interest. I waited to see if she would say any more, and then took a roundabout way back to the subject by saying what was first in my mind: that I wished the Green Island family were there to spend the evening with us,—Mrs. Todd’s mother and her brother William.

Mrs. Todd smiled, and drummed on the arm of the rocking-chair. “Might scare William to death,” she warned me; and Mrs. Fosdick mentioned her intention of going out to Green Island to stay two or three days, if the wind didn’t make too much sea.

“Where is Shell-heap Island?” I ventured to ask, seizing the opportunity.

“Bears nor-east somewheres about three miles from Green Island; right off-shore, I should call it about eight miles out,” said Mrs. Todd. “You never was there, dear; ‘tis off the thoroughfares, and a very bad place to land at best.”

“I should think ‘twas,” agreed Mrs. Fosdick, smoothing down her black silk apron. “‘Tis a place worth visitin’ when you once get there. Some o’ the old folks was kind o’ fearful about it. ‘Twas ‘counted a great place in old Indian times; you can pick up their stone tools ‘most any time if you hunt about. There’s a beautiful spring o’ water, too. Yes, I remember when they used to tell queer stories about Shell-heap Island. Some said ‘twas a great bangeing-place for the Indians, and an old chief resided there once that ruled the winds; and others said they’d always heard that once the Indians come down from up country an’ left a captive there without any bo’t, an’ ‘twas too far to swim across to Black Island, so called, an’ he lived there till he perished.”

“I’ve heard say he walked the island after that, and sharp-sighted folks could see him an’ lose him like one o’ them citizens Cap’n Littlepage was acquainted with up to the north pole,” announced Mrs. Todd grimly. “Anyway, there was Indians—you can see their shell-heap that named the island; and I’ve heard myself that ‘twas one o’ their cannibal places, but I never could believe it. There never was no cannibals on the coast o’ Maine. All the Indians o’ these regions are tame-looking folks.”

“Sakes alive, yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Fosdick. “Ought to see them painted savages I’ve seen when I was young out in the South Sea Islands! That was the time for folks to travel, ‘way back in the old whalin’ days!”

“Whalin’ must have been dull for a lady, hardly ever makin’ a lively port, and not takin’ in any mixed cargoes,” said Mrs. Todd. “I never desired to go a whalin’ v’y’ge myself.”

“I used to return feelin’ very slack an’ behind the times, ‘tis true,” explained Mrs. Fosdick, “but ‘twas excitin’, an’ we always done extra well, and felt rich when we did get ashore. I liked the variety. There, how times have changed; how few seafarin’ families there are left! What a lot o’ queer folks there used to be about here, anyway, when we was young, Almiry. Everybody’s just like everybody else, now; nobody to laugh about, and nobody to cry about.”

It seemed to me that there were peculiarities of character in the region of Dunnet Landing yet, but I did not like to interrupt.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Todd after a moment of meditation, “there was certain a good many curiosities of human natur’ in this neighborhood years ago. There was more energy then, and in some the energy took a singular turn. In these days the young folks is all copy-cats, ‘fraid to death they won’t be all just alike; as for the old folks, they pray for the advantage o’ bein’ a little different.”

“I ain’t heard of a copy-cat this great many years,” said Mrs. Fosdick, laughing; “‘twas a favorite term o’ my grandfather’s. No, I wa’n’t thinking o’ those things, but of them strange straying creatur’s that used to rove the country. You don’t see them now, or the ones that used to hive away in their own houses with some strange notion or other.”

I thought again of Captain Littlepage, but my companions were not reminded of his name; and there was brother William at Green Island, whom we all three knew.

“I was talking o’ poor Joanna the other day. I hadn’t thought of her for a great while,” said Mrs. Fosdick abruptly. “Mis’ Brayton an’ I recalled her as we sat together sewing. She was one o’ your peculiar persons, wa’n’t she? Speaking of such persons,” she turned to explain to me, “there was a sort of a nun or hermit person lived out there for years all alone on Shell-heap Island. Miss Joanna Todd, her name was,—a cousin o’ Almiry’s late husband.”

I expressed my interest, but as I glanced at Mrs. Todd I saw that she was confused by sudden affectionate feeling and unmistakable desire for reticence.

“I never want to hear Joanna laughed about,” she said anxiously.

“Nor I,” answered Mrs. Fosdick reassuringly. “She was crossed in love,—that was all the matter to begin with; but as I look back, I can see that Joanna was one doomed from the first to fall into a melancholy. She retired from the world for good an’ all, though she was a well-off woman. All she wanted was to get away from folks; she thought she wasn’t fit to live with anybody, and wanted to be free. Shell-heap Island come to her from her father, and first thing folks knew she’d gone off out there to live, and left word she didn’t want no company. ‘Twas a bad place to get to, unless the wind an’ tide were just right; ‘twas hard work to make a landing.”

“What time of year was this?” I asked.

“Very late in the summer,” said Mrs. Fosdick. “No, I never could laugh at Joanna, as some did. She set everything by the young man, an’ they were going to marry in about a month, when he got bewitched with a girl ‘way up the bay, and married her, and went off to Massachusetts. He wasn’t well thought of,—there were those who thought Joanna’s money was what had tempted him; but she’d given him her whole heart, an’ she wa’n’t so young as she had been. All her hopes were built on marryin’, an’ havin’ a real home and somebody to look to; she acted just like a bird when its nest is spoilt. The day after she heard the news she was in dreadful woe, but the next she came to herself very quiet, and took the horse and wagon, and drove fourteen miles to the lawyer’s, and signed a paper givin’ her half of the farm to her brother. They never had got along very well together, but he didn’t want to sign it, till she acted so distressed that he gave in. Edward Todd’s wife was a good woman, who felt very bad indeed, and used every argument with Joanna; but Joanna took a poor old boat that had been her father’s and lo’ded in a few things, and off she put all alone, with a good land breeze, right out to sea. Edward Todd ran down to the beach, an’ stood there cryin’ like a boy to see her go, but she was out o’ hearin’. She never stepped foot on the mainland again long as she lived.”

“How large an island is it? How did she manage in winter?” I asked.

“Perhaps thirty acres, rocks and all,” answered Mrs. Todd, taking up the story gravely. “There can’t be much of it that the salt spray don’t fly over in storms. No, ‘tis a dreadful small place to make a world of; it has a different look from any of the other islands, but there’s a sheltered cove on the south side, with mud-flats across one end of it at low water where there’s excellent clams, and the big shell-heap keeps some o’ the wind off a little house her father took the trouble to build when he was a young man. They said there was an old house built o’ logs there before that, with a kind of natural cellar in the rock under it. He used to stay out there days to a time, and anchor a little sloop he had, and dig clams to fill it, and sail up to Portland. They said the dealers always gave him an extra price, the clams were so noted. Joanna used to go out and stay with him. They were always great companions, so she knew just what ‘twas out there. There was a few sheep that belonged to her brother an’ her, but she bargained for him to come and get them on the edge o’ cold weather. Yes, she desired him to come for the sheep; an’ his wife thought perhaps Joanna’d return, but he said no, an’ lo’ded the bo’t with warm things an’ what he thought she’d need through the winter. He come home with the sheep an’ left the other things by the house, but she never so much as looked out o’ the window. She done it for a penance. She must have wanted to see Edward by that time.”

Mrs. Fosdick was fidgeting with eagerness to speak.

“Some thought the first cold snap would set her ashore, but she always remained,” concluded Mrs. Todd soberly.

“Talk about the men not having any curiosity!” exclaimed Mrs. Fosdick scornfully. “Why, the waters round Shell-heap Island were white with sails all that fall. ‘Twas never called no great of a fishin’-ground before. Many of ‘em made excuse to go ashore to get water at the spring; but at last she spoke to a bo’t-load, very dignified and calm, and said that she’d like it better if they’d make a practice of getting water to Black Island or somewheres else and leave her alone, except in case of accident or trouble. But there was one man who had always set everything by her from a boy. He’d have married her if the other hadn’t come about an’ spoilt his chance, and he used to get close to the island, before light, on his way out fishin’, and throw a little bundle way up the green slope front o’ the house. His sister told me she happened to see, the first time, what a pretty choice he made o’ useful things that a woman would feel lost without. He stood off fishin’, and could see them in the grass all day, though sometimes she’d come out and walk right by them. There was other bo’ts near, out after mackerel. But early next morning his present was gone. He didn’t presume too much, but once he took her a nice firkin o’ things he got up to Portland, and when spring come he landed her a hen and chickens in a nice little coop. There was a good many old friends had Joanna on their minds.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Todd, losing her sad reserve in the growing sympathy of these reminiscences. “How everybody used to notice whether there was smoke out of the chimney! The Black Island folks could see her with their spy-glass, and if they’d ever missed getting some sign o’ life they’d have sent notice to her folks. But after the first year or two Joanna was more and more forgotten as an every-day charge. Folks lived very simple in those days, you know,” she continued, as Mrs. Fosdick’s knitting was taking much thought at the moment. “I expect there was always plenty of driftwood thrown up, and a poor failin’ patch of spruces covered all the north side of the island, so she always had something to burn. She was very fond of workin’ in the garden ashore, and that first summer she began to till the little field out there, and raised a nice parcel o’ potatoes. She could fish, o’ course, and there was all her clams an’ lobsters. You can always live well in any wild place by the sea when you’d starve to death up country, except ‘twas berry time. Joanna had berries out there, blackberries at least, and there was a few herbs in case she needed them. Mullein in great quantities and a plant o’ wormwood I remember seeing once when I stayed there, long before she fled out to Shell-heap. Yes, I recall the wormwood, which is always a planted herb, so there must have been folks there before the Todds’ day. A growin’ bush makes the best gravestone; I expect that wormwood always stood for somebody’s solemn monument. Catnip, too, is a very endurin’ herb about an old place.”

“But what I want to know is what she did for other things,” interrupted Mrs. Fosdick. “Almiry, what did she do for clothin’ when she needed to replenish, or risin’ for her bread, or the piece-bag that no woman can live long without?”

“Or company,” suggested Mrs. Todd. “Joanna was one that loved her friends. There must have been a terrible sight o’ long winter evenin’s that first year.”

“There was her hens,” suggested Mrs. Fosdick, after reviewing the melancholy situation. “She never wanted the sheep after that first season. There wa’n’t no proper pasture for sheep after the June grass was past, and she ascertained the fact and couldn’t bear to see them suffer; but the chickens done well. I remember sailin’ by one spring afternoon, an’ seein’ the coops out front o’ the house in the sun. How long was it before you went out with the minister? You were the first ones that ever really got ashore to see Joanna.”

I had been reflecting upon a state of society which admitted such personal freedom and a voluntary hermitage. There was something mediaeval in the behavior of poor Joanna Todd under a disappointment of the heart. The two women had drawn closer together, and were talking on, quite unconscious of a listener.

“Poor Joanna!” said Mrs. Todd again, and sadly shook her head as if there were things one could not speak about.

“I called her a great fool,” declared Mrs. Fosdick, with spirit, “but I pitied her then, and I pity her far more now. Some other minister would have been a great help to her,—one that preached self-forgetfulness and doin’ for others to cure our own ills; but Parson Dimmick was a vague person, well meanin’, but very numb in his feelin’s. I don’t suppose at that troubled time Joanna could think of any way to mend her troubles except to run off and hide.”

“Mother used to say she didn’t see how Joanna lived without having nobody to do for, getting her own meals and tending her own poor self day in an’ day out,” said Mrs. Todd sorrowfully.

“There was the hens,” repeated Mrs. Fosdick kindly. “I expect she soon came to makin’ folks o’ them. No, I never went to work to blame Joanna, as some did. She was full o’ feeling, and her troubles hurt her more than she could bear. I see it all now as I couldn’t when I was young.”

“I suppose in old times they had their shut-up convents for just such folks,” said Mrs. Todd, as if she and her friend had disagreed about Joanna once, and were now in happy harmony. She seemed to speak with new openness and freedom. “Oh yes, I was only too pleased when the Reverend Mr. Dimmick invited me to go out with him. He hadn’t been very long in the place when Joanna left home and friends. ‘Twas one day that next summer after she went, and I had been married early in the spring. He felt that he ought to go out and visit her. She was a member of the church, and might wish to have him consider her spiritual state. I wa’n’t so sure o’ that, but I always liked Joanna, and I’d come to be her cousin by marriage. Nathan an’ I had conversed about goin’ out to pay her a visit, but he got his chance to sail sooner’n he expected. He always thought everything of her, and last time he come home, knowing nothing of her change, he brought her a beautiful coral pin from a port he’d touched at somewheres up the Mediterranean. So I wrapped the little box in a nice piece of paper and put it in my pocket, and picked her a bunch of fresh lemon balm, and off we started.”

Mrs. Fosdick laughed. “I remember hearin’ about your trials on the v’y’ge,” she said.

“Why, yes,” continued Mrs. Todd in her company manner. “I picked her the balm, an’ we started. Why, yes, Susan, the minister liked to have cost me my life that day. He would fasten the sheet, though I advised against it. He said the rope was rough an’ cut his hand. There was a fresh breeze, an’ he went on talking rather high flown, an’ I felt some interested. All of a sudden there come up a gust, and he gave a screech and stood right up and called for help, ‘way out there to sea. I knocked him right over into the bottom o’ the bo’t, getting by to catch hold of the sheet an’ untie it. He wasn’t but a little man; I helped him right up after the squall passed, and made a handsome apology to him, but he did act kind o’ offended.”

“I do think they ought not to settle them landlocked folks in parishes where they’re liable to be on the water,” insisted Mrs. Fosdick. “Think of the families in our parish that was scattered all about the bay, and what a sight o’ sails you used to see, in Mr. Dimmick’s day, standing across to the mainland on a pleasant Sunday morning, filled with church-going folks, all sure to want him some time or other! You couldn’t find no doctor that would stand up in the boat and screech if a flaw struck her.”

“Old Dr. Bennett had a beautiful sailboat, didn’t he?” responded Mrs. Todd. “And how well he used to brave the weather! Mother always said that in time o’ trouble that tall white sail used to look like an angel’s wing comin’ over the sea to them that was in pain. Well, there’s a difference in gifts. Mr. Dimmick was not without light.”