had been full of anxious thoughts of home,--of the cows, or

of young children likely to fall into disaster,--but we had no
reasons for haste, and drove slowly along, talking and resting by

the way. Mrs. Todd said once that she really hoped her front door
had been shut on account of the dust blowing in, but added that

nothing made any weight on her mind except not to forget to turn a
few late mullein leaves that were drying on a newspaper in the

little loft. Mrs. Blackett and I gave our word of honor that we
would remind her of this heavy responsibility. The way seemed

short, we had so much to talk about. We climbed hills where we
could see the great bay and the islands, and then went down into

shady valleys where the air began to feel like evening, cool and
camp with a fragrance of wet ferns. Mrs. Todd alighted once or

twice, refusing all assistance in securing some boughs of a rare
shrub which she valued for its bark, though she proved

incommunicative as to her reasons. We passed the house where we
had been so kindly entertained with doughnuts earlier in the day,

and found it closed and deserted, which was a disappointment.
"They must have stopped to tea somewheres and thought they'd

finish up the day," said Mrs. Todd. "Those that enjoyed it best'll
want to get right home so's to think it over."

"I didn't see the woman there after all, did you?" asked Mrs.
Blackett as the horse stopped to drink at the trough.

"Oh yes, I spoke with her," answered Mrs. Todd, with but scant
interest or approval. "She ain't a member o' our family."

"I thought you said she resembled Cousin Pa'lina Bowden about
the forehead," suggested Mrs. Blackett.

"Well, she don't," answered Mrs. Todd impatiently. "I ain't
one that's ord'narily mistaken about family likenesses, and she

didn't seem to meet with friends, so I went square up to her. 'I
expect you're a Bowden by your looks,' says I. 'Yes, I can take it

you're one o' the Bowdens.' 'Lor', no,' says she. 'Dennett was my
maiden name, but I married a Bowden for my first husband. I

thought I'd come an' just see what was a-goin' on!"
Mrs. Blackett laughed heartily. "I'm goin' to remember to

tell William o' that," she said. "There, Almiry, the only thing
that's troubled me all this day is to think how William would have

enjoyed it. I do so wish William had been there."
"I sort of wish he had, myself," said Mrs. Todd frankly.

"There wa'n't many old folks there, somehow," said Mrs.
Blackett, with a touch of sadness in her voice. "There ain't so

many to come as there used to be, I'm aware, but I expected to see
more."

"I thought they turned out pretty well, when you come to think
of it; why, everybody was sayin' so an' feelin' gratified,"

answered Mrs. Todd hastily with pleasing unconsciousness; then I
saw the quick color flash into her cheek, and presently she made

some excuse to turn and steal an anxious look at her mother. Mrs.
Blackett was smiling and thinking about her happy day, though she

began to look a little tired. Neither of my companions was
troubled by her burden of years. I hoped in my heart that I might

be like them as I lived on into age, and then smiled to think that
I too was no longer very young. So we always keep the same hearts,

though our outer framework fails and shows the touch of time.
"'Twas pretty when they sang the hymn, wasn't it?" asked Mrs.

Blackett at suppertime, with real enthusiasm. "There was such a
plenty o' men's voices; where I sat it did sound beautiful. I had

to stop and listen when they came to the last verse."
I saw that Mrs. Todd's broad shoulders began to shake. "There

was good singers there; yes, there was excellent singers," she
agreed heartily, putting down her teacup, "but I chanced to drift

alongside Mis' Peter Bowden o' Great Bay, an' I couldn't help
thinkin' if she was as far out o' town as she was out o' tune, she

wouldn't get back in a day."
XX

Along Shore
ONE DAY as I went along the shore beyond the old wharves and the

newer, high-stepped fabric of the steamerlanding, I saw that all
the boats were beached, and the slack water period of the early

afternoon prevailed. Nothing was going on, not even the most
leisurely of occupations, like baiting trawls or mending nets, or

repairing lobster pots; the very boats seemed to be taking an
afternoon nap in the sun. I could hardly discover a distant sail

as I looked seaward, except a weather-beaten lobster smack, which
seemed to have been taken for a plaything by the light airs that

blew about the bay. It drifted and turned about so aimlessly in
the wide reach off Burnt Island, that I suspected there was nobody

at the wheel, or that she might have parted her rusty anchor chain
while all the crew were asleep.

I watched her for a minute or two; she was the old Miranda,
owned by some of the Caplins, and I knew her by an odd

shaped patch of newish duck that was set into the peak of her dingy
mainsail. Her vagaries offered such an exciting subject for

conversation that my heart rejoiced at the sound of a hoarse voice
behind me. At that moment, before I had time to answer, I saw

something large and shapeless flung from the Miranda's deck that
splashed the water high against her black side, and my companion

gave a satisfied chuckle. The old lobster smack's sail caught the
breeze again at this moment, and she moved off down the bay.

Turning, I found old Elijah Tilley, who had come softly out of his
dark fish-house, as if it were a burrow.

"Boy got kind o' drowsy steerin' of her; Monroe he hove him
right overboard; 'wake now fast enough," explained Mr. Tilley, and

we laughed together.
I was delighted, for my part, that the vicissitudes and

dangers of the Miranda, in a rocky channel, should have given me
this opportunity to make acquaintance with an old fisherman to whom

I had never spoken. At first he had seemed to be one of those
evasive and uncomfortable persons who are so suspicious of you that

they make you almost suspicious of yourself. Mr. Elijah Tilley
appeared to regard a stranger with scornfulindifference. You

might see him standing on the pebble beach or in a fish-house
doorway, but when you came nearer he was gone. He was one of the

small company of elderly, gaunt-shaped great fisherman whom I used
to like to see leading up a deep-laden boat by the head, as if it

were a horse, from the water's edge to the steep slope of the
pebble beach. There were four of these large old men at the

Landing, who were the survivors of an earlier and more vigorous
generation. There was an alliance and understanding between them,

so close that it was apparentlyspeechless. They gave much time to
watching one another's boats go out or come in; they lent a ready

hand at tending one another's lobster traps in rough weather; they
helped to clean the fish or to sliver porgies for the trawls, as if

they were in close partnership; and when a boat came in from deep-
sea fishing they were never too far out of the way, and hastened to

help carry it ashore, two by two, splashing alongside, or holding
its steady head, as if it were a willful sea colt. As a matter of

fact no boat could help being steady and way-wise under their
instant direction and companionship" target="_blank" title="n.伴侣关系；友谊">companionship. Abel's boat and Jonathan

Bowden's boat were as distinct and experienced personalities as the
men themselves, and as inexpressive. Arguments and opinions were

unknown to the conversation of these ancient friends; you would as
soon have expected to hear small talk in a company of elephants as

to hear old Mr. Bowden or Elijah Tilley and their two mates waste
breath upon any form of trivialgossip. They made brief

statements to one another from time to time. As you came to know
them you wondered more and more that they should talk at all.

Speech seemed to be a light and elegantaccomplishment, and their
unexpected acquaintance with its arts made them of new value to the