storm's beginning, I stopped in the sitting-room a moment before going
to my room. The smell of ironing scented the house, but Mrs. Libby was
resting placidly in the rocking-chair, her feet on a cushioned stool.
She was eating some peaches, tearing them apart from the stone with
strong, juice-dropping fingers, and dipping them in a saucer of coarse
sugar before she devoured them.

"Mrs. Libby, who is Agnes Rayne?" I asked.

"She is old Martin Rayne's daughter, up to the corner. Seen her down to
the beach, I expect. Speak to you? Did? Well, she's as queer as Dick's
hat-band, as folks say 'round here. Some say she's crazy--love-cracked,
I guess she is." Mrs. Libby paused to kill a fly that ventured too near
her saucer on the table at her side, with a quick blow of the fleshy
hand. I used to turn away when Mrs. Libby killed flies. "Oh! _I_ d'know!
She's just queer. Don't commess with anybody, nor ever go to meetin'.
The minister called there once; he ain't ever been again, nor told how
he was treated, that's sure. They live queer, too. She don't ever make
pies, ner p'serves, ner any kind of sauce. 'N' old Martin, he's childish
now. He always was as close-mouthed as a mussel. Nobody ever knew
whether he liked such goin's on or not."

I went up the high, narrow stairs, thoughtfully to my small room under
the eaves, dark with the storm, and smelling of must and dampness. I
smiled a little. It was more than probable that these people would count
slight eccentricity in a lady--and this was undoubtedly a lady, whatever
her birth and surroundings--as madness. After dinner I stood by the
window a long time. Through the network of apple-boughs, I could see
the road. Mrs. Libby, coming heavily into the sitting-room, divined my
thoughts.