"That ocean is the prettiest thing, mother. P'raps that's the way to
Paradise where father and grandfather and brother have gone."

"Yes," said their mother, helping them into their clothes. "It is one of
the ways."

"Tell us about this place, please," begged Ethelwyn, "and how we
happened to come to such a de-lic-ious place. Will you have to work so
hard, motherdy, here? And will the little lines come between your eyes?"
Whereupon Elizabeth at once abandoned to their fate, her harness garters
with their many buckles, and climbed up to see. Yes, the lines had gone,
and she kissed the place to make sure before she climbed down again.

"Hoty potys is the twissedest things," she remarked, worse tangled than
ever.

"Hose supporters, dear child," corrected Ethelwyn with the exasperating
air that always roused Beth's wrath.

"This cottage," mother hastened to say, while she untangled the buckles
with one hand and buttoned Ethelwyn's waist with the other, "belongs to
Mrs. Stevens and her daughter, Dorothy. I have known them for years.
Recently they wrote asking me to bring you children and come to them for
the summer; they, too, were lonely, and they knew that I needed rest,
quiet, and time to plan for the future. There are few people living
here but fisher folk--"

"Christ's people?"

"Yes, like them in trade, at least. They are poor and need help--"