mother with a certain piquancy and a dash that was charming. The
gentleman was young, thin, with the family characteristics, but
otherwise indistinctive.

With one accord they all faced directly toward the spot indicated
by the driver's whip. Nothing but the bare, bleak, rectangular
outlines of the cabin of the Man on the Beach met their eyes. All
else was a desolate expanse, unrelieved by any structure higher
than the tussocks of scant beach grass that clothed it. They were
so utterly helpless that the driver's derisive laughter gave way at
last to good humor and suggestion. "Look yer," he said finally, "I
don't know ez it's your fault you don't know this kentry ez well ez
you do Yurup; so I'll drag this yer team over to Robinson's on the
river, give the horses a bite, and then meander down this yer
ridge, and wait for ye. Ye'll see me from the Kernel's." And
without waiting for a reply, he swung his horses' heads toward the
river, and rolled away.

The same querulous protest that had come from the windows arose
from the group, but vainly. Then followed accusations and
recrimination. "It's YOUR fault; you might have written, and had
him meet us at the settlement." "You wanted to take him by
surprise!" "I didn't. You know if I'd written that we were
coming, he'd have taken good care to run away from us." "Yes, to
some more inaccessible place." "There can be none worse than
this," etc., etc. But it was so clearly evident that nothing was
to be done but to go forward, that even in the midst of their
wrangling they straggled on in Indian file toward the distant
cabin, sinking ankle-deep in the yielding sand, punctuating their
verbal altercation with sighs, and only abating it at a scream from