Mr. Simeon Phinney emerged from the side door of his residence and
paused a moment to light his pipe in the lee of the lilac bushes. Mr.
Phinney was a man of various and sundry occupations, and his sign,
nailed to the big silver-leaf in the front yard, enumerated a few of
them. "Carpenter, Well Driver, Building Mover, Cranberry Bogs Seen to
with Care and Dispatch, etc., etc.," so read the sign. The house was
situated in "Phinney's Lane," the crooked little byway off "Cross
Street," between the "Shore Road" at the foot of the slope and the "Hill
Boulevard"--formerly "Higgins's Roost"--at the top. From the Phinney
gate the view was extensive and, for the most part, wet. The hill
descended sharply, past the "Shore Road," over the barren fields and
knolls covered with bayberry bushes and "poverty grass," to the yellow
sand of the beach and the gray, weather-beaten fish-houses scattered
along it. Beyond was the bay, a glimmer in the sunset light.

Mrs. Phinney, in the kitchen, was busy with the supper dishes. Her
husband, wheezing comfortably at his musical pipe, drew an ancient
silver watch from his pocket and looked at its dial. Quarter past six.
Time to be getting down to the depot and the post office. At least a
dozen male citizens of East Harniss were thinking that very thing at
that very moment. It was a community habit of long standing to see the
train come in and go after the mail. The facts that the train bore no
passengers in whom you were intimately interested, and that you expected
no mail made little difference. If you were a man of thirty or older,
you went to the depot or the "club," just as your wife or sisters went
to the sewing circle, for sociability and mild excitement. If you were
a single young man you went to the post office for the same reason that
you attended prayer meeting. If you were a single young lady you went
to the post office and prayer meeting to furnish a reason for the young