I remember well the morning when he was at last coaxed into
approaching the house. It was late in September, and a day of
perfect calm. As we looked from the broad piazza, there was a
glassy smoothness over all the bay, and the hills were coated
with a film, or rather a mere varnish, inconceivably thin, of
haze more delicate than any other climate in America can show.
Over the water there were white gulls flying, lazy and low;
schools of young mackerel displayed their white sides above the
surface; and it seemed as if even a butterfly might be seen for
miles over that calm expanse. The bay was covered with
mackerel-boats, and one man sculled indolently across the
foreground a scarlet skiff. It was so still that every white
sail-boat rested where its sail was first spread; and though the
tide was at half-ebb, the anchored boats swung idly different
ways from their moorings. Yet there was a continuous ripple in
the broad sail of some almost motionless schooner, and there was
a constant melodious plash along the shore. From the mouth of the
bay came up slowly the premonitory line of bluer water, and we
knew that a breeze was near.

Severance seemed to rise in spirits as we approached the house,
and I noticed no sign of shrinking, except an occasional lowering
of the voice. Seeing this, I ventured to joke him a little on his
previous reluctance, and he replied in the same strain. I seated
myself at the corner, and began sketching old Fort Louis, while
he strolled along the piazza, looking in at the large, vacant
windows. As he approached the farther end, I suddenly heard him
give a little cry of amazement or dismay, and, looking up, saw
him leaning against the wall, with pale face and hands clenched.