"'Twas only last week she did it," protested his partner. "Folks don't
freeze in April, seems to me."

"Aw, be still! Don't talk no more about it. By fire!" with a sudden
change of subject and a burst of enthusiasm, "look at that horse, will
you! Turned right in at the gate without my pullin' the helm once or
sayin' a word--knows as much as a Christian, that horse does."

The buggy had rocked and plowed its way over the hummocks and through
the sand of the narrow lane and was at the top of a grass-covered
knoll, a little hill. At the foot of the hill was the beach, strewn
with seaweed, and beyond, the Sound, its waters now a rosy purple in
the sunset light. On the slope of the hill toward the beach stood a low,
rambling, white house, a barn, and several sheds and outbuildings. There
were lilac bushes by the front door of the house, a clam-shell walk from
the lane to that door, and, surrounding the whole, a whitewashed picket
fence. A sandy rutted driveway led from the rear of the house and the
entrance of the barn down to a big gate, now wide open. It was through
this gateway and along this drive that the sagacious Major was pulling
the buggy.

Mary-'Gusta stared at the house. As she stared the back door was thrown
open and a tall, thin man came out. He was in his shirtsleeves, his arms
were bare to the elbow, and to Mary-'Gusta's astonishment he wore an
apron, a gingham apron similar to those worn by Mrs. Hobbs when at work
in the kitchen.

"Ahoy, there, Isaiah!" hailed the Captain. "Here we are."