was a running fire of apologies from Miss Patience and answering volleys
of compliments from Mrs. Snow.

"I don't see how you make sech beach-plum preserves, Miss Davis,"
exclaimed the lady from Nantucket. "I declare! I'm goin' to ask you for
another sasserful. I b'lieve they're the best I ever ate."

"Well, now! Do you think so? I kind of suspected that the plums was a
little mite too ripe. You know how 'tis with beach-plums, they've got to
be put up when they're jest so, else they ain't good for much. I was at
Luther for I don't know how long 'fore I could git him to go over to the
P'int and pick 'em, and I was 'fraid he'd let it go too long. I only put
up twenty-two jars of 'em on that account. How much sugar do you use?"

There was material here for the discussion that country housewives love,
and the two ladies took advantage of it. When it was over the female
portion of the company washed the dishes, while the men walked up and
down the beach and smoked. Here they were joined after a while by the
ladies, for even by the ocean it was as mild as early May, and the wind
was merely bracing and had no sting in it.

The big blue waves shouldered themselves up from the bosom of the sea,
marched toward the beach, and tumbled to pieces in a roaring tumult
of white and green. The gulls skimmed along their tops or dropped
like falling stones into the water after sand eels, emerging again,
screaming, to repeat the performance.

The conversation naturally turned to wrecks, and Captain Davis, his
reserve vanishing before the tactful inquiries of the captains and
Ralph, talked shop and talked it well.