and we're likely to hear from her at any time."

"You don't say! Cable broke, hey? Now it's a queer thing, but I've never
been inside that station since 'twas built. Too handy, I guess. I've got
a second cousin up in Charlestown, lived there all his life, and he's
never been up in Bunker Hill monument yit. Fust time I landed in Boston
I dug for that monument, and I can tell you how many steps there is in
it to this day. If that cable station was fifty mile off I'd have been
through it two weeks after it started up, but bein' jest over there, I
ain't ever done it. Queer, ain't it?"

"Perhaps you'd like to go over with me. I'm going up to the post-office,
and when I come back I should be glad of your company."

"Well, now, that's kind of you. I cal'late I will. You might sing out
as you go past. I've got a ha'f-hour job on this sail and then it's my
watch below."

The cable station at Orham is a low whitewashed building with many
windows. The vegetation about it is limited exclusively to "beach grass"
and an occasional wild-plum bush. The nearest building which may be
reached without a boat is the life-saving station, two miles below. The
outer beach changes its shape every winter. The gales tear great holes
in its sides, and then, as if in recompense, throw up new shoals and
build new promontories. From the cable-station doorway in fair weather
may be counted the sails of over one hundred vessels going and coming
between Boston and New York. They come and go, and, alas! sometimes
stop by the way. Then the life-saving crews are busy and the Boston
newspapers report another wreck. All up and down the outer beach are
the sun-whitened bones of schooners and ships; and all about them, and