reefin' down good." He drew a breath. "Cur'us how it makes you feel
right there!" he said. "I'd a'most forgot." He glanced at the moving
crowd a little hostilely and drew another deep breath.

"The atmosphere _is_ fine," said the girl. She was studying it with
half-shut eyes, her head thrown a little back. "It is clear and deep.
You can almost breathe it."

"It is a good climate," assented Uncle William. "You couldn't get sick
there if you tried. Can't hardly die." He chuckled a little. "Sam'l
Gruchy's been tryin' for six year now. He was ninety-seven last month.
We don't think nuthin' o' roundin' out a hunderd up there--not the
cheerful ones. 'Course if you fret, you can die 'most anywhere."

"Yes, if you fret." The girl was looking at him with pleased eyes. "I
don't suppose you've ever known what it was to fret?"

"Me? Lord, yes! I ust to fret about everything--fretted for fear it
would blow and for fear it wouldn't blow." His eyes were on the shifting
green waves. "I never put down a net nor a lobster-pot that I didn't
see 'em bein' chewed up or knocked to pieces. I'd see a shark a-swimmin'
right through a big hole--rip-p--tear. I could see it as plain as if I
was down there under the water--all kind o' green and cool, and things
swimmin' through it. I can see it jest the same now if I shut my eyes,
only it's fishes I see swimmin' into my net now--shoals of 'em. The'
ain't a shark in sight." He was looking down at her, smiling.

She nodded. "You're an optimist now."

He stared a little. "No, I don't reckon I'm anything that sounds like