foreign to his simple habit of life. But at last, his wife had stepped
into the van, and organized an expedition, with all the valor of a
Francis Drake.

"Now, don't you say one word, father," she had said. "We're goin' down
to the beach, Sereno, an' Hattie, an' you an' me, an' we're goin' to
camp out. It'll do us all good."

For days before the date of the excursion, Eli had been solemn and
tremulous, as with joy; but now, on the eve of the great event, he
shrank back from it, with an undefined notion that it was like death,
and that he was not prepared. Next morning, however, when they all rose
and took their early breakfast, preparatory to starting at five, he
showed no sign of indecision, and even went about his outdoor tasks
with an alacrity calculated, as his wife approvingly remarked, to
"for'ard the v'y'ge." He had at last begun to see his way clear, and he
looked well satisfied when his daughter Hattie and Sereno, her husband,
drove into the yard, in a wagon cheerfully suggestive of a wandering
life. The tents and a small hair-trunk were stored in the back, and the
horse's pail swung below.

"Well, father," called Hattie, her rosy face like a flower under the
large shade-hat she had trimmed for the occasion, "guess we're goin' to
have a good day!"

He nodded from the window, where he was patiently holding his head high
and undergoing strangulation, while his wife, breathing huskily with
haste and importance, put on his stock.

"You come in, Hattie, an' help pack the doughnuts into that lard-pail