 Chapter 10. Mrs. Bonnie. I am sure that Kate Lancaster and I must have spent by far the greater part of the summer out of doors. We often made long expeditions out into the suburbs of Deep Haven, sometimes being gone all day, and sometimes taking a long afternoon stroll and coming home early in the evening, hungry as hunters and laden with treasure. Whether we had been through the pine woods inland or along shore, whether we had met old friends or made some desirable new acquaintances. We had a fashion of calling at the farmhouses, and by the end of the season we knew as many people as if we had lived in Deep Haven all our days. We used to ask for a drink of water. This was our unfailing introduction, and afterward there were many interesting subjects which one could introduce, and we could always give the latest news at the shore. It was amusing to see the curiosity which we aroused. Many of the people came into Deep Haven only on special occasions, and I must confess that at first we were often naughty enough to wait until we had been severely cross-questioned before we gave a definite account of ourselves. Kate was very clever at making unsatisfactory answers when she cared to do so. We did not understand for some time with what a keen sense of enjoyment many of these people made the acquaintance of an entirely new person who cordially gave the full particulars about herself, but we soon learned to call this by another name than impertinence. I think there were no points of interest in that region which we did not visit with conscientious faithfulness. There were cliffs and pebble beaches, the long sands and the short sands, there were black rock and rurring rock, high point and east point and spouting rock. We went to see where a ship had been driven ashore in the night, all hands being lost and not a piece of her left larger than an axe-handle. We visited the spot where a ship had come ashore in the fog, and had been left high and dry on the edge of the marsh when the tide went out. We saw where the Brigh Methuselah had been wrecked, and the shore had been golden with her cargo of lemons and oranges which one might carry away by the weary fall. Inland there were not many noted localities, but we used to enjoy the woods and our explorations among the farms immensely. To the westward the land was better and the people well to do, but we went oftenest toward the hills and among the poorer people. The land was uneven and full of ledges, and the people worked hard for their living, at most lying aside only a few dollars each year. Some of the more enterprising young people went away to work in shops and factories, but the custom was by no means universal and the people had a hungry discourage to look. It is all very well to say that they knew nothing better, that it was the only life of which they knew anything. There was too often a look of disappointment in their faces, and sooner or later we heard or guessed many stories, that this young man had wished for an education, but there had been no money to spare for books or schooling, and that one had meant to learn a trade, but there must be someone to help his father with the farm work, and there was no money to hire a man to work in his place if he went away. The older people had a hard look, as if they had always to be on the alert and must fight for their place in the world. One could only forgive and pity their petty sharpness, which showed itself in trifling bargains, when one understood how much a single dollar seemed where dollars came so rarely. We used to pity the young girls so much. It was plain that those who knew how much easier and pleasanter our lives were could not help envying us. There was a high hill half a dozen miles from Deep Haven, which was known in its region as the Mountain. It was the highest land anywhere near us, and having been told that there was a fine view from the top, one day we went there, with Tommy Dockham for escort. We overtook Mr. Lioramir, the minister, on his way to make parochial calls upon some members of his parish, who lived far from church, and to our delight he proposed to go with us instead. It was a great satisfaction to have him for a guide, for he knew both the country and the people more intimately than anyone else. It was a long climb to the top of the hill, but not a hard one. The sky was clear and there was a fresh wind, though we had left none at all at the sea level. After lunch Kate and I spread our shawls over a fine cushion of mountain cranberry, and had a long talk with Mr. Lioramir about ancient and modern Deep Haven. He always seemed as much pleased with our enthusiasm for the town as if it had been a personal favor and compliment to himself. I remember how far we could see that day, and how we looked toward the far away blue mountains, and then out over the ocean. Deep Haven looked insignificant from that height and distance, and indeed the country seemed to be mostly covered with the pointed tops of pines and spruces, and there were long tracts of maple and beech woods with their coloring of lighter fresher green. "'Suppose we go down now,' said Mr. Lioramir, long before Kate and I had meant to propose such a thing, and our feeling was that of dismay. I should like to take you to make a call with me. Did you ever hear of old Mrs. Bonnie?' "'No,' said we, and cheerfully gathered our wraps and baskets, and when Tommy finally came panting up the hill after we had begun to think that our shoutings and whistlings were useless, we sent him down to the horses and went down ourselves by another path. It led us a long distance through a grove of young beaches. The last year's whitish leaves lay thick on the ground, and the new leaves made so close a roof overhead that the light was strangely purple as if it had come through a great church window of stained glass. After this we went through some hemlock growth, where, on the lower branches, the pale green of the new shoots and the dark green of the old made an exquisite contrast each to the other. Finally we came out at Mrs. Bonnie's. Mr. Loramir had told us something about her on the way down, saying in the first place that she was one of the queerest characters he knew. Her husband used to be a charcoal burner and basket-maker, and she used to sell butter and berries and eggs and choke-pairs preserved in molasses. She always came down to deep-haven on a little black horse with her goods and baskets and bags which were fastened to the saddle in a mysterious way. She had the reputation of not being a neat housekeeper, and none of the wise women of the town would touch her butter especially, so it was always a joke when she coaxed a new resident or a strange shipmaster into buying her wares. But the old woman always managed to jog home without the freight she had brought. She must be very old now, said Mr. Loramir. I have not seen her in a long time. It cannot be possible that her horse is still alive. And we all laughed when we saw Mrs. Bonnie's steed at a little distance, for the shaggy old creature was covered with mud, pine needles, and dead leaves, with half the last year's burdock-burrs in all deep-haven snarled into his mane and tail, and sprinkled over his fur, which looked nearly as long as a buffalo's. He had hurt his leg, and his kind mistress had tidied up with a piece of faded red calico and an end of ragged rope. He gave us a civil nay, and looked at us curiously. Then an impertinent little yellow-and-white dog with one ear standing up straight and the other drooping over began to bark with all his might. But he retreated when he saw Kate's great dog, who was walking solemnly by her side, and did not deign to notice him. Just now Mrs. Bonnie appeared at the door of the house, shading her eyes with her hand to see who was coming. Landy, said she, if it ain't old Parson Loramir, and who be these with ye? This is Miss Kate Lancaster of Boston, Miss Catherine Brandon's niece, and her friend Miss Dennis. Pleased to see ye, said the old woman. Walk in and lay off your things. And we followed her into the house. I wish you could have seen her. She wore a man's coat, cut off so that it made an odd short jacket, and a pair of men's boots, much the worse for wear. Also some short skirts, beside two or three aprons, the inner one being a dress apron, as she took off the outer ones and threw them into a corner, and on her head was a tight cap with strings to tie under her chin. I thought it was a night cap, and that she had forgotten to take it off, and dreaded the mortification if she should suddenly become conscious of it. But I need not have troubled myself, for while we were with her she pulled it on and tied it tighter as if she considered it ornamental. There were only two rooms in the house. We went into the kitchen, which was occupied by a flock of hens and one turkey. The latter was evidently undergoing a course of medical treatment behind the stove, and was allowed to stay with us, while the hens were remorselessly hustled out with a hemlock broom. They all congregated on the doorstep, apparently wishing to hear everything that was said. "'Bin up on the mountain?' asked our hostess. "'Real, sightly place. Going to be a master lot of raspberries. Get any down to the shore since I quit coming?' "'Oh, yes,' said Mr. Loramere. "'But we miss seeing you.' "'I suppose so,' said Mrs. Bonnie, smoothing her apron complacently. "'But I'm getting old, and I tell him I'm going to take my comfort. Since he died, I don't put myself out no great. I've got money enough to keep me along as I live. Beckett's folks goes down often, and I send by them for what store-stuff I want.' "'How are you now?' asked the minister. "'I think I heard you were ill in the spring.' "'Sterren, I'm obliged to ye. I wasn't laid up long, and I was so as I could get about most of the time. I've got the best bidder as ye ever see, good for the spring of the year.' "'Spose ye your sister, Miss Loramere, wouldn't like some?' she used to be weakly looking. But her brother refused the offer, saying that she had not been so well for many years. Do you often get out to church nowadays, Mrs. Bonnie? I believe Mr. Reed preaches in the school-house sometimes, down by the Great Ledge, doesn't he?' "'Well, yes, he does. But I don't know as I get much of any good.' Parsson Reed, he's a worthy creature. But he never seems to have nothing to say about foreordination in them points. Old Parsson Paddleford was the man. I used to set under his preaching a good deal. I had an aunt living down to East Parish. He'd get worked up, and he'd shut up the Bible and preach the hair off your head, long at the end of the sermon. "'Couldn't understand more nor a quarter part what he said,' said Mrs. Bonnie, admiringly. "'Well, we were speaking about the meeting over to the Ledge. I don't know as I like them people any to speak of. They had a great revival over there in the fall, and one Sunday I thought, how I'd go. And when I got there, who should be a praying but old Ben Patey?' He always lays out to get converted, and he kept it up diligent till I couldn't stand it no longer. And by and by says he, I've been a wanderer, and I up and says, Yes, you have. I'll back you up on that, Ben. You've wandered around my wood lot and spoiled half the likely young oak snashes I've got, a steel-in-your-basket stuff. And the old folks laughed out loud, and up he'd gotten cleared. He's an awful old thief, and he's no idea of being anything else. I wouldn't go in to set there and make him make believe to the Lord. If anybody's heart's in it, I ain't going to hinder him. I'm a professor, and I ain't ashamed of it. Weekdays nor Sundays, neither. I can't bear to see folks so pious to meetin' and cheat your eye-teeth out Monday mornin'. While there, we ain't none of us perfect. Even old Parson Moody was round-shouldered, they say. You were speaking of the buckets just now, said Mr. Loramere, after we had stopped laughing, and Mrs. Bonnie had settled her big steel-boat spectacles, and sat looking at him with an expression of extreme wisdom. One might have ventured to call her Pert, I think. How do they get on? I am seldom in this region nowadays, since Mr. Reed had taken it under his charge. They get along somehow or another, replied Mrs. Bonnie. They've got the best farm this side of the ledge. But they're dreadful lazy and shiftless them young folks. Old Miss Hate Evil Beckett was tellin' me the other day, she that was Samantha Barnes, you know, that one of the boys got fightin' the other side of the mountain and came home with his nose broke and a piece of one ear bit off. I forgot which ear it was. Their mother is a real clever willin' woman, and she takes it to heart. But it's no use for her to say anything. Miss Hate Evil Beckett says she, it does make my man feel dreadful to see his brother's folks carry on so. But there, says I, Miss Beckett, it's just such things as we read of. Scripture is fulfilled. In the larger days there shall be disobedient children. This application of the text was too much for us. But Mrs. Bonnie looked serious, and we did not like to laugh. Two or three of the exiled foals had crept slyly in, dodging underneath our chairs, and had perched themselves behind the stove. They were long-legged, wrath-grown creatures, and just at this minute one rash young rooster made a manful attempt to crow. Do tell, said his mistress, who rose in great wrath, you needn't be so forthputtin' as I knows on. After this we were urged to stay and have some supper. Mrs. Bonnie assured us she could pick a likely young hen in no time, fry her with a bit of pork, and get us up a good meat-tea. But we had to disappoint her, as we had some distance to walk to the house, where we had left our horses in a long drive home. Kate asked if she would be kind enough to lend us a tumbler, for ours was in the basket which was given into Tommy's charge. We were thirsty, and would like to go back to the spring and get some water. Yes, dear, said Mrs. Bonnie, I've got a glass, if it sows I can find it. And she pulled a chair under the little cupboard over the fireplace, mounted it, and opened the door. Several things fell out at her, and after taking a careful survey she went in, head and shoulders, until I thought that she would disappear altogether. But soon she came back, and reaching in, took out one treasure after another, putting them on the mantelpiece, or dropping them on the floor. There were some bunches of dried herbs, a tin horn, a lump of tallow, and a broken plate, a newspaper, and an old boot, with a number of turkey wings tied together, several bottles and a steel trap, and finally such a tumbler which she produced with triumph before stepping down. She poured out of it on the table a mixture of old buttons and squash seeds beside a lump of beeswax which she said she had lost, and now pocketed it with satisfaction. She wiped the tumbler on her apron and handed it to Kate. But we were not so thirsty as we had been, though we thanked her and went down to the spring, coming back as soon as possible, for we could not lose a bit of the conversation. There was a beautiful view from the doorstep, and we stopped a minute there. "'Real sightly ain't it,' said Mrs. Bonnie, but you ought to be here and look across the woods some morning just at sun-up, why the sky is all yellow and red, and them lowlands topped with fog. Yes, it's nice weather, good-growing weather this week. Corn and all the rest of the trade looks first-rate. I call it a forward season. It's just such weather as we read of, ain't it?' "'I don't remember where, just at this moment,' said Mr. Loramere.' "'Why, in the almanac, bless ye!' said she, with a tone of pity in her grumpy voice. Could it be possible he didn't know? The deep-haven minister?' We asked her to come and see us. She said she had always thought she'd get a chance some time to see Miss Catherine Brandon's house. She should be pleased to call, and she didn't know, but she should be down to the shore before very long. She was shame to look so shifflis that day, but she had some good clothes and a crisp in the bedroom, and a bought-and-bonnet with a good cypress veil which she had when he died. She calculated they would do, though they might be old-fashioned some. She seemed greatly pleased at Mr. Loramere's having taken the trouble to come to see her. All those people had a great reverence for the minister. We were urged to come again in Rosbury time, which was near at hand, and she gave us messages for some of her old customers and acquaintances. I believe some of those old creatures will never die, said she. Why, they're getting to be terrible old, ain't they, Mr. Loramere? There. You've done me a sight of good, and I wish I could have found the Bible to hear ye read a psalm. When Mr. Loramere shook hands with her at leaving, she made him a most reverential courtesy. He was the greatest man she knew, and once during the call, when he was speaking of serious things in his simple earnest way, she had so devout a look, and seemed so interested that Kate and I and Mr. Loramere himself caught a new fresh meaning in the familiar words he spoke. Living there in the lonely clearing, deep in the woods and far from any neighbor, she knew all the herbs and trees and the harmless wild creatures who lived among them by heart. And she had an amazing store of tradition and superstition, which made her so entertaining to us that we went to see her many times before we came away in the autumn. We went with her to find some picture-plants one day, and it was wonderful how much she knew about the woods, what keen observation she had. There was something so wild and unconventional about Mrs. Bonnie that it was like taking an afternoon walk with a good-natured woman. We used to carry her offerings of tobacco, for she was a great smoker, and advised us to try it if ever we should be troubled with nerves, or NARVES, as she pronounced the name of that affliction. CHAPTER 11 OF D. PAVEN. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Betsy Bush in Marquette, MI, December 2008. D. PAVEN. By Sarah Oren Jewett. CHAPTER 11. IN SHADOW. Soon after we went to D. PAVEN we took a long drive one day with Mr. Dockham, the kindest and silentest of men. He had the care of the brand and property, and had some business at that time connected with a large tract of pasture land, perhaps ten miles from town. We had heard of the coast road which led to it, how rocky and how rough and wild it was, and when Kate heard by chance that Mr. Dockham meant to go that way, she asked if we might go with him. He said he would much rather take us than go so low alone, but he should be away until late, and we must take our dinner, which we did not mind doing at all. After we were three or four miles from D. PAVEN the country looked very different. The shore was so rocky that there were almost no places where a boat could put in. So there were no fishermen in the region, and the farms were scattered wide apart. The land was so poor that even the trees looked hungry. At the end of our drive we left the horse at a lonely little farmhouse close by the sea. Mr. Dockham was to walk a long way inland through the woods with the man whom he had come to meet, and he told us if we followed the shore westward a mile or two we should find some very high rocks for which he knew we had a great liking. It was a delightful day to spend out of doors. There was an occasional whiff of east wind. Seeing us seemed to be a perfect godsend to the people whose nearest neighbors lived far out of sight. We had a long talk with them before we went for our walk. The house was close by the water by a narrow cove, around which the rocks were low. But farther down the shore the land rose more and more, and at last we stood at the edge of the highest rocks of all, and looked far down at the sea, dashing its white spray high over the ledges that quiet day. What could it be in winter when there was a storm and the great waves were thundering in? After we had explored the shore to our hearts content and were tired we rested for a while in the shadow of some gnarled pitch-pines which stood close together as near the sea as they dared. They looked like a band of outlaws. They were such wild-looking trees. They seemed very old and as if their savage fights with the winter wind had made them hard-hearted. And yet the little wildflowers and the thin green grass-blades were growing fearlessly close around their feet, and there were some comfortable bird's-nests in safe corners of their rough branches. When we went back to the house at the cove we had to wait some time for Mr. Dockham. We succeeded in making friends with the children and gave them some candy in the rest of our lunch, which luckily had been even more abundant than usual. They looked thin and pitiful, but even in that lonely place where they so seldom saw a stranger or even a neighbor they showed that there was an evident effort to make them look like other children, and they were neatly dressed, though there could be no mistake about their being very poor. One forlorn little soul, with honest gray eyes and a sweet shy smile, showed us a string of beads which she wore around her neck. There were perhaps two dozen of them, blue and white, on a bit of twine, and they were the dearest things in all her world. When we came away we were so glad that we could give the man more than he asked us for taking care of the horse, and his thanks touched us. I hope ye may never know what it is to earn every dollar as hard as I have. I never earned any money as easy as this before. I don't feel as if I ought to take it. I've done the best I could, said the man, with the tears coming into his eyes and a huskiness in his voice. I've done the best I could, and I'm willing, and my woman is. But everything seems to have been a gain us. We never seem to get forehanded. It looks sometimes as if the Lord had forgot us. But my woman, she never wants me to say that. She says he ain't, and that we might be worse off. But I don't know. I haven't had my health. That's hardened me most. I'm a boat builder by trade, but the business's all run down. Folks buy him secondhand nowadays, and you can't make nothing. I can't stand to follow deep sea-fishing, and, well, you see what my land's worth. But my oldest boy, he's gettin' ahead. He pushed off this spring, and he works in a box shop to Boston. A cousin of his mother's got him the chance. He sent us ten dollars a spell ago and his mother a shawl. I don't see how he'd done it, but he's smart. This seemed to be the only bright spot in their lives, and we admired the shawl and sat down in the house awhile with the mother, who seemed kind and patient and tired, and to have great delight in talking about what one should wear. Kate and I thought and spoke often of these people afterward, and when one day we met the man in Deep Haven, we sent some things to the children and his wife, and begged him to come to the house whenever he came to town. But we never saw him again, and though we made many plans for going again to the Cove, we never did. At one time the road was reported impassable, and we put off our second excursion for this reason, and others until just before we left at Deep Haven late in October. We knew the coast road would be bad after the fall rains, and we found that Leander, the eldest of the Dacum boys, had some errand that way so we went with him. We enjoyed the drive that morning in spite of the rough road. The air was warm and sweet with the smell of bayberry bushes and pitchpines and the delicious saltiness of the sea, which was not far from us all the way. It was a perfect autumn day. Sometimes we crossed pebble beaches, and then went farther inland through woods in up and down steep little hills over shaky bridges which crossed narrow salt creeks in the marshlands. There was a little excitement about the drive, and an exhilaration in the air, and we laughed at jokes forgotten the next minute, and sang and were jolly enough. Leander, who had never happened to see us in exactly this hilarious state of mind before, seemed surprised and interested, and became unusually talkative, telling us a great many edifying particulars about the people whose houses we passed, and who owned every woodlot along the road. Do you see that house over on the pint? He asked. An old fellow lives there that's part lost his mind. He had a son who was drowned off cod-rock fishing, much as twenty-five years ago, and he's worn a deep path out to the end of the point where he goes out every hand's turn of the day to see if he can't see that boat coming in. And Leander looked round to see if we were not amused, and seemed puzzled because we didn't laugh. Happily, his next story was funny. We saw a sleepy little owl on the dead branch of a pine tree. We saw a rabbit cross the road and disappear in a clump of juniper, and squirrels run up and down trees and along the stone walls with acorns in their mouths. We passed a straggling thickets of the upland sumac, leafless and holding high their ungainly spikes of redberries. There were sturdy barberry bushes along the lonely wayside, their unpicked fruit hanging in brilliant clusters. The blueberry bushes were patches of dull red along the hillsides. The ferns were whitish gray and brown at the edges of the woods, and the asters and golden rods which had lately looked so gay in the open fields stood now in faded frost-bitten companies. There were busy flocks of birds flitting from field to field ready to start on their journey southward. When we reached the house, to our surprise there was no one in sight, and the place looked deserted. We left the wagon, and while Leander went toward the barn, which stood at a little distance, Kate and I went to the house and knocked. I opened the door a little way and said, Hello! But nobody answered. The people could not have moved away, for there were some chairs standing outside the door, and as I looked in I saw the bunches of herbs hanging up and a trace of corn, and the furniture was all there. It was a great disappointment, for we had counted upon seeing the children again. Leander said there was nobody at the barn, and that they must have gone to a funeral. He couldn't think of anything else. Just now we saw some people coming up the road, and we thought at first that they were the man and his wife coming back, but they proved to be strangers, and we eagerly asked them what had become of the family. They're dead, both on them. His wife, she died about nine weeks ago last Sunday, and he died day before yesterday. Funerals going to be this afternoon. Thought ye were some of her folks from up-country when we were coming along, said the man. Guess they won't come nigh, said the woman scornfully. Frayed they'd have to help provide for the children. I was half sister to him, and I've got to take the two least ones. Did you say he was going to be buried this afternoon? Asked Kate slowly. We were both more startled than I can tell. Yes, said the man. He seemed much better-natured than his wife. She appeared like a person whose only aim in life was to have things over with. Yes, we're going to bury it two o'clock. They had a master's side of trouble, first and last. Leander had said nothing all this time. He had known the man, and had expected to spend the day with him, and to get him to go on two miles farther to help bargain for a dory. He asked, in a disappointed way, what had carried him off so sudden. "'Drink,' said the woman relentlessly. He ain't been good for nothing since his wife died. She was took with a fever along in the first of August. I'd have got up from it. "'Now don't be hard on the dead, Marthy,' said the husband. I guess they'd done the best they could. They weren't shiftless, you know. They never had no health. It was against wind and tide with them all the time. And Kate asked, did you say he was your brother?' "'Yes, I was half-sister to him,' said the woman promptly, with perfect unconsciousness of Kate's meaning. And what will become of those poor children? I've got the two youngest over to my place to take care on, and the two next them has been put out to some folks over to the cove. I daresay likes not they'll be sent back.' "'They're clever children, I guess,' said the man, who spoke as if this were the first time he had dared take their part. Don't be harsh, Marthy. Who knows, but they may do for us when we get to be old.' And then she turned and looked at him with utter contempt. "'I can't stand it to hear men folks talking on what they don't know nothing about,' said she. "'The ways of Providence is dreadful mysterious.' She went on with a whine, instead of the sharp tone of voice which we had heard before. "'We've had a hard row, and we've just got our own children off our hands and able to do for themselves, and now here are these to be fetched up. But perhaps they'll be a help to you. They seem to be good little things,' said Kate. "'I saw them in the summer and they seem to be pleasant children, and it is dreadfully hard for them to be left alone. It's not their fault, you know. We brought over something for them. Will you be kind enough to take the basket when you go home?' "'Thank ye, I'm sure,' said the aunt, relenting slightly. "'You can speak to my man about it, and we'll give it to somebody that's going by. I've got to walk in the procession. They'll be obliged, I'm sure. I suppose you're the young ladies that come here right after the Fourth of July, ain't you? I should be pleased to have you call and see the children if you're ever over this way again. I heard them talk about you last time I was over. Won't you step into the house and see him? He looks real natural,' she added, but we said, no, thank you. Leander told us he believed he wouldn't bother about the Dory that day, and he should be there at the house whenever we were ready. He evidently considered it a piece of good luck that he had happened to arrive in time for the funeral. We spoke to the man about the things we had brought for the children, which seemed to delight him, poor soul, and we felt sure he would be kind to them. His wife shouted to him from a window of the house that he'd better not loiter around, or they wouldn't be half-ready when the folks began to come, and we said good-bye to him and went away. It was a beautiful morning, and we walked slowly along the shore to the high rocks in the pitch-pine trees which we had seen before. The air was deliciously fresh, and one could take long, deep breaths of it. The tide was coming in and the spray dashed higher and higher. We climbed about the rocks and went down in some of the deep-cold clefs into which the sun could seldom shine. We gathered some wildflowers, bits of pimpernel, and one or two sprigs of fringed gentian, which had bloomed late in a sheltered place, and a pale little bouquet of asters. We sat for a long time looking off to sea, and we could talk or think of almost nothing beside what we had seen and heard at the farmhouse. We said how much we should like to go to that funeral, and we even made up our minds to go back in season. But we gave up the idea. We had no right there, and it would seem as if we were merely curious. And we were afraid our presence would make the people ill at ease, the minister especially. It would be an intrusion. We spoke of the children and tried to think what could be done for them. We were afraid they would be told so many times that it was lucky they did not have to go to the poor house, and yet we could not help pitying the hard worked, discouraged woman who we had seen in spite of her bitterness. Poor soul! She looked like a person to whom nobody had ever been very kind, and for whom life had no pleasures. Its sunshine had never been warm enough to thaw the ice at her heart. We remembered how we knocked at the door and called loudly, but there had been no answer, and we wondered how we should have felt if we had gone farther into the room and had found the dead man in his coffin all alone in the house. We thought of our first visit and what he had said to us, and we wished we had come again sooner, for we might have helped them so much more if we had only known. What a pitying end it is! said Kate. Do you realize that the family is broken up, and the children are to be half strangers to each other? Did you not notice that they seemed very fond of each other when we saw them in the summer? There was not half the roughness and apparent carelessness of one another which one so often sees in the country. There's was such a little world. One can understand how, when the man's wife died, he was bewildered and discouraged utterly at a loss. The thoughts of winter and of the little children and of the struggles he had already come through against poverty and disappointment were terrible thoughts. And like a boat adrift at sea, the waves of his misery brought him in against the rocks, and his simple life was wrecked. I suppose his grandest hopes and wishes would have been realized in a good farm and a thousand or two dollars in safekeeping, said I. Do you remember that merry little song in As You Like It? Who doth ambition shun and loves to live in the sun, seeking the food he eats and pleased with what he gets? And here shall we see no enemy but winter and rough weather. That is all he lived for, his literal daily bread. I suppose what would be prosperity to him would be miserably insufficient for some other people. I wonder how we can help being conscious, in the midst of our comforts and pleasures, of the lives which are being starved to death in more ways than one. I suppose one thinks more about these things as one grows older, said Kate thoughtfully. How seldom life in this world seems to be a success, among rich or poor, only here and there one touches satisfaction, though the one who seems to have made an utter failure may really be the greatest conqueror. And Helen, I find that I understand better and better how unsatisfactory, how purposeless and disastrous any life must be, which is not a Christian life. It is like being always in the dark and wandering one knows not where, if one is not learning more and more what it is to have a friendship with God. By the middle of the afternoon the sky had grown cloudy, and a wind seemed to be coming in off the sea, and we unwillingly decided that we must go home. We supposed that the funeral would be all over with, but found we had been mistaken when we reached the cove. We seated ourselves on a rock near the water, just beside us was the old boat, with its killikant painter stretched ashore where its owner had left it. There were several men standing round the door of the house, making Solomon important, and by and by one of them came over to us, and we found out a little more of the sad story. He liked this man, and there was so much pity in his face and voice. He was a real, willing, honest man, Andrew was, said our new friend, but he used to be sickly, and seemed to have no luck, though for a year or two he got along some better. When his wife died he was sore afflicted and couldn't get over it, and he didn't know what to do or what was going to become of him when winter come in on, and, well, I may as well tell ye, he took to drink and it killed him right off. I come over two or three times and made some gruel and fixed him up swells I could, and the little gals done the best they could, but he faded right out, and didn't know anything the last time I see him, and he died Sunday morning when the tide begun to ebb. I always set a good deal by Andrew. We used to play together down to the Great Cove. That's where he was raised, and my folks lived there, too. I've got one of the little gals. I always knowed him and his wife. Just now we heard the people in the house singing China, the Deep Haven Funeral hymn, and the tune suited well that day, with its wailing rise and fall. It was strangely plaintive. Then the funeral exercises were over, and the man with whom we had just been speaking led to the door a horse and rickety wagon from which the seat had been taken, and when the coffin had been put in, he led the horse down the road a little way, and we watched the mourners come out of the house two by two. We heard someone scold in a whisper because the wagon was twice as far off as it need have been. They evidently had a rigid funeral etiquette, and felt it important that everything should be carried out according to rule. We saw a forlorn-looking kitten, with a bit of faded braid around its neck, run across the road in terror and presently appear again on the stone wall, where she sat looking at the people. We saw the dead man's eldest son, of whom he had told us in the summer with such pride. He had shown his respect for his father as best he could, by a black band on his hat and a pair of black cotton gloves, a world too large for him. He looked so sad and cried bitterly as he stood alone at the head of the people. His aunt was next with a handkerchief at her eyes, fully equal to the proprieties of the occasion, though I fear her grief was not so heartfelt as her husband's, who dried his eyes on his coat-sleeve again and again. There were perhaps twenty of the mourners, and there was such whispering among those who walked last. The minister and some others fell into line, and the procession went slowly down the slope. A strange shadow had fallen over everything. It was like a November day, for the air felt cold and bleak. There were some great sea-fowl high in the air, fighting their way toward the sea against the wind, and giving now and then a wild far-off ringing cry. We could hear the dull sound of the sea, and at a little distance from the land the waves were leaping high and breaking in white foam over the isolated ledges. The rest of the people began to walk or drive away. But Kate and I stood watching the funeral as it crept along the narrow, crooked road. We had never seen what the people called walking funerals, until we came to deep haven. And there was something piteous about this. The mourners looked so few, and we could hear the rattle of the wagon-wheels. He's gone, ain't he? said someone near us. That was it. Gone. Before the people had entered the house, there had been, I am sure, an indifferent business-like look. But when they came out all that was changed. Their faces were awed by the presence of death, and the indifference had given place to uncertainty. Their neighbor was immeasurably their superior now. Living he had been a failure by their own low standards. But now, if he could come back, he would know secrets, and be wise beyond anything they could imagine, and who could know the riches of which he might have come into possession. To Kate and me there came a sudden consciousness of the mystery and inevitableness of death. It was not fear, thank God, but a thought of how certain it was that some day it would be a mystery to us no longer. And there was a thought, too, of the limitation of this present life. We were waiting there, in company with the people, the great sea and the rocks and fields themselves on this side the boundary. We knew just then how close to this familiar everyday world might be the other, which at times before had just seemed so far away, out of reach of even our thoughts beyond the distant stars. We stayed a while longer until the little black funeral had crawled out of sight, until we had seen the last funeral guest go away and the door had been shut and fastened with a queer old padlock and some links of rusty chain. The door fitted loosely, and the man gave it a vindictive shake, as if he thought that the poor house had somehow been to blame, and that after a long desperate struggle for life under its roof and among the stony fields the family must go away defeated. It is not likely that anyone else will ever go to live there. The man to whom the farm was mortgaged will add the new forlorn acres to his pasture-land, and the thistles which the man who is dead had fought so many years will march in next summer and take unmolested possession. I think today of that fireless, empty, forsaken house where the winter sun shines in and creeps slowly along the floor. The bitter cold is in and around the house, and the snow has drifted in at every crack. Outside it is untrodden by any living creature's footstep. The wind blows and rushes and shakes the loose window-sashes in their frames, while the padlock knocks, knocks against the door. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of Deep Haven This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Betsy Bush in Marquette, Michigan, December 2008. Deep Haven by Sarah Oran-Jewitt Chapter 12 Miss Chauncey The Deep Haven people used to say sometimes complacently that certain things or certain people were as dull as East Parish. Kate and I grew curious to see that part of the world which was considered duller than Deep Haven itself, and as upon inquiry we found that it was not out of reach. One day we went there. It was like Deep Haven, only on a smaller scale. The village, though it is a question whether that is not an exaggerated term to apply, had evidently seen better days. It was on the bank of a river, and perhaps half a mile from the sea. There were a few old buildings there, some with mossy roofs, and a great deal of yellow lichen on the sides of the walls next to the sea. A few newer houses belonging to fishermen, some dilapidated fish houses, and a row of fish flakes. Every house seemed to have a lane of its own, and all faced different ways except two fish houses which stood amably side by side. There was a church which we had been told was the oldest in the region. Through the windows we saw the high pulpit and sounding board, and finally found the keys at a house nearby. So we went in and looked around at our leisure. A rusty foot-stove stood in one of the old square pews, and in the gallery there was a majestic base vial with all its strings as snapped, but the largest, which gave out a doleful sound when we touched it. After we left the church we walked along the road a little way, and then came in sight of a fine old house which had apparently fallen into ruin years before. The front entrance was a fine specimen of old-fashioned workmanship, with its columns and carvings, and the fence had been a grand affair in its day, though now it could scarcely stand alone. The long range of outbuildings were falling piece by piece. One shed had been blown down entirely by a late high wind. The large windows had many panes of glass, and the great chimneys were built of the bright red bricks which used to be brought from overseas in the days of the colonies. We noticed the gnarled lilacs in the yard, the wrinkled cinnamon roses, and a flourishing company of French pinks, or bouncing bets, as Kate called them. "'Suppose we go in,' said I. "'The door is open a little way. There surely must be some stories about its being haunted.' We will ask Miss Anora. And we climbed over the boards which were put up like pasture-bars across the wide front gateway. "'We shall certainly meet a ghost,' said Kate. Just as we stood on the steps, the door was pulled wide open. We started back, and well-grown women as we are, we have confessed since that our first impulse was to run away. On the threshold there stood a stately old woman who looked surprised at first sight of us, and quickly recovered herself, and stood waiting for us to speak. She was dressed in a rusty black satin gown, with scant short skirt and huge sleeves. On her head was a great black bonnet, with a high crown and a close brim, which came far out over her face. "'What is your pleasure?' said she, and we felt like two awkward children. Kate partially recovered her wits and asked which was the nearer way to Deep Haven. "'There is, but one road passed the church and over the hill. It cannot be missed.' And she bowed gravely. When we thanked her and begged her pardon, we hardly knew why, and came away. We looked back to see her still standing in the doorway. "'Who in the world can she be?' said Kate, and we wondered and puzzled and talked over the ghost until we saw Miss Anora Carew, who told us that it was Miss Sally Chauncey. "'Indeed I know her, poor old soul,' said Miss Anora. "'She has such a sad history. She is the last survivor of one of the most aristocratic old colonial families. The Chaunceys were of great renown until early in the present century, and then their fortunes changed. They had always been rich and well-educated, and I suppose nobody ever had a gayer, happier time than Miss Sally did in her girlhood. For they entertained a great deal of company and lived in fine style. But her father was unfortunate in business, and at last was utterly ruined at the time of the embargo. Then he became partially insane and died after many years of poverty. I have often heard a tradition that a sailor to whom he had broken a promise had cursed him, and that none of the family had died in their beds, or had any good luck since. The East Parish people seem to believe in it, and it is certainly strange what terrible sorrow has come to the Chaunceys. One of Miss Sally's brothers, a fine young officer in the Navy, who was at home on leave, asked her one day if she could get on without him, and she said yes, thinking he meant to go back to sea. But in a few minutes she heard the noise of a pistol in his room, and hurried in to find him lying dead on the floor. There was another brother who was insane, and who became so violent that he was chained for years in one of the upper chambers a dangerous prisoner. I have heard his horrid cries myself when I was a young girl, said Miss Onora with a shiver. Miss Sally is insane, and has been for many years, and this seems to me the saddest part of the story. When she first lost her reason she was sent to a hospital, for there was no one who could take care of her. The mania was so acute that no one had the slightest thought that she would recover or even live long. Her guardian sold the furniture and pictures in China, almost everything but clothing, to pay the bills at the hospital, until the house was fairly empty. And then one spring day, I remember it well, she came home in her right mind, and without a thought of what was awaiting her, ran eagerly into her home. It was a terrible shock, and she never had recovered from it. Though after a long illness her insanity took a mild form, and she has always been perfectly harmless. She has been alone many years, and no one can persuade her to leave the old house, where she seems to be contented and does not realize her troubles. Though she lives mostly in the past and has little idea of the present, except in her house affairs, which seem pitiful to me, for I remember the housekeeping of the chances when I was a child. I have always been to see her, and she usually knows me, though I have been but seldom of late years. She is several years older than I, the town makes her an allowance every year, and she has some friends who take care that she does not suffer, though her wants are few. She is an elegant woman still, and some day, if you like, I will give you something to carry to her, and a message, if I can think of one. And you must go to make her a call. I hope she will happen to be talkative, for I am sure you would enjoy her. For many years she did not like to see strangers, but someone has told me lately that she seems to be pleased if people go to see her. You must be sure it was not many days before Kate and I claimed the basket and the message, and went again to East Parish. We boldly lifted the great brass knocker, and were dismayed because nobody answered. While we waited a girl came up the walk and said that Miss Sally lived upstairs, and she would speak to her if we liked. Sometimes she don't have sense enough to know what the knocker means, we were told. There was evidently no romance about Miss Sally to our new acquaintance. Do you think, said I, that we might go in and look around the lower rooms? Perhaps she will refuse to see us. Yes, indeed, said the girl, only run the minute I speak. You will have time enough, for she walks a slow and is a little deaf. So we went into the great hall with its wide staircase and of handsome cornices and paneling, and then into the large parlor on the right and through it to a smaller room looking out on the garden, which sloped down to the river. Both rooms had fine carved mantles, with dutch-tiled fireplaces, and in the cornices we saw the fastenings where pictures had hung, old portraits perhaps, and what had become of them. The girl did not know. The house had been the same ever since she could remember, only it would all fall through into the cellar soon. But the old lady was proud as Lucifer and wouldn't hear of moving out. The floor in the room toward the river was so broken that it was not safe, and we came back through the hall and opened the door at the foot of the stairs. Guess you won't want to stop long there, said the girl. Three old hens and a rooster marched toward us with great slumnity when we looked in. The cobwebs hung in the room as they often do in old barns, in long gray festoons. The lilacs outside grew close against the two windows where the shutters were not drawn, and the light in the room was greenish and dim. Then we took our places on the threshold, and the girl went upstairs and announced us to Miss Sally, and in a few minutes we heard her come along the hall. Sophia, said she, where are the gentry waiting? And just then she came in sight round the turn of the staircase. She wore the same great black bonnet and satin gown, and looked more old-fashioned and ghostly than before. She was not tall but very erect in spite of her great age, and her eyes seemed to look through you in an uncanny way. She slowly descended the stairs and came toward us with a courteous greeting. And when we had introduced ourselves as Miss Carew's friends, she gave us each her hand in a most cordial way, and said she was pleased to see us. She bowed us into the parlor and brought us two rickety straight-backed chairs, which with an old table were all the furniture there was in the room. Sitchie down! said she, herself taking a place in the window-seat. I have seen few more elegant women than Miss Chauncey. Thoroughly at her ease she had the manner of a lady of the olden times, using the quaint fashion of speech which she had been taught in her girlhood. The long words and ceremonious phrases suited her extremely well. Her hands were delicately shaped, and she folded them in her lap, as no doubt she had learned to do at boarding school so many years ago. She asked Kate and me if we knew any young ladies at that school in Boston, saying that most of her intimate friends had left when she did, but some of the younger ones were there still. She asked for the carousel in Mr. Lawnmere. And when Kate told her that she was Miss Brandon's niece and asked if she had known her, she said, Certainly, my dear, we were intimate friends at one time, but I have seen her little of late. Do you not know that she is dead? asked Kate. Ah, they say everyone is dead nowadays. I do not comprehend the silly idea, said the old lady impatiently. It is an excuse, I suppose. She could come to see me if she chose. But she was always a ceremonious body, and I go abroad but sell them now, so perhaps she waits my visit. I will not speak uncouriously, and you must remember me to her kindly. Then she asked us about other old people in Deep Haven, and about families in Boston whom she had known in her early days. I think every one of whom she spoke was dead, but we assured her that they were all well and prosperous, and we hoped we told the truth. She asked about the love affairs of men and women who had died old and gray-headed within our remembrance. And finally she said we must pardon her for these tiresome questions, but it was so rarely she saw anyone direct from Boston, of whom she could inquire concerning these old friends and relatives of her family. Something happened after this which touched us both inexpressibly. She sat for some time watching Kate with a bewildered look, which at last faded away, a smile coming in its place. I think you are like my mother, she said. Did any one ever say to you that you are like my mother? Will you let me see your forehead? Yes, and your hair is only a little darker. Kate had risen when Miss Chauncey did, and they stood side by side. There was a tone in the old lady's voice which brought the tears to my eyes. She stood there some minutes looking at Kate. I wonder what her thoughts were. There was a kinship, it seemed to me, not of blood, only that they both were of the same stamp and rank. Miss Chauncey of the old generation and Kate Lancastre of the new. Miss Chauncey turned to me, saying, Look up at the portrait, and you will see the likeness, too, I think. But when she turned and saw the bare wings scouting of the room, she looked puzzled, and the bright flash which had lighted up her face was gone in an instant, and she sat down again in the window-seat. But we were glad that she had forgotten. Presently she said, Pardon me, but I forgot your question. Miss Carew had told us to ask her about her school days, as she nearly always spoke of that time to her. And, to our delight, Miss Sally told us a long story about her friends and about her coming-out party, when boatloads of gay young guests came down from Riverport and all the gentry from Deep Haven. The band from the fort played for the dancing, the garden was lighted, the card tables were in this room, and a grand supper was served. She also remembered what some of her friends wore, and her own dress was a silver-grey brocade with rose buds of three colors. She told us how she watched the boats go off a river in the middle of the summer night, how sweet the music sounded, how bright the moonlight was, how she wished we had been there at her party. I can't believe I am an old woman! It seems only yesterday!" said she thoughtfully. And then she lost the idea, and talked about Kate's great grandmother, whom she had known, and asked us how she had been this summer. She asked us if we would like to go upstairs where she had a fire, and we eagerly accepted, though we were not in the least cold. Ah! what a sorry place it was! She had gathered together some few pieces of her old furniture, which half filled one fine room, and here she lived. There was a tall, handsome chest of drawers, which I should have liked much to ransack. Miss Carew had told us that Miss Chauncey had large claims against the government, dating back sixty or seventy years, but nobody could ever find the papers, and I felt sure that they must be hidden away in some secret drawer. The brass handles and trimmings were blackened, and the wood looked like ebony. I wanted to climb up and look into the upper part of this antique piece of furniture, and it seemed to me I could at once put my hand on a package of papers relating to the embargo. On a stand near the window was an old Bible, fairly worn out with constant use. Miss Chauncey was religious. In fact, it was the only subject about which she was perfectly sane. We saw almost nothing of her insanity that day, though afterward she was different. There were days when her mind seemed clear, but sometimes she was silent, and often she would confuse Kate with Miss Brandon and talk to her of long-forgotten plans and people. She would rarely speak of anything more than a minute or two, and then would drift into an entirely foreign subject. She urged us that afternoon to stay to luncheon with her. She said she could not offer us dinner, but she would give us tea and biscuit, and no doubt we should find something in Miss Carew's basket, as she was always kind in remembering her fancies. Miss Onora had told us to decline if she asked us to stay, but I should have liked to see her sit at the head of her table and to be aghast at such a lunch-party. Poor creature! It was a blessed thing that her shattered reason made her unconscious of the change in her fortunes and incapable of comparing the end of her life with its beginning. To herself she was still Miss Chauncey, a gentlewoman of high family, possessed of unusual worldly advantage. The remembrance of her cruel trials and sorrows had faded from her mind. She had no idea of the poverty of her surroundings when she paced back and forth with stately steps on the ruined terraces of her garden. The ranks of lilies in the converse roses were still in bloom for her, and the box-borders were as trimly kept as ever, and when she pointed out to us the distant steeples of Riverport, it was plain to see that it was still the Riverport of her girlhood. If the boat landing at the foot of a garden had long ago dropped into the sea and gone out with the tide, if the maids and men who used to do her bidding were all out of hearing, if there had been no dinner company that day, and no guests were expected for the evening, what did it matter? The twilight had closed around her gradually, and she was alone in her house, but she did not heed the ruin of it or the absence of her friends. On the morrow life would again go on. We always used to ask her to read the Bible to us, after Mr. Loramir had told us how grand and beautiful it was to listen to her. I shall never hear some of the Psalms or some chapters of Isaiah again without being reminded of her, and I remember just now, as I write, one summer afternoon when Kate and I had lingered later than usual, and we sat in the upper room looking out on the river and the shore beyond, where the light had begun to grow golden as the day drew near sunset. Miss Sally had opened the great book at random and read slowly, In Thine Father's house are many mansions, and then looking off for a moment at a leaf which had drifted into the window recess, she repeated it. In my Father's house are many mansions. If it were not so, I would have told you. When she went on slowly to the end of the chapter, and with her hands clasped together on the Bible, she fell into a reverie, and the tears came into her eyes as we watched her look of perfect content. Through all her clouded years the promises of God had been her only certainty. Miss Chauncey died early in the winter after we left Deep Haven, and one day when I was visiting Kate in Boston, Mr. Loramir came to see us and told us about her. It seems that after much persuasion she was induced to go to spend the winter with a neighbor, her house having become uninhabitable, and she was beside too feeble to live alone. But her fondness for her old home was too strong, and one day she stole away from the people who took care of her and crept in through the cellar where she had to wade through half frozen water, and then went upstairs where she seated herself at a front window and called joyfully to the people who went by, asking them to come in and see her as she had got home again. After this she was very ill, and one day when she was half delirious they missed her and found her at last sitting on her hall stairway, which she was too feeble to climb. She lived but a short time afterwards, and in her last days her mind seemed perfectly clear. She said over and over again how good God had always been to her, and she was gentle and unwilling to be a trouble to those who had the care of her. Mr. Lorimir spoke of her simple goodness, and told us that though she had no other sense of time and hardly knew if it was summer or winter, she was always sure when Sunday came, and always came to church when he preached at East Parish, her greatest pleasure seeming to be to give money if there was a contribution. She may be a lesson to us, added the old minister reverently, for though bewildered in mind, but bereft of riches and friends in all that makes this world dear to many of us, she was still steadfast in her simple faith, and was never heard to complain of any of the burdens which God had given her. When the summer was ended it was no sorrow to us, for we were even more fond of Deepavon in the glorious autumn weather than we had ever been before. Mr. Lancaster was abroad longer than he had intended to be at first, and it was late in the season before we left. We were both ready to pray for him, and we were both ready to pray for him, and we were ready to pray for him, and we were ready to pray for him, and we were both ready to postpone going back to town as late as possible, but at last it was time for my friend to re-establish the Boston housekeeping, and to take up the city life again. I must admit, we half dreaded it. We were surprised to find how little we cared for it, and how well one could get on without many things which are thought indispensable. For the last fortnight we were in the house a great deal, because the weather was wet and dreary. At one time there was a magnificent storm, and we went every day along the shore in the wind and rain for a mile or two to see the furious great breakers come plunging in against the rocks. I never had seen such a wild stormy sea as that. The rage of it was awful, and the whole harbour was white with foam. The wind had blown northeast steadily for days, and it seemed to me that the sea never could be quiet and smooth and blue again, with soft white clouds sailing over in the sky. It was a treacherous sea, it was wicked. It had all the trembling land in its power, if it only dared to send its great waves far ashore. All night long the breakers roared, and the wind howled in the chimneys, and in the morning we always looked fearfully across the surf and the tossing gray water to see if the lighthouse were standing firm on its rock. It was so slender a thing to hold its own in such a wide and monstrous sea. But the sun came out at last, and not many days afterward we went out with Danny and Skipper Scudder to say good-bye to Mrs. Q. I have been some voyages at sea, but I never was so danced about in a little boat as I was that day. There was nothing to fear with so careful a crew, and we only enjoyed the roughness as we went out and in, though it took much maneuvering to land us at the island. It was very sad work to us, saying good-bye to our friends, and we tried to make believe that we should spend the next summer in Deep Haven, and we meant at any rate to go down for a visit. We were glad when the people said they should miss us, and that they hoped we should not forget them and the old place. It touched us to find that they cared so much for us, and we said over and over again how happy we had been, and that it was such a satisfactory summer. Kate laughingly proposed one evening, as we sat talking by the fire and were particularly contented, that we should copy the ladies of Langolin and remove ourselves from society and its distractions. I have thought often lately, said my friend, what a good time they must have had, and I feel a sympathy and friendliness for them which I never felt before. We could have guests when we chose, as we have had this summer, and we could study and grow very wise, and what could be pleasanter. But I wonder if we should grow very lazy if we stayed here all the year round. Village life is not stimulating, and there would not be much to do in winter. Though I do not believe that need be true, one may be busy and useful in any place. I suppose if we really belonged in Deep Haven we should think at a hard fate and not enjoy it half so much as we have this summer, said I. Our idea of happiness would be making long visits in Boston, and we should be heartbroken when we had to come away and leave our lunch parties and symphony concerts and calls and fairs and reading clubs in the children's hospital. We should think the people uncongenial and behind the times, and that the ridge road was stupid and the long sands desolate. While we remembered what delightful walks we had taken out Beacon Street to the Three Roads and over the Cambridge Bridge, perhaps we should even be ashamed of the dear old church for being so out of fashion. We should have the blues dreadfully and think there was no society here and wonder why we had to live in such a town. What a gloomy picture, said Kate laughing. Do you know that I have understood something lately better than I ever did before? It is that success and happiness are not things of chance with us, but of choice. I can see how we might so easily have had a dull summer here. Of course, it is our own fault if the events of our lives are hindrances. It is we who make them bad or good. Sometimes it is a conscious choice, but often are unconscious. I suppose we educate ourselves for taking the best of life or the worst. Do not you? Dear old Deep Haven, said Kate gently, after we had been silent a little while. It makes me think of one of its own old ladies, with its clinging to the old fashions and its respect for what used to be respectable when it was young. I cannot make fun of what was once dear to somebody and which realized somebody's ideas of beauty or fitness. I don't dispute the usefulness of a new bustling manufacturing town with its progressive ideas, but there is a simple dignity in a town like Deep Haven, as if it tried to be loyal to the traditions of its ancestors. It quietly accepts its altered circumstances if it has seen better days, and has no harsh feelings towards the places which have drawn away its business. But it lives on, making its old houses and boats and clothes last as long as possible. I think one cannot help, said I, having a different affection for an old place like Deep Haven from that which one may have for a newer town. Here, though, there are no exciting historical associations and none of the veneration which one has for the very old cities and towns abroad. It is impossible not to remember how many people have walked the streets and lived in the houses. I was thinking today how many girls might have grown up in this house, and that their places have been ours. We have inherited their pleasures, and perhaps have carried on work which they began. We sit in somebody's favorite chair, and look out of the windows at the sea, and have our wishes and our hopes and plans just as they did before us. Something of them still lingers where their lives were spent. We are often reminded of our friends who have died. Why are we not reminded as surely of strangers in such a house as this, finding some trace of the lives which were lived among the sights we see and things we handle as the incense of many masses lingers in some old cathedral, and one catches the spirit of longing and prayer where so many heavy hearts have brought their burdens and have gone away comforted? When I first came here, said Kate, it used to seem very sad to me to find Aunt Catherine's little trinkets lying about the house. I have often thought of what you have just said. I heard Mrs. Patton say the other day that there is no pocket in a shroud, and of course it is better that we should carry nothing out of this world. Yet I can't help wishing that it were possible to keep some of my worldly goods always. There are one or two books of mine and some little things which I have had a long time and of which I have grown very fond. It makes me so sorry to think of their being neglected and lost. I cannot believe I shall forget these earthly treasures when I am in heaven, and I wonder if I shall not miss them. Isn't it strange to think of not reading one's Bible any more? I suppose this is a very low view of heaven, don't you? And we both smiled. I think the next dwellers in this house ought to find a decided atmosphere of contentment, said I. Have you ever thought that it took us some time to make it your house instead of Miss Brandon's? It used to seem to me that it was still under her management that she was its mistress. But now it belongs to you, and if I were ever to come back without you, I should find you here. It is bewildering to know that this is the last chapter, and that it must not be long. I remember so many of our pleasures of which I have hardly said a word. There were our guests, of whom I have told you nothing, and of whom there was so much to say. Of course we asked my aunt Mary to visit us, and Miss Margaret Tennant, and many of our girlfriends. All the people we know who have yachts made the port of Deep Haven if they were cruising in the neighbouring waters. Once a most cheerful party of Kate's cousins, and some other young people whom we knew very well, came to visit us in this way, and the yacht was kept in the harbour a week or more, while we were all as gay as bobble inks and went frisking about the country and kept late hours in the sober old Brandon House. My aunt Mary, who was with us, and Kate's aunt, Mrs. Thorniford, who knew the crews, and was commander of the yacht party, tried to keep us in order and to make us ornaments to Deep Haven society instead of reproaches and stumbling blocks. Kate's younger brothers were with us, waiting until it was time for them to go back to college, and I think there never had been such picnics in Deep Haven before, and I fear there never will be again. We are fond of reading, and we meant to do a great deal of it, as everyone does, who goes away for the summer. But I must confess that our grand plans were not well carried out. Our German dictionaries were on the table in the West Parlor until the sight of them mortified us, and finally, to avoid their silent reproach, I put them in the closet, with the excuse that it would be as easy to get them there, and they would be out of the way. We used to have the magazines sent us from town. You would have smiled at the box of books which we carried to Deep Haven, and indeed we sent two or three times for others. But I do not remember that we ever carried out that course of study which we had planned with so much interest. We were out of doors so much that there was often little time for anything else. Kate said one day that she did not care in reading to be always making new acquaintances, but to be seeing more of old ones, and I think it is a very wise idea. We each have our pet books. Kate carries with her a worn copy of Mr. Rutherford's Children, which has been her delight ever since she can remember. Sybil and Carissa are dear old friends, though I suppose now it is not merely what Kate reads, but what she associates with the story. I am not often separated from Jean Engelot's stories told to a child that charmingly wise and pleasant little book. It is always new, like Kate's favourite. It is very hard to make a list of the books one likes best, but I remember that we had The Village on the Cliff and Henry Esmond and Tom Brown at Rugby, with his more serious ancestor, Sir Thomas Brown. I am sure we had Fennelin, for we always have that, and there was Pet Marjorie and Rab, and Annals of a Parish, and the life of the reverend Sidney Smith, beside Miss Titler's Days of Yore, and The Holy and the Profane State by Thomas Fuller, from which Kate gets so much entertainment and profit. We read Mr. Emerson's essays together, out of doors, and some stories which had been our dear friends at school, like Leslie Goldthwaite. There was a very good library in the house, and we both like old books, so we enjoyed that. And we used to read the spectator, and many old fashioned stories and essays and sermons, with much more pleasure because they had such quaint old brown leather bindings. You will not doubt that we had some cherished volumes of poetry, or that we used to read them aloud to each other when we sat in our favourite corner of the rocks at the shore, or were in the pine woods of an afternoon. We used to go out to tea and do a great deal of social visiting, which was very pleasant. Dinner parties were not in fashion, though it was a great attention to be asked to spend the day, which courtesy we used to delight in extending to our friends, and we entertained company in that way often. When we first went out we were somewhat interesting on account of our clothes, which were of later pattern than had been adopted generally in deep haven. We used to take great pleasure in arraying ourselves on high days and holidays, since when we went wandering on shore, or out sailing or rowing, we did not always dress as befitted our position in the town. Fish scales and blackberry briars so often disfigure one's clothes. We became in the course of time learned it in all manners of long shore lore, and even profitably employed ourselves one morning in going clam digging with old Ben Horn, a most fascinating ancient mariner. We both grew so well and brown and strong, and Kate and I did not get tired of each other at all, which I think was wonderful for few friendships would bear such a test. We were together always and alone together a great deal, and we became wonderfully well acquainted. We are such good friends that we often were silent for a long time when mere acquaintances would have felt compelled to talk and tried to entertain each other. Before we left the leaves had fallen off all the trees except the oaks, which make in cold weather one of the dreariest sounds one ever hears, a shivering rustle which makes one pity the tree and imagine it shelterless and forlorn. The sea had looked rough and cold for many days, and the house itself had grown chilly. All the world seemed waiting for the snow to come. There was nobody loitering on the wharves, and when we went down the street we walked fast, arm in arm, to keep warm. The houses were shut up as close as possible, and the old sailors did not seem cheery any longer. They looked forlorn, and it was not a pleasant prospect to be so long weatherbound in port. If they ventured out, they put on ancient great coats, with huge flaps to the pockets and large horn buttons, and they looked contemptuously at the vein, which always pointed to the north or east. It felt like winter, and the captains rolled more than ever as they walked, as if they were on deck in a heavy sea. The rheumatism claimed many victims, and there was one day, it must be confessed, that a biting icy fog was blown in shore that Kate and I were willing to admit that we could be as comfortable in town, and it was almost time for seal-skin jackets. In the front yards we saw the flower beds black with frost, except a few brave pansies which had kept green, and had bloomed under the tall china-aster stocks, and one day we picked some of these little flowers to put between the leaves of a book and take away with us. I think we loved deep haven all the more in those last days with a bit of compassion in our tenderness for the dear old town which had so little to amuse it. So long a winter was coming, but we thought with a sigh how pleasant it would be in the spring. You would have smiled at the treasures we brought away with us. We had become so fond of even our fishing lines, and this very day you may see in Kate's room two great bunches of deep haven catanine tails. They were much in our way on the journey home, but we clung affectionately to these last sheaves of our harvest. The morning we came away our friends were all looking out from door or window to see us go by, and after we had passed the last house, and there was no need to smile any longer, we were very dismal. The sun was shining again, bright and warm as if the Indian summer were beginning, and we wished that it had been rainy day. The thought of deep haven will always bring to us our long quiet summer days, and reading aloud on the rocks by the sea, and fresh salt air and the glory of the sunsets, the wail of the Sunday Psalms singing at church, the yellow lichen that grew over the trees, the houses and the stone walls, our boating and wanderings ashore, our importance as members of society and how kind everyone was to us both. By and by the deep haven warehouses will fall and be used for firewood by the fisher people, and the wharves will be worn away by the tides. The few old gentle folks who still linger will be dead then, and I wonder if someday Kate Lancaster and I will go down to deep haven for the sake of old times and read the epitaph in the burying ground, look out to sea, and talk quietly about the girls who were so happy there one summer long before. I should like to walk along the beach at sunset and watch the color of the marshes and the sea change as the light of the sky goes out. It would make the old days come back vividly. We should see that roofs and chimneys of the village and the great chantery alms look black against the sky. A little later the marsh fog would show faintly white, and we should feel it deliciously cold and wet against our hands and faces. When we looked up, there would be a star. The crickets would chirp loudly. Perhaps some late seabirds would fly inland. Turning, we should see the lighthouse lamp shine out over the water, and the great sea would move and speak to us lazily in its idle high tide sleep.