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“Poor Dan’l!” said Miss Sullivan; “I must look very droll, indeed.”

“Wal,” said Mrs. Dempster, “you are kind er like my idee of a Mormon—I mean one o’ them folks in the pictures with gals’ heads an’ more like a codfish to the other end. Now if one o’ them gals should make herself decent with a set of overhauls—an’ massy knows she wants suthin’ to cover her—she’d look jest as pooty as you do. Wouldn’t she, old man?”

To avoid other comparisons as complimentary to mermen or maids, Miss Sullivan ran from her circle of amused admirers and, passing among the pathless cucumber vines of the little garden, began awkwardly to climb the fence that kept any amphibious rodent monster of the deep from predatory excursions among the radishes and hollyhocks. Beyond the garden, a thicket of wild fruit vines nearly closed the shoreward path. Drops of rain hung heavy, crushing the bushes with pearly wreaths. A few raspberries were only waiting one sunny day to take their dull purple crimson of ripeness. It was wet work to penetrate by the obliterated path. Miss Sullivan, however, crowded steadily forward.