ys be under
the heels of the clever ones. Only she, Saxon, daughter of Daisy who
had written wonderful poems and of a soldier-father on a roan war-horse,
daughter of the strong generations who hall won half a world from wild
nature and the savage Indian--no, she was not stupid. It was as if she
suffered false imprisonment. There was some mistake. She would find the
way out.

With the two dollars she bought a sack of flour and half a sack of
potatoes. This relieved the monotony of her clams and mussels. Like
the Italian and Portuguese women, she gathered driftwood and carried it
home, though always she did it with shamed pride, timing her arrival so
that it would be after dark. One day, on the mud-flat side of the Rock
Wall, an Italian fishing boat hauled up on the sand dredged from the
channel. From the top of the wall Saxon watched the men grouped about
the charcoal brazier, eating crusty Italian bread and a stew of meat and
vegetables, washed down with long draughts of thin red wine. She envied
them their freedom that advertised itself in the heartiness of their
meal, in the tones of their chatter and laughter, in the very boat
itself that was not tied always to one place and that carried them
wherever they willed. Afterward, they dragged a seine across the
mud-flats and up on the sand, selecting for themselves only the larger
kinds of fish. Many thousands of small fish, like sardines, they left
dying on the sand when they sailed away. Saxon got a sackful of the
fish, and was compelled to make two trips in order to carry them home,
where she salted them down in a wooden washtubs.

Her lapses of consciousness continued. The strangest thing she did while
in such condition was on Sandy Beach. There she discovered herself, one
windy afternoon, lying in a hole she had dug, with sacks for blankets.
She had even roofed the hole in rough fashion by means of drift wood and
marsh grass. On top of the grass she had piled sand.

Another time she came to herself walking across the marshes, a bundle
of driftwood, tied with bale-rope, on her shoulder. Charley Long
was walking beside her. She could see his face in the starlight. She
wondered dully how long he had been talking, what he had said. Then she
was curious to hear what he was saying. She was not afraid, despite
his strength, his wicked nature, and the loneliness and darkness of the
marsh.

"It's a shame for a girl like you to have to do this," he was saying,
apparently