had ever worn.

Mrs. Joseph's taffy was eaten too. Not a scrap of it was left. As Ted
said loyally, "It was just as good as the candy in the box and had
more 'chew' to it besides."

The Magical Bond of the Sea

A late September wind from the northwest was sweeping over the waters
of Racicot Harbour. It blew in, strong with the tang of the salt seas,
past the grim lighthouse rock on the one hand and the sandbars on the
other, up the long, narrow funnel of darkly blue water, until it
whistled among the masts of the boats at anchor and among the
stovepipe chimneys of the fishing village. It was a wind that sang and
piped and keened of many things--but what it sang to each listener was
only what was in that listener's heart. And Nora Shelley, standing at
the door of her father's bleached cottage on the grey sands, heard a
new strain in it. The wind had sung often to her of the outer world
she longed for, but there had never been the note of fulfilment in it
before.

There's a new life beyond, Nora, whistled the wind. A good life--and
it's yours for the taking. You have but to put out your hand and all
you've wished for will be in your grasp.

Nora leaned out from the door to meet the wind. She loved that
northwest gale; it was a staunch old friend of hers. Very slim and
straight was Nora, with a skin as white as the foam flakes crisping
over the sands, and eyes of the tremulous, haunting blue that deepens
on the water after a fair sunset. But her hair was as black as
midnight, and her lips blossomed out with a ripe redness against the
uncoloured purity of her face. She was far and away the most beautiful
of the harbour girls, but hardly the most popular. Men and women alike
thought her proud. Even her friends felt themselves called upon to
make excuses for her unlikeness to themselves.

Nora had dosed the door behind her to shut in the voices. She wanted
to be alone with the wind while she made her decision. Before her the
sandy shingle, made firm by a straggling growth of some pale sea-ivy,
sloped down to the sapphire cup of the harbour. Around her were the
small, uncouth houses of the village--no smaller or more uncouth than
the one which was her home--with children playing noisily on the paths
between them. The mackerel boats curtsied and nodded outside; beyond
them the sharp tip of Sandy Point was curdled white with seagulls.
Down at the curve of the cove a group of men were laughing and talking
loudly