trying to rouse herself.

"It's no a canny fisher that," shaking his head. "The fish you'd find in
its nest come from the deep waters, where heron never flew. Well, they
do say," in answer to her look of inquiry, "that on stormy nights it
sits on the beach with a phosphoric light under its wing, and so draws
them to shore."

"How soon will the storm be on us?" after a pause.

"In not less than two hours. Keep your heart up, child. Ben Van Note is
no fool. He'd keep clear of Squan Beach as he would of hell's mouth,
such a night as this is going to be. Your friends are all safe. We'll
drive home as soon as we've been at the store to see if the mail's
brought you a letter."

He tucked in his hairy overcoat about his long legs, and tried to talk
cheerfully as they drove along, seeing how pale she was.

"The store" for these two counties was a large, one-roomed frame
building on the edge of the great pine woods, painted bright pink, with
a wooden blue lady, the old figure-head of some sloop, over the door.
The stoop outside was filled with hogsheads and boxes; inside was the
usual stock of calicoes, chinaware, molasses-barrels, and books; the
post-office, a high desk, on which lay half a dozen letters. By the
dingy little windows, on which the rain was now beating sharply, four or
five dirty sailors and clam-diggers were gathered, lounging on the
counter and kegs, while one read a newspaper aloud slowly. They stopped
to look at Miss Defourchet, when she came in, and waited by the door for
the Doctor. The gloomy air and forlorn-looking shop contrasted and threw
into bright relief her pretty, delicate little figure, and the dainty
carriage-dress she wore. All the daylight that was in the store seemed
at once to cling to and caress the rare beauty of the small face, with
its eager blue eyes and dark brown curls. There was one woman in the
store, sitting on a beer-cask, a small, sharp-set old wife, who drew her
muddy shoes up under her petticoats out of Mary's way, but did not look
at her. Miss Defourchet belonged to a family to whom the ease that money
gives and a certain epicureanism of taste were natural. She stood there
wondering, not unkindly, what these poor creatures did with their lives,
and their dull, cloddish days; what could they know of the keen pains,
the pleasures, the ambitions, or loves, that ennobled wealthier souls?

"This be yer papper, Doctor," said one; "but we've not just yet finished
it."

"All r