he side of Judah Cahoon's truck-wagon and saw
the sign hanging beneath the arch above the gate of the Seymour place he
began dimly to remember other things, bits of news embodied in letters
which his sister, Sarah Macomber, had written him at various times.
Lobelia Seymour had--she had done something with the family home,
something unusual. What was it? Why, yes....

"Judah," he said, "Lobelia Seymour turned that place into a--a sort of
home, didn't she?"

Judah twisted on the wagon seat to stare at him.

"What are you askin' me that for, Cap'n Sears?" he demanded. "You know
more about it than I do, I guess likely. Anyhow, you ought to; you was
brought up in Bayport; I wasn't."

"Yes, but I've been away from it ten times longer than I've been in it.
I'd forgotten all about Lobelia. Seems to me Sarah wrote me somethin'
about her, though, and that she had turned her father's place into a
home for women."

"For mariners' women, that's what she calls it. Didn't you see it on the
sign? Ho, ho! that's a good one, ain't it, Cap'n Sears? 'Mariners'
women!' Course what it means is sea cap'ns widders and sisters and such,
but it does sound kind of Brigham Youngy, don't it? Haw, haw! Well,
fur's that goes I have known mariners that--Hi! 'Vast heavin' there!
What in time you tryin' to do, carry away that gate post? Whoa! Jumpin'
creepin', limpin'---- Whoa! _Look_ at the critter!" in huge disgust and
referring to the white horse, who had suddenly evinced a desire to turn
in at a narrow driveway and to gallop while doing so. "Look at him!"
repeated Judah. "When I go up to the depot he'll stand right in the
middle of the railroad track and go to sleep. I have to whale the
timbers out of him to get him awake enough to step ahead so's a train of
cars won't stave in his broadside. But get him home here where he can
see the barn, the place where he knows I stow the oats, and he wants to
run right over top of a stone wall. Can't hardly hold him, I can't.
Who-a-a!... Well, Cap'n Sears, here we be at the General Minot place.
Here's where I sling my hammock these days."

Kendrick looked about him, at the grassy back yard, with the ancient
settee beneath the locust tree, the raspberry and currant bushes along
the wall, the venerable apple and pear trees on the other side of the
wall, at the trellis over the back door and the grape vine heavily
festooning it, at the big weather-beaten barn, carriage house and
pig-pens beyond. Turning, he