I had gone perhaps a hundred yards when I heard a shrill voice behind me.

Turning, I saw Dorinda standing by the corner of the kitchen, dust cloth in hand.

Her husband was raking for dear life.
I walked on.

The morning was a beautiful one.

Beside the path, on the landward side, the bayberry and beach-plum bushes were in bud, the green of the new grass was showing above the dead brown of the old, a bluebird was swaying on the stump of a wild cherry tree, and the pines and scrub oaks of the grove by the Shore Lane were bright, vivid splashes of color against the blue of the sky.