I'll get along somehow.

I hope he'll be careful of the buggy; we had it painted only last January." Mrs.Tripp ventured a hinted question concerning the teacher's errand at Trumet.

The reply being noncommittal, the widow cheerfully prophesied that she guessed 'twas going to rain or snow next day.

"It's about time for the line storm," she added.
But it did not storm, although a brisk, cold gale was blowing when, after breakfast next morning, the "horse and team," with Bailey in his Sunday suit and overcoat, and Miss Dawes on the buggy seat beside him, turned out of the boarding-house yard and started on the twelve-mile journey to Trumet.
It was a bleak ride.

Denboro, the village adjoining Bayport on the bay side, is a pretty place, with old elms and silverleafs shading the main street in summer, and with substantial houses set each in its trim yard.
But beyond Denboro the Trumet road winds out over rolling, bare hills, with cranberry bogs, now flooded and skimmed with ice, in the hollows between them, clumps of bayberry and beach-plum bushes scattered over their rounded slopes, and white scars in their sides showing where the cranberry growers have cut away the thin layer of coarse grass and moss to reach the sand beneath, sand which they use in preparing their bogs for the new vines.
And the wind! There is always a breeze along the Trumet road, even in summer--when the mosquitoes lie in wait to leeward like buccaneers until, sighting the luckless wayfarer in the offing, they drive down before the wind in clouds, literally to eat him alive.