But he rather liked to visit the graveyard on Sunday afternoons.

His mother had been used to stroll there with him, in his boyhood, and it pleased him to follow in her footsteps.
So he and Bos'n walked along the grass-covered paths, between the iron-fenced "lots" of the well-to-do and the humble mounds and simple slabs where the poor were sleeping; past the sumptuous granite shaft of the Atkins lot and the tilted mossy stone which told how "Edwin Simpson, our only son," had been "accidentally shot in the West Indies"; out through the back gate and up the hill to the pine grove overlooking the bay.

Here, on a scented carpet of pine needles, they sat them down to rest and chat.
Emily, her small knees drawn up and encircled by her arms, looked out across the flats, now half covered with the rising tide.

It was a mild day, more like August than October, and there was almost no wind.

The sun was shining on the shallow water, and the sand beneath it showed yellow, checkered and marbled with dark green streaks and patches where the weed-bordered channels wound tortuously.