to be severe or captious; such feelings
should be left to maiden ladies of an age that I have not yet dreamed of
reaching. But a married woman who hankers after any other man's society
than that of her own lawful husband is--well, not to speak harshly, an
example that some people may follow, but I won't.

This morning, as we sat on the long stoop of the hotel, gazing out on
the broad expanse of the boundless ocean, Mr. Burke came gently to my
side, and spoke:

"Miss Frost."

My heart beat; my eyelids dropped, but I lifted them, in shy innocence,
to his face, inquiringly, wistfully. What would he say next?

"Miss Frost, have you ever seen a clam-bake?"

I reflected a moment. Were clam-bakes indigenous to our Vermont soil?
Were they a product of the mountains, or a spontaneous growth of the
river vales?

"I do not think I have ever seen them growing in Vermont," says I, at
last; "yet there are few roots or vegetables, wild or tame, that I don't
know something about. There is wake-robin, on the mountains, with its
spokes of red berries; and snake-root, and adder's-tongue; but I don't
remember clam-bakes among them, and I know they are not cultivated in
our parts as garden-sas, I beg pardon, as vegetables."

Mr. Burke smiled out loud, and his black mustache curled down on each
side of his lips delightfully.

"I fancy you have never seen anything of the kind in Vermont. Clam-bakes
are only found at the sea-side--principally around Rhode Island. I don't
think they prevail much in the mountains, as yet."

"You don't say so!" says I. "Then they are a salt-water plant?"

"Principally found in the sand and mud."

"That don't seem to me very remarkable," says I; "most vegetables are
found in one or the other. Watermelons, for instance, grow best in a
bare sand-bank: perhaps your new-fangled vegetable is of that species?"

Again his black mustache gave a lovely curl, and his black eyes looked
into mine so tenderly, as if something I had said tickled him almost to
death.

"You _are_ an original creature," said he.

I put one hand on my heart, and bowed.

"People about Sprucehill, especially the Society of Infinite Progress,
have done me the honor to think so," says I.

"But about the clam-bake--if you like it, we must start for Pleasure Bay
at once," says Mr. Burke.

"Do they grow down there?" says I.

"Not as a general thing, but we shall make out to get one up, with a
little trouble."

"Do they grow so dee