pit of sand narrowing the inlet, its edges scalloped with lace
foam, its extreme point dominated by the grim tower of Barnegat Light;
aloft, high into the blue, soared the gulls, flashing like jewels as
they lifted their breasts to the sun, while away and beyond the sails
of the fishing-boats, gray or silver in their shifting tacks, crawled
over the wrinkled sea.

The glory of the landscape fixed in her mind, Martha gathered her shawl
about her shoulders, tightened the strings of her white cap, smoothed
out her apron, and with the remark to Meg that he'd "never see nothin'
so beautiful nor so restful," resumed her walk.

They were inseparable, these two, and had been ever since the day she
had picked him up outside the tavern, half starved and with a sore
patch on his back where some kitchen-maid had scalded him. Somehow the
poor outcast brought home to her a sad page in her own history, when
she herself was homeless and miserable, and no hand was stretched out
to her. So she had coddled and fondled him, gaining his confidence day
by day and talking to him by the hour of whatever was uppermost in her
mind.

Few friendships presented stronger contrasts: She stout and
motherly-looking--too stout for any waistline--with kindly blue eyes,
smooth gray hair--gray, not white--her round, rosy face, framed in a
cotton cap, aglow with the freshness of the morning--a comforting,
coddling-up kind of woman of fifty, with a low, crooning voice, gentle
fingers, and soft, restful hollows about her shoulders and bosom for
the heads of tired babies; Meg thin, rickety, and sneak-eyed, with a
broken tail that hung at an angle, and but one ear (a black-and-tan had
ruined the other)--a sandy-colored, rough-haired, good-for-nothing cur
of multifarious lineage, who was either crouching at her feet or in
full cry for some hole in a fence or rift in a wood-pile where he could
flatten out and sulk in safety.

Martha continued her talk to Meg. While she had been studying the
landscape he had taken the opportunity to wallow in whatever came
first, and his wet hair was bristling with sand and matted with burrs.

"Come here, Meg--you measly rascal!" she cried, stamping her foot.
"Come here, I tell ye!"

The dog crouched close to the ground, waited until Martha was near
enough to lay her hand upon him, and then, with a backward spring,
darted under a bush in full blossom.

"Look at ye now!" she shouted in a commanding tone. "'Tain't no use o'