ning above the sound of the waves as the sand
slips away. And I mustn't forget "Handkerchief Moody," who gave
Hawthorne his idea for the "Minister's Black Veil"; but he was real and
neither ghost nor legend.

There's a modern York, too, and so much of it that you might almost miss
the old if you didn't know. Lots of interesting people have stayed
there: Mr. Howells, and Mark Twain, and your beloved Thomas Nelson Page
among the rest, but beyond their zone is the zone of the tiny toy
cottages, the crowded boarding-houses, the snub-nosed Lord motor cars
rolling along the beach close to the rolling waves, and beginning to
sink in the sand if they stop. Beyond again, woods which might be
primeval, broken with farms as hidden away in their midst as those of
the early settlers; here and there a pile of fragrant cut timber; now
and then a few hayricks, in fields surrounded by vast tracts of
pineland. Jack and I began to think we were on the most beautiful road
yet.

We lunched at Ogonquit, beloved of artists, and then fell so in love
with it ourselves that we stayed all the rest of the day and all night,
too. It's a fishing village, but you don't stop in the village. You
stop under the wing of a large gray, mother-bird-looking hotel close to
the shore, and away from everything else. On one side there is a cove
with shiny brown rocks so thinly trimmed with grass that they look
like a suit of giant armour showing through a ragged green cloak. On
the other side is sea, blue by day as if it flowed over bluebell
fields--strangely blue as it sweeps up to embrace the rose and golden
sands, the apricot pink sands. Toward evening these sands were covered
with gulls, lying thick as white petals shaken down from invisible
orchards. And the mourning cry of the sea-birds was as constant and
never ending as the sea-murmur. We forgot we heard it! But suddenly, as
night fell, we remembered, because the crying ceased as if it obeyed a
signal for silence. No sooner had it stopped than the moon blossomed out
from the sea-mist like a huge rose unfolding behind a scarf of blue
gauze. We _were_ glad we had stayed!

Next morning we atoned for lost time by getting up early and starting on
again: a pretty road through the village of Wells, with the sea in the
distance. All the farmhouses seemed to take summer boarders or give
meals, and sell vegetables or something. They showed nice enticing
samples at their gates: strawberries, green peas, honeycom