own her white teeth all round at such a
suggestion, and said, "Now, Mara, who but you would have thought of
that?"

But there are souls sent into this world who seem to have always
mysterious affinities for the invisible and the unknown--who see the
face of everything beautiful through a thin veil of mystery and sadness.
The Germans call this yearning of spirit home-sickness--the dim
remembrances of a spirit once affiliated to some higher sphere, of whose
lost brightness all things fair are the vague reminders. As Mara looked
pensively into the water, it seemed to her that every incident of life
came up out of its depths to meet her. Her own face reflected in a
wavering image, sometimes shaped itself to her gaze in the likeness of
the pale lady of her childhood, who seemed to look up at her from the
waters with dark, mysterious eyes of tender longing. Once or twice this
dreamy effect grew so vivid that she shivered, and drawing herself up
from the water, tried to take an interest in a very minute account which
Mrs. Kittridge was giving of the way to make corn-fritters which should
taste exactly like oysters. The closing direction about the quantity of
mace Mrs. Kittridge felt was too sacred for common ears, and therefore
whispered it into Mrs. Pennel's bonnet with a knowing nod and a look
from her black spectacles which would not have been bad for a priestess
of Dodona in giving out an oracle. In this secret direction about the
_mace_ lay the whole mystery of corn-oysters; and who can say what
consequences might ensue from casting it in an unguarded manner before
the world?

And now the boat which has rounded Harpswell Point is skimming across to
the head of Middle Bay, where the new ship can distinctly be discerned
standing upon her ways, while moving clusters of people were walking up
and down her decks or lining the shore in the vicinity. All sorts of
gossiping and neighborly chit-chat is being interchanged in the little
world assembling there.

"I hain't seen the Pennels nor the Kittridges yet," said Aunt Ruey,
whose little roly-poly figure was made illustrious in her best
cinnamon-colored dyed silk. "There's Moses Pennel a-goin' up that ar
ladder. Dear me, what a beautiful feller he is! it's a pity he ain't
a-goin' to marry Mara Lincoln, after all."

"Ruey, do hush up," said Miss Roxy, frowning sternly down from under the
shadow of a preternatural black straw bonnet, trimmed with huge bows of
black ribbon, whi