Neither Mrs. Dempster nor Miranda understood the enthusiasm of Miss Sullivan for storms and breakers. There were several things they would rather do than venture out next morning: the chief of which was to stay at home. Old Dempster looked uneasily at the cloud-drift. The wind was as furious as ever, but the rain came only in keen showers. “These ’ere sou’-easters,” said he, “never last long at this time o’ the year. It’ll be clear as moonshine by long about noon. But ef you’ve got your mind set on goin’ out, I’ll rig you out so you’ll be dry as a rooster. Dan’l, go down to the mill an’ bring up them short overhauls.” Dan’l brought up a great coat of yellow, oiled canvas, and a tarpaulin with a flap like the tail of a Barbary sheep. Mrs. Dempster supplied a pair of Dan’l’s fishing boots, outgrown by him in one bare-footed summer, but still impervious. Miss Sullivan, a person very critical in her toilet, hesitated a little at this unaccustomed attire. However, it was the sensible style. Miranda aided her in encasing herself. Stiffish were both overhauls and boots; stiffness itself, at the first interview. When they returned to the kitchen to stand inspection, a sound was heard as if the kettle of dried apples boiling on the stove had suddenly bubbled and sputtered over. It was Dan’l, utterly unable to control his laughter. He immediately disappeared, and was heard in the wood-shed endeavouring to whistle, but constantly breaking down into a snicker. “Poor Dan’l!” said Miss Sullivan; “I must look very droll, indeed.” “Wal,” said Mrs. Dempster, “you are kind er like my idee of a Mormon--I mean one o’ them folks in the pictures with gals’ heads an’ more like a codfish to the other end. Now if one o’ them gals should make herself decent with a set of overhauls--an’ massy knows she wants suthin’ to cover her--she’d look jest as pooty as you do. Wouldn’t she, old man?” To avoid other comparisons as complimentary to mermen or maids, Miss Sullivan ran from her circle of amused admirers and, passing among the pathless cucumber vines of the little garden, began awkwardly to climb the fence that kept any amphibious rodent monster of the deep from predatory excursions among the radishes and hollyhocks. Beyond the garden, a thicket of wild fruit vines nearly closed the shoreward path. Drops of rain hung heavy, crushing the bushes with pearly wreaths. A few raspberries were only waiting one sunny day to take their dull purple crimson of ripeness. It was wet work to penetrate by the obliterated path. Miss Sullivan, however, crowded steadily forward.