"Oh, make it half-past three," I rejoined recklessly, in a burst of self-sacrifice. At least I would not spoke our wheels by slothfulness. The clock was set accordingly, and I went to sleep enveloped in virtue as in a garment, the sound of the sea in my ears. * * * * * _Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r!_ What _has_ happened? Oh, the alarm clock! It can't be more than twelve o'clock. I hear the spit of a match, then "Half-past three," from Jonathan. "No!" I protest. "Yes," he persists, and though his voice is still veiled in sleep, I detect in it a firmness to which I foresee I shall yield. My virtue of last night has faded completely, but his zeal is fast colors. I am ready to back out, but, dimly remembering my Spartan attitude of the night before, I don't dare. Thus are we enslaved by our virtues. I submit, with only one word of comment--"And we call this pleasure!" To which Jonathan wisely makes no response. We groped our way downstairs, lighted another candle, and sleepily devoured some sandwiches and milk--a necessary but cheerless process, with all the coziness of the night before conspicuously left out. We heard the carriage being brought up outside, we snatched up our wraps,--sweaters, shawls, coats,--Jonathan picked up the valise with the hunting equipment, we blew out the candles, and went out into the chilly darkness. As our eyes became accustomed to the change, we perceived that the sky was not quite black, but gray, and that the stars were fewer than in the real night. We got in, tucked ourselves up snugly, and started off down the road stretching faintly before us. The horse's steps sounded very loud, and echoed curiously against the silent houses as we passed. As we went on, the sky grew paler, here and there in the houses a candle gleamed, in the barnyards a lantern flashed--the farmer was astir. Yes, dawn was really coming. After a few miles we turned off the main highway to take the rut road through the great marsh. The smell of the salt flats was about us, and the sound of the sea was growing more clear again. A big bird whirred off from the marsh close beside us. "Meadowlark," murmured Jonathan. Another little one, with silent, low flight, then more. "Sandpipers," he commented; "we don't want them." The patient horse plodded along, now in damp marsh soil, now in dry, deep sand, to the hitching-place by an old barn on the cliff. As we pulled up, Jonathan took a little bottle out of his pocket and handed it to me. "Better put it on now," he said. "What is it?" I asked. "Tar and sweet oil--for the mosquitoes." I smelled of it with suspicion. It was a dark, gummy liquid. "I think I prefer the mosquitoes." "You do!" said Jonathan. "You'll think again pretty soon. Here, let me have it." He had tied the horse and blanketed him, and now proceeded to smear himself with the stuff--face, neck, hands. "You needn't look at me that way!" he remarked genially; "you'll be doing it yourself soon. Just wait."