porch, gay flowers in the garden, and the blue Atlantic rolling up at the foot of the cliff.
"A regular 'Cottage by the Sea.' It will suit me exactly if I can have that front upper room. I don't mind being alone, so have my trunk taken down, please, and I'll get ready for tea," said I, congratulating myself on my good luck. Alas, how little I knew what a night of terror I was to pass in that picturesque abode!
An hour later, refreshed by my tea and invigorated by the delicious coolness, I plunged recklessly into the gayeties of the season, and accepted two invitations for the evening, one to a stroll on Sunset Hill, the other to a clam-bake on the beach.
The stroll came first, and while my friend paused at one of the fishily-fragrant houses by the way, to interview her washerwoman, I went on to the hill top, where a nautical old gentleman with a spy-glass, welcomed me with the amiable remark,—
"Pretty likely place for a prospeck."
Entering into a conversation with this ancient mariner, I asked if he knew any legend or stories concerning the old houses all about us.
