“But it’s all true about the women of Marblehead?”
“Oh, yes, they used to be a rather queer lot. Their husbands were off at sea so much that they had to look out for themselves, and this made them very mannish. Their short skirts and queer head-dresses came down to them, I suppose, from their French ancestors,—the first settlers are said to have come from the Island of Jersey, and that’s where they got many of their strange words. They say that it’s almost impossible to understand some of the old people now. By the way, Floyd Ireson’s house is standing,” said Amy. “I can show it to you soon. It is n’t as old as some of the other houses, but strangers always want to see it. It was in the very early years of this century that Skipper Ireson lived.”
During this conversation the girls had been walking very slowly through the old streets, and while Nora was reciting the verses about Agnes Surriage, they had come to a complete stop leaning against the fence in front of an old garden. Only one or two persons passed them while they stood there, and no one seemed surprised at their actions. A white-bearded old man hobbled by, leaning on a cane, and an old woman passed along, wearing a black shawl and a large scoop bonnet, such as one would never see in any place but Marblehead. A dog-cart with two young people, evidently summer residents, clattered through the street; an electric car whirled down Washington Street, toward which they were walking, and these were chief signs of life in that part of the sleepy old town where they found themselves.
