“Oh, no, I ’ve never set foot in Marblehead; but I know that Elbridge Gerry was born there, and Joseph Story, and Commodore Tucker, and Moll Pitcher, and Agnes Surriage, and a large number of Massachusetts fishermen—”
“Did you have a guide-book under your pillow last night?” asked Julia quietly, with a sly glance at Brenda.
“There,” he said, “that is exactly it; the guide-book has done it all.”
“I thought I saw you reading it last evening. Uncle Robert said that he was going to bring one down from town, and when I saw him give you a yellowish pamphlet last evening I thought that it had a guide-book look.”
“Nevertheless,” said Mr. Weston, “I left it at home. I really do prefer human guides. Suppose you take me to some place where you have n’t been yourself. Did n’t you say that you had n’t been on the old burying-hill. It always delights me to read odd epitaphs. Perhaps we may find some worth smiling at.”
Accordingly, they climbed the rocky hill, which is on the outskirts of the town, but a short distance from many of the old houses.
“What a superb view!” and Mr. Weston threw back his head and shoulders to get a deeper draught of the fresh air at the summit.
“Is n’t that south, off there?” asked Brenda, pointing off toward the sea.
“Yes, it certainly is,” answered Julia.
“Then that must be the South Shore that we see, that blue line off there in the distance.”
