tunity for informing myself about historic places. It’s Norman’s Woe we ’re to see to-day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Well, now can you tell me what Norman’s Woe is distinguished for?”
“Why, Longfellow wrote a poem about it. Don’t you remember?
“‘Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax.’
Surely you remember how the Skipper and his daughter drifted on
“‘fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow’rds the reef of Norman’s Woe.’”
“Don’t recite in that tragic tone; we don’t wish to be too sad to-day. You ’ll have to be as cheerful as possible, so that I may have something pleasant to remember when I go back to Europe,” said the irrepressible Mr. Weston. “You should retain pleasant memories, too, of your last pilgrimage, for I don’t suppose that you ’ll have the heart for anything more of the kind when I am no longer with you.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” replied Brenda; “we ’re just getting into the proper mood for such expeditions.”
“All ready,” cried Edith, coming around the corner of the house on the front seat of the beach-wagon.
“Yes, here we are,” and “here we are,”—and from various nooks and corners appeared Julia and Evelyn Romney, one of Edith’s friends, and Tom and Philip, and
