over it in the sky.  It was a treacherous sea; it was wicked; it had all the trembling land in its power, if it only dared to send its great waves far ashore.  All night long the breakers roared, and the wind howled in the chimneys, and in the morning we always looked fearfully across the surf and the tossing gray water to see if the lighthouse were standing firm on its rock.  It was so slender a thing to hold its own in such a wide and monstrous sea.  But the sun came out at last, and not many days afterward we went out with Danny and Skipper Scudder to say good by to Mrs. Kew.  I have been some voyages at sea, but I never was so danced about in a little boat as I was that day.  There was nothing to fear with so careful a crew, and we only enjoyed the roughness as we went out and in, though it took much manoeuvring to land us at the island.

It was very sad work to us—­saying good by to our friends, and we tried to make believe that we should spend the next summer in Deephaven, and we meant at any rate to go down for a visit.  We were glad when the people said they should miss us, and that they hoped we should not forget them and the old place.  It touched us to find that they cared so much for us, and we said over and over again how happy we had been, and that it was such a satisfactory summer.  Kate laughingly proposed one evening, as we sat talking by the fire and were particularly contented, that we should copy the Ladies of Llangollen, and remove ourselves from society and its distractions.

“I have thought often, lately,” said my friend, “what a good time they must have had, and I feel a sympathy and friendliness for them which I never felt before.  We could have guests when we chose, as we have had this summer, and we could study and grow very wise, and what could be pleasanter?  But I wonder if we should grow very lazy if we stayed here all the year round; village life is not stimulating, and there would not be much to do in winter,—­though I do not believe that need be true; one may be busy and useful in any place.”

“I suppose if we really belonged in Deephaven we should think it a hard fate, and not enjoy it half so much as we have this summer,” said I.  “Our idea of happiness would be making long visits in Boston; and we should be heart-broken when we had to come away and leave our lunch-parties, and symphony concerts, and calls, and fairs, the reading-club and the childrens’ hospital.  We should think the people uncongenial and behind the times, and that the Ridge road was stupid and the long sands desolate; while we remembered what delightful walks we had taken out Beacon Street to the three roads, and over the Cambridge Bridge.  Perhaps we should even be ashamed of the dear old church for being so out of fashion.  We should have the blues dreadfully, and think there was no society here, and wonder why we had to live in such a town.”