She looked at the cranberry, then at the open door, and her eyes twinkled.  Running quickly to the threshold she peered out.  The back yard was, apparently, empty, save for a few hens belonging to near neighbors, and these had stopped scratching for a living and were huddled near the fence.

“Hum!” she mused.  “You rascal!  Eddie Snow, if it’s you, I’ll be after you in a minute.  Just because you’re big enough to quit school and drive store wagon is no reason why I can’t—­Hey?  Oh!”

She was looking down below the door, which opened outward and was swung partly back on its hinges.  From under the door projected a boot, a man’s boot and one of ample size.

Keziah’s cheeks, already red from the heat of the stove, reddened still more.  Her lips twitched and her eyes sparkled.

“Hum!” she said again.  “They say you can tell the Old Scratch by his footprints, even if you can’t smell the sulphur.  Anyhow, you can tell a Hammond by the size of his boots.  Come out from behind that door this minute.  Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”

The owner of the boot stepped forth from behind the door and seized her by both hands.

“Halloo, Keziah!” he cried joyfully.  “My, but it’s good to see you.”

“Halloo, Nat!” said Keziah heartily.  “It’s kind of good to see you, too.”

The rest of him was in keeping with his boots.  He was big and broad-shouldered and bearded.  His face, above the beard, was tanned to a deep reddish brown, and the corners of his eyes were marked with dozens of tiny wrinkles.  He was dressed in blue cloth and wore a wide-brimmed, soft felt hat.  He entered the kitchen and tossed the hat into a corner.

“Well!” he exclaimed.  “Why don’t you act surprised to see a feller?  Here I’ve been cruisin’ from the Horn to Barnegat and back again, and you act as if I’d just dropped in to fetch the cup of molasses I borrowed yesterday.  What do you mean by it?”

“Oh, I heard you’d made port.”

“Did, hey?  That’s Trumet, sure pop.  You ain’t the only one.  I sneaked off acrost lots so’s to dodge the gang of neighbors that I knew would be sailin’ into our yard, the whole fleet loaded to the gunwale with questions.  Wanted to see you first, Keziah.”

“Yes.  So, instead of callin’ like a Christian, you crept up the back way and threw cranberries at me.  Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“Not a mite.”  He took a handful of the frostbitten berries from his coat pocket and inspected them lovingly.  “Ain’t they fine?” he asked, crunching two or three between his teeth.  “I picked ’em up as I came along.  I tell you, that’s the home taste, all right.”

“Don’t eat those frozen things.  They’ll give you your never-get-over.”

“What?  Cape Cod cranberries!  Never in the world.  I’d rather eat sand down here than the finest mug my steward can cook.  Tell you what I’ll do, though; I’ll swear off on the cranberries if you’ll give me a four-inch slice of that pie I saw you put in the oven.  Dried-apple, I’ll bet my sou’wester.  Think you might ask a feller to sit down.  Ain’t you glad to see me?”