“Where in the world did he get that ugly, brown, stiff hat?” she demanded.  “It doesn’t look like anything that ever grew on land or sea.”

Primmie hitched up her apron strings, a habit she had.

“’Twould have been a better job,” she observed, “if that camel thing he was tellin’ you about had stole that hat instead of his other shirt.  Don’t you think so, Miss Martha?”

Meanwhile Galusha, ignorant of the comments concerning his appearance, was strolling blithely along the road.  His first idea had been to visit the lighthouse, his next to walk to the village.  He had gone but a short distance, however, when another road branching off to the right suggested itself as a compromise.  He took the branch road.

It wound in and out among the little hills which he had noticed from the windows and from the yard of the Phipps’ house.  It led past a little pond, hidden between two of those hills.  Then it led to the top of another hill, the highest so far, and from that point Galusha paused to look about him.

From the hilltop the view was much the same, but more extensive.  The ocean filled the whole eastern horizon, a shimmering, moving expanse of blue and white, with lateral stretches of light and dark green.  To the south were higher hills, thickly wooded.  Between his own hill and those others was a small grove of pines and, partially hidden by it, a weather-beaten building with a steeple, its upper half broken off.  The building, Galusha guessed, was an abandoned church.  Now an old church in the country suggested, naturally, an old churchyard.  Toward the building with half a steeple Mr. Bangs started forthwith.

There was a churchyard, an ancient, grass-grown burying ground, with slate gravestones and weather-worn tombs.  There were a few new stones, gleaming white and conspicuous, but only a few.  Galusha’s trained eye, trained by his unusual pastime of college days, saw at once that the oldest stones must date from early colonial times.  Very likely there might be some odd variations of the conventional carvings, almost certainly some quaint and interesting inscriptions.  It would, of course, be but tame sport for one of the world’s leading Egyptologists, but to Galusha Cabot Bangs research was research, and while some varieties were better than others, none was bad.  A moment later he was on his knees before the nearest gravestone.  It was an old stone and the inscription and carving were interesting.  Time paused there and then for Galusha.

What brought him from the dead past to the living present was the fact that his hat blew off.  The particular stone which he was examining at the moment was on the top of a little knoll and, as Galusha clambered up and stooped, the breeze, which had increased in force until it was a young gale, caught the brown derby beneath its brim and sent it flying.  He scrambled after it, but it dodged his clutch and rolled