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?"

Mrs. Coffin pulled forward one of the kitchen chairs. He seated himself
on it and it groaned under his weight.

"Whew!" he whistled. "Never made to stand rough weather, was it? Well,
AIN'T you glad?"

Keziah looked at him gravely.

"You know I'm glad, Nat," she said.