Back of them rose splendid elms and the delicate spire
of a church, and from the unruffled surface of the harbor the masts of
many fishing-boats. Across the water, on a grass-grown point, a
whitewashed light-house blushed in the crimson glory of the sun. Except
for an oyster-man in his boat at the end of the wharf, and the smoke
from the chimney of his cottage, the little village slept, the harbor
slept. It was a picture of perfect content, confidence, and peace. "Oh!"
cried the Lady Moya, "how pretty, how pretty!"
Lord Ivy swung the bow about and raced toward the wharf. The others
stood up and cheered hysterically.
At the sound and at the sight of us emerging so mysteriously from the
fog, the man in the fishing-boat raised himself to his full height and
stared as incredulously as though he beheld a mermaid. He was an old
man, but straight and tall, and the oysterman's boots stretching to his
hips made him appear even taller than he was. He had a bristling white
beard and his face was tanned to a fierce copper color, but his eyes
were blue and young and gentle. They lit suddenly with excitement and
sympathy.
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