As I was stepping ashore, I was greeted by Mr. Bourne, who passes the summer on the island, and who hospitably asked if I were going his way. His way was toward the southern end of the island, and I said yes. His pockets were full of papers and his brow of wrinkles; so when we reached the point where he should turn off, I asked him to let me alight, although he was very anxious to carry me wherever I was going.
“I am only strolling about,” I answered, as I clambered carefully out of the wagon.
“Strolling about?” asked he, in a bewildered manner; “‘do people stroll about, now-a-days?”
“Sometimes,” I answered, smiling, as I pulled my trowsers down over my boots, for they had dragged up, as I stepped out of the wagon, “and beside, what can an old book-keeper do better in the dull season than stroll about this pleasant island, and watch the ships at sea?”
Bourne looked at me with his weary eyes.
“I’d give five thousand dollars a year for a dull season,” said he, “but as for strolling, I’ve forgotten how.”
As he spoke, his eyes wandered dreamily across the fields and woods, and were fastened upon the distant sails.
“It is pleasant,” he said musingly, and fell into silence. But I had no time to spare, so I wished him good afternoon.
“I hope your wife is well,” said Bourne to me, as I turned away. Poor Bourne! He drove on alone in his wagon.
But I made haste to the most solitary point upon the southern shore, and there sat, glad to be so near the sea. There was that warm, sympathetic silence in the air, that gives to Indian-summer days almost a human tenderness of feeling. A delicate haze, that seemed only the kindly air made visible, hung over the sea. The water lapped languidly among the rocks, and the voices of children in a boat beyond, rang musically, and gradually receded, until they were lost in the distance.