The cabin formerly occupied by Hosea Westcott was well above the
tide, was, or could be made, perfectly dry, was roughly, if not
comfortably furnished, and offered the girl a shelter in which she
thought she would be safe.
To one who had spent such weary months in a narrow room in a Hanover
Street lodging house, going in and out with speech with scarcely any
one save the person to whom she paid her weekly dole of rent, there
could be no loneliness in a place like this, where the surf soughed
continually in one's ear, a hundred feathered forms flashed by in an
hour, sails dotted the dimpling sea, and the strand itself was
spread thick with many varieties of nature's wonders.
During the summer and early fall, Sheila had become a splendid
oarswoman. In a skiff belonging to little John-Ed which was drawn up
on the sands not far from the cabin she had paddled out through the
narrow neck of the tiny cove's entrance and pulled bravely through
the surf and out upon the sea beyond. She had learned more than a
bit of sea lore, too, from Cap'n Ira and Tunis. And regarding the
edible shellfish to be found along the beaches, she was well
informed.
If an old man such as Hosea Westcott, feeble and spent, no doubt,
could pick up a living here, why could not she? Sheila did not fear
starvation.
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