THE SOUTH BAY. 161 



THE SOUTH BAT. 



ONE cloudless day in the fervid month of July, a 

 handsome, bright-eyed youth of something over 

 twenty summers, opened the gate of the little yard 

 in front of Deacon Goodlow's house and strode with 

 an elastic step towards the side door. He was evi- 

 dently at home and felt no need of ceremony, for 

 without pausing to knock he turned the knob and 

 entered. 



The deacon's house was one of those innumerable 

 romantic little white cottages with wings added after 

 the main structure, that dot the flat surface of Long 

 Island, or Mattowacs, as the poetical Indians once 

 elegantly named the wonderful sand-bar; it was 

 hidden in trees and almost covered with vines, and 

 had an air of superiority and taste somewhat un- 

 usual. 



"Well, Katy," said Harry, addressing a sprightly, 

 rosy-cheeked maiden that he encountered inside, 

 busy at some pottering woman's work ; " what do 

 you think, now ? Your father and mine are going 

 fishing to-day. I left them talking it over, and 

 arranging that they were to drive over in your 

 father's buggy, as our solitary horse is needed for 

 other purpose." 



" I am glad of it, Harry ; Mr. Hartley takes too 



