Joe held his head stiffly because of his linen collar. He wore a blue suit much too large for him, but it was
spotless. He took the umbrella from behind the door. It was distinctly not worthy of the occasion, although it
was entirely serviceable. Still, it was large, and greenish-black, and bulged determinedly from its mooring of
rubber at the top.
Martha, as they walked along, looked uncomfortably at the umbrella. "Can't ye roll the umbrell' up tight, the
way I see 'em?" she inquired.
Joe stopped, unfastened the rubber strap, and essayed to roll it. It was in vain. "The umbrell' is too thick," he
said. "No use, Marthy. It's a good umbrell'. If it showers it will keep it off, but I can't make it look slim."
"Well, don't show it any more than you can help," admonished Martha.
Joe henceforth carried the umbrella between himself and Martha. It continually collided with their legs, but
Martha's black-silk skirt flopped over its green voluminousness and it was comparatively unseen.
"I declare; it does seem like showerin'," said Joe.
"You said it was a dry moon."
"Ef thar's anything in nature to be depended on least of anything else it's a dry moon," said Joe, with an air of
completely absolving himself from all responsibility in the matter of the moon.
"Of course in such hot weather nobody can tell when a thunder-tempest is goin' to come up," said Martha. She
was extremely uncomfortable in her tight black raiment. Drops of perspiration stood on her forehead.
"If we were goin' anywhere else I'd take off my gloves," said she.
"Well, Marthy, long as it's the first time this year, reckon you'd better stand it, if you can," returned Joe. "My
collar is about chokin' me, but it's the first time this year we're goin' there, you know, Marthy."
"That's just the way I feel," agreed Martha.
The sun beat upon their heads. "Ef the umbrell' was a little better-lookin' I'd h'ist her," said Joe.
"Now, Joe, you know you can't."
"I know it, Marthy. I can't."
They were now in the midst of a gay, heterogeneous Sunday throng. The church-bells were ringing. A set of
chimes outpealed the rest. Elegantly arrayed people -- the ladies holding brilliant parasols at all angles above
their heads crowned with plumes and flowers; the gentlemen in miraculously creased trousers, many of them
moving with struts, swinging sticks -- met and went their way. The road was filled with a never-ending
procession of motor-cars, carriages, horses, and riders. Barr-by-the-Sea was displaying her charms like a
beauty at a ball.
Many were bound for church; more for pleasure. There were country people dressed in cheap emulation of the
wealthy, carrying baskets with luncheon, who had come to Barr-by-the-Sea to spend Sunday and have an
outing. They were silent, foolishly observant, and awed by the splendors around them.
Joe Dickson and his wife Martha moved as the best of them. There was no subserviency in them. They had
imbibed the wide freedom and lordliness of the sea, and at any time moved among equals; but to-day their