And there were
one or two super-fanatics--ranking ahead even of the fishermen and the
sand-diggers--who clung to that weird and changing region the whole year
through.
Medora Phillips' house was several miles beyond the worst of the hurly-
burly. There were no tents in sight, even in August. Nor was the honk of
the motor-horn heard even during the most tumultuous Sundays. The spot was
harder to reach than most others along the twenty miles of nicked and
ragged brim which helped enclose the wide blue area of the Big Water, but
was better worth while when you got there. Her little tract lay beyond the
more prosaic reaches that were furnished chiefly in the light green of
deciduous trees; it was part of a long stretch thickly set for miles with
the dark and sombre green of pines. Our nature-lover had taken, the year
before, a neglected and dilapidated old farmhouse and had made it into what
her friends and habitues liked to call a bungalow. The house had been put
up--in the rustic spirit which ignores all considerations of landscape and
outlook--behind a well-treed dune which allowed but the merest glimpse of
the lake; however, a walk of six or eight minutes led down to the beach,
and in the late afternoon the sun came with grand effect across the gilded
water and through the tall pine-trunks which bordered the zig-zag path.
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