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There is a sunny little house on the shores of Buzzard's Bay which remains unoccupied except for ten weeks in the summer. Its shutters are closed and fastened long before the oaks have turned to their gorgeous fall colorings or the marigolds and phlox have lost the freshness of their bloom.
The soft, salty breeze, rippling the waters, the dancing rays of the September sun through the swaying pines, give a joyous setting to this cottage by the water, courting as it were an occupant. The hardiest of that over-worked class of readers who rely upon mystery stories would find it difficult to conjure up a tragedy for such a spot. The native Cape-Codders, knowing the owners, always glance over toward the cottage as they pass by in the hope of finding a blind open or a light through the trees, to show that some of "ther fam'ly be down for Sunday."