There might be vinegar-pots to be found in her larder, but they were kept behind closed doors and sampled only when she was alone.

As she sat looking out to sea, Max's brain still at work on the problem of her unusual mood, a schooner shifted her mainsail in the light breeze and set her course for the inlet.
"That's the regular weekly packet," Max ventured.

"She's making for Farguson's ship-yard.

She runs between Amboy and Barnegat--Captain Ambrose Farguson sails her." At times like these any topic was good enough to begin on.
"How do you know ?" Lucy asked, looking at the incoming schooner from under her half-closed lids.

The voice came like the thin piping of a flute preceding the orchestral crash, merely sounded so as to let everybody know it was present.
"One of my carriages was shipped by her.