At this time I was ten years old.

We lived in a New England village, Surrey, which was situated on an inlet of a large bay that opened into the Atlantic.

From the observatory of our house we could see how the inlet was pinched by the long claws of the land, which nearly enclosed it.

Opposite the village, some ten miles across, a range of islands shut out the main waters of the bay.

For miles on the outer side of the curving prongs of land stretched a rugged, desolate coast, indented with coves and creeks, lined with bowlders of granite half sunken in the sea, and edged by beaches overgrown with pale sedge, or covered with beds of seaweed.