Wherever she turned Fair Harbor spoke of him.

The golf-links; the bathing beach; the ugly corner in the main street where he always reminded her that it was better to go slow for ten seconds than to remain a long time dead; the old house on the stone wharf where the schooners made fast, which he intended to borrow for his honeymoon; the wooden trough where they always drew rein to water the ponies; the pond into which he had waded to bring her lilies.
On the second day of her stay she found she was passing these places purposely, that to do so she was going out of her way.

They no longer distressed her, but gave her a strange comfort.

They were old friends, who had known her in the days when she was rich in happiness.
But the secret hiding-place--their very own hiding-place, the opening among the pines that overhung the jumble of rocks and the sea--she could not bring herself to visit.

And then, on the afternoon of the third day when she was driving alone toward the lighthouse, her pony, of his own accord, from force of habit, turned smartly into the wood road.