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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
12
Beside
her,
after
much
difficulty,
I
recognized
the
one
strange
and
unrelated
person
in
all
the
company,
an
old
man
who
had
always
been
mysterious
to
me.
I
could
see
his
thin,
bending
figure.
He
wore
a
narrow,
long-tailed
coat
and
walked
with
a
stick,
and
had
the
same
“cant
to
leeward”
as
the
wind-bent
trees
on
the
height
above.
This
was
Captain
Littlepage,
whom
I
had
seen
only
once
or
twice
before,
sitting
pale
and
old
behind
a
closed
window;
never
out
of
doors
until
now.
Mrs.
Todd
always
shook
her
head
gravely
when
I
asked
a
question,
and
said
that
he
wasn't
what
he
had
been
once,
and
seemed
to
class
him
with
her
other
secrets.
He
might
have
belonged
with
a
simple
which
grew
in
a
certain
slug-haunted
corner
of
the
garden,
whose
use
she
could
never
be
betrayed
into
telling
me,
though
I
saw
her
cutting
the
tops
by
moonlight
once,
as
if
it
were
a
charm,
and
not
a
medicine,
like
the
great
fading
bloodroot
leaves.
I
could
see
that
she
was
trying
to
keep
pace
with
the
old
captain's
lighter
steps.
He
looked
like
an
aged
grasshopper
of
some
strange
human
variety.
Behind
this
pair
was
a
short,
impatient,
little
person,
who
kept
the
captain's
house,
and
gave
it
what
Mrs.
Todd
and
others
believed
to
be
no
proper
sort
of
care.
She
was
usually
called
“that
Mari'
Harris”
in
subdued
conversation
between
intimates,
but
they
treated
her
with
anxious
civility
when
they
met
her
face
to
face.
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