A prominent link in society was Widow Tully, who had been the much-respected housekeeper of old Captain Manning for forty years.  When he died he left her the use of his house and family pew, besides an annuity.  The existence of Mr. Tully seemed to be a myth.  During the first of his widow’s residence in town she had been much affected when obliged to speak of him, and always represented herself as having seen better days and as being highly connected.  But she was apt to be ungrammatical when excited, and there was a whispered tradition that she used to keep a toll-bridge in a town in Connecticut; though the mystery of her previous state of existence will probably never be solved.  She wore mourning for the captain which would have befitted his widow, and patronized the townspeople conspicuously, while she herself was treated with much condescension by the Carews and Lorimers.  She occupied, on the whole, much the same position that Mrs. Betty Barker did in Cranford.  And, indeed, Kate and I were often reminded of that estimable town.  We heard that Kate’s aunt, Miss Brandon, had never been appreciative of Mrs. Tully’s merits, and that since her death the others had received Mrs. Tully into their society rather more.

It seemed as if all the clocks in Deephaven, and all the people with them, had stopped years ago, and the people had been doing over and over what they had been busy about during the last week of their unambitious progress.  Their clothes had lasted wonderfully well, and they had no need to earn money when there was so little chance to spend it; indeed, there were several families who seemed to have no more visible means of support than a balloon.  There were no young people whom we knew, though a number used to come to church on Sunday from the inland farms, or “the country,” as we learned to say.  There were children among the fishermen’s families at the shore, but a few years will see Deephaven possessed by two classes instead of the time-honored three.

As for our first Sunday at church, it must be in vain to ask you to imagine our delight when we heard the tuning of a bass-viol in the gallery just before service.  We pressed each other’s hands most tenderly, looked up at the singers’ seats, and then trusted ourselves to look at each other.  It was more than we had hoped for.  There were also a violin and sometimes a flute, and a choir of men and women singers, though the congregation were expected to join in the psalm-singing.  The first hymn was

    “The Lord our God is full of might,
    The winds obey his will,”

to the tune of St. Ann’s.  It was all so delightfully old-fashioned; our pew was a square pew, and was by an open window looking seaward.  We also had a view of the entire congregation, and as we were somewhat early, we watched the people come in, with great interest.  The Deephaven aristocracy came with stately step up the aisle; this was all the chance there was for displaying their unquestioned dignity in public.