"She'll whoop for you at any time; proud to," continued Hollis. "Well, after the song was over, Mother Drone she sat back in her chair, and she loosened her cap-strings on the sly. Says she: 'I hope the girls won't see me doing this, Mr. Hollis; they think tarlatan strings tied under the chin for a widow are so sweet. I told them I'd been a widow fifteen years without 'em; but they say, now they've grown up, I ought to have strings for their sakes, and be more prominent. Is Idora out on the steps with Wolf Roth? Would you mind peeking?' So I peeked. But Wolf Roth was there alone. 'He don't look dangerous,' I remarked, when I'd loped back. Says she: 'He'd oughter, then. And he would, too, if he knew it was me he sees when he comes serenading. I tap the girls on the shoulder: 'Girls? Wolf Roth and his guitar!' But you might as well tap the seven sleepers! So I have to cough, and I have to glimp, and Wolf Roth--he little thinks it's ma'am!"

"Oh, what is glimp?" said Cicely, still laughing.

"It's showing a light through the blinds, very faint and shy," answered Hollis.

_"'Thou know'st the mask of night is on me face,_ _Else would a maid-en blush bepaint me cheek,'"_

he quoted, gravely. "That's about the size of it, I guess."

Having drawn the last smile from Cicely, he went off to his tent, and presently he and the judge started for the nearest trout-brook together.

Paul came up from the beach. "There's an Indian village two miles above here, Cicely; do you care to have a look at it? I could take you and Miss Bruce in the little canoe."

But Cicely was tired: often now, after a sudden fit of merriment (which seemed to be a return, though infinitely fainter, of her old wild moods), she would look exhausted. "I think I will swing in the hammock,"

she said.

"Will you go, then, Miss Bruce?" Paul asked, carelessly.

"Thanks; I have something to do."

Half an hour later, Paul having gone off by himself, she was sitting on a fallen tree on the sh.o.r.e, at some distance from the tents, when his canoe glided suddenly into view, coming round a near point; he beached it and sprang ash.o.r.e.

"You surely have not had time to go to that village?" she said, rising.

"Did I say I was going alone? Apparently what you had to do was not so very important," he added, smiling.

"Yes, I was occupied," she answered.

"We can go still, if you like; there is time."

"Thank you;--no."

Paul gave her a look. She fancied that she saw in it regret. "Is it very curious--your village? Perhaps it would be amusing, after all."

He helped her into the canoe, and the next moment they were gliding up the lake. The village was a temporary one, twenty or thirty wigwams in a grove. Only the women and children were at home, the sweet-voiced young squaws in their calico skirts and blankets, the queer little mummy-like pappooses, the half-naked children. They brought out bows and arrows to sell, agates which they had found on the beach, Indian sugar in little birch-bark boxes, quaintly ornamented.

"Tell them to gather some bluebells for me," said Eve. Her face had an expression of joyousness; every now and then she laughed like a merry girl.

Paul repeated her request in the Chippewa tongue, and immediately all the black-eyed children sallied forth, returning with large bunches of the fragile-stemmed flowers, so that Eve's hands were full. She lingered, sitting on the side of an old canoe; she distributed all the small coins she had. Finally they were afloat again; she wondered who had suggested it. "There's a gleam already," she said, as they pa.s.sed Jupiter Light. "Some day I should like to go out there."

"I can take you now," Paul answered. And he sent the canoe flying towards the reef.

She had made no protest. "He wished to go," she said to herself, contentedly.

The distance was greater than she had supposed; it was twilight when they reached the miniature beach.

"Shall we make them let us in, and climb up to the top?" suggested Paul.

She laughed. "No; better not."

She looked up at the tower. Paul, standing beside her, his arms folded, his head thrown back, was looking up also. "I can't see the least light from here," he said. Then again, "_Don't_ you want to go up?"

"Well--if you like."

It was dark within; a man came down with a lantern, and preceded them up the narrow winding stairway. When they reached the top they could see nothing but the interior of the little room; so down they came again, without even saying the usual things: about the probable queerness of life in such a place; and whether any one could really like it; and that some persons might be found who would consider it an ideal residence and never wish to come away. Though their stay had been so short, their going up so aimless, the expedition did not seem to Eve at all stupid; in her eyes it had the air of an exciting adventure.

"They will be wondering where we are," said Paul, as he turned the canoe homeward. She did not answer, it was sweet to her to sit there in silence, and feel the light craft dart forward through the darkness under his strong strokes. Who were "they"? Why should "they" wonder?

Paul too said nothing. Unconsciously she believed that he shared her mood.

When they reached the camp he helped her out. "I hope you are not too tired? At last I can have the credit of doing something that has pleased you; I saw how much you wanted to go."

He saw how much she had wanted to go!--that spoiled all. Anger filled her heart to suffocation.

Two hours later she stood looking from her tent for a moment. Cicely and Jack, with whom she shared it, were asleep, and she herself was wrapped in a blue dressing-gown over her delicate night-dress, her hair in long braids hanging down her back. The judge and Hollis had gone to bed, the Indians were asleep under their own tent; all was still, save the regular wash of the water on the beach. By the dying light of the camp-fire she could make out a figure--Paul, sitting alone beside one of their rough tables, with his elbow upon it, his head supported by his hand. Something in his att.i.tude struck her, and reasonlessly, silently, her anger against him vanished, and its place was filled by a great tenderness. What was he thinking of? She did not know; she only knew one thing--that she loved him. After looking at him for some minutes she dropped the flap of the tent and stole to bed, where immediately she began to imagine what she might say to him if she were out there, and what he might reply; her remarks should be very original, touching, or brilliant; and he would be duly impressed, and would gradually show more interest. And then, when he began to advance, she would withdraw. So at last she fell asleep.

Meanwhile, outside by the dying fire, what was Paul Tennant thinking of?

His Clay County iron. He had had another offer, and this project was one in which he should himself have a share. But could he accept it? Could he pledge himself to advance the money required? He had only his salary at present, all his savings having gone to Valparaiso; there were Ferdie's expenses to think of, and Ferdie's wife, that little wife so unreasonable and so sweet, she too must lack nothing. It grew towards midnight; still he sat there pondering, adding figures mentally, calculating. The bird which had so insistently cried "Whip-po-_Will_,"

"Whip-po-_Will_," had ceased its song; there came from a distance, twice, the laugh of a loon; Jupiter Light went on flashing its gleam regularly over the lake.

The man by the fire never once thought of Eve Bruce.

XVII.

PAUL'S arrangements, as regarded Cicely, had been excellent. But an hour arrived when the excellence suddenly became of no avail; for Cicely's mood changed. When the change had taken place, nothing that any of these persons, who were devoting themselves to her, could do or say, weighed with her for one instant. She came from her tent one morning, and said, "Grandpa, please come down to the sh.o.r.e for a moment." She led the way, and the judge followed her. When they reached the beach the moon was rising, its narrow golden path crossed the lake to their feet. "I can't stay here any longer, grandpa."

"We will go back to Port aux Pins, then, dearie; though it seems a pity, you have been so well here."

"I don't mean Port aux Pins; I am going to Romney."

"But I thought Ferdie had written to you not to come? Tennant certainly said so, he a.s.sured me that Ferdie had written, urging you to stay here; he has no right to deceive me in that way--Paul Tennant; it's outrageous!"

"Ferdie did write. And he didn't urge me to stay, he commanded me."

"Then you must obey him," said the judge.

"No; I must disobey him." She stood looking absently at the water. "He has some reason."

"Of course he has--an excellent one; he wants to keep you out of the mess of a long illness--you and Jack."

"I wish you would never mention Jack to me again."

"My dear little girl,--not mention Jack? Why, how can we talk at all, without mentioning baby?"

"You and Eve keep bringing him into every conversation, because you think it will have an influence--make me give up Ferdie. Nothing will make me give up Ferdie. So you need not talk of baby any more."