He made no answer, and she glanced at his face. Its innocent wonderment nettled her the more, yet she had no notion why. She walked on faster than ever. In the clearing by the "Four Alls" they came on the young American. He had packed up his camp furniture, and was busy stowing it in the canoe.
"Hullo!" he greeted them. "Can't stay for another sitting, if that's what you're after."
With Tilda in her present mood the boy felt a sudden helplessness. The world in this half-hour—for the first time since his escape—had grown unfriendly. His friends were leaving him, averting their faces, turning away to their own affairs. He stretched out his hands.
"Won't you take us with you?"
Mr. Jessup stared.
"Why, certainly," he answered after a moment. "Hand me the valise, there, and nip on board. There's plenty of room."
He had turned to Tilda and was addressing her. She obeyed, and handed the valise automatically. Certainly, and without her help, the world was going like clockwork this morning.
CHAPTER XVIII.
DOWN AVON.
" O, my heart! as white sails shiver,
And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide,
How hard to follow, with lips that quiver,
That moving speck on the far-off side."—JEAN INGELOW.