Into this bay a long slim finger of land is thrust out from the northern shore, enclosing in its crook a harbor so safe and possible in all seas that from the earliest navigation of these waters it has been a port. The port, known in the days of New France by the more euphonious name of l'Arbor Croche, is now called prosaically Harbor Springs, but the bay, by the most fortunate reversion to an earlier occupation, is We-que-ton-sing—signifying in the Indian tongue from which it is derived, "A little one within the larger bay."
On this inner bay has grown up, among the white birches, a very beautiful little summer resort, and it was here that Margaret De Jarnette found herself after her flight from the Island. She had had a calm night and had waked with a song of deliverance on her lips. Here, surely, in this peaceful spot was nothing which could molest or make afraid.
Rising early, she had dressed herself and Philip and together they had slipped past Mrs. Pennybacker's door and on out upon the hotel piazza. The only sound of life was the clatter in the kitchen and dining-room. But her soul was so full of relief that she had found it impossible to sleep. As she looked out over the bay, sparkling in the morning sun, her joy bubbled over, and the words of an old anthem rose to her lips. She sang it softly but triumphantly as she and Philip went out upon the pier.
"My soul is escaped,
Like a bird, like a bird,
From the snare of the fowlers,
My soul is escaped!
My soul is escaped! My soul is escaped!
My soul—is—escaped!"
There was a jubilant ascending scale at the last.