"It's all out for everybody," said Mr. Black, who now looked as concerned as the others. "Something's given out—it's not surprising."
"But," objected Mrs. Crane, "how are we to get home?"
"Hush, woman," returned Mr. Black, whimsically, "folks on their way to a picnic don't talk about going home. Let's get there first."
"Why!" cried light-footed Marjory, who had darted ahead and back again with her news, "we're out of that swamp, anyway. This road goes right uphill and it's sandy."
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Black. "That means that we're almost there. Come back, Marjory, and get your share of the load; everybody must carry something. Bettie, can you walk half a mile if you're helped over the rough places?"
"A whole mile if I have to—I'm not tired."
"The air," remarked Jean, sniffing curiously, when the party had reached the top of the brief ascent, "smells different. My! Isn't it good! I feel it way down inside of me."
"It's the lake," explained Mr. Black. "In less than ten minutes you're going to see something."
The prediction proved true. In a very few moments the road branched, the right fork led them north, then swerved again toward the east, the forest stopped with a suddenness that was startling, and the picnic found itself in a wide, grassy clearing at the very edge of the big, blue lake. The bigness and the blueness were dazzling. The curved beach stretched like a broad golden ribbon in either direction.
"This," said Mr. Black, "is the place."