'How long has she been away?' I asked.
'Weeks four,' replied the mother, whose knowledge of English was confined to the price-list of white-fish and blueberries, the two articles of her traffic with the boarding-house keepers.
'When will she return?'
'Je n'sais.'
She knitted on, sitting in the sunshine on her little doorstep, looking out over the western water with tranquil content in her beautiful, gentle eyes. As I walked up the beach I glanced back several times to see if she had the curiosity to watch me; but no, she still looked out over the western water. What was I to her? Less than nothing. A white-fish was more.
A week or two later I strolled out to the Giant's Stairway and sat down in the little rock chapel. There was a picnic at the Lovers' Leap, and I had that side of the island to myself. I was leaning back, half asleep, in the deep shadow, when the sound of voices roused me; a birch-bark canoe was passing close in shore, and two were in it,—Jeannette and our surgeon. I could not hear their words, but I noticed Rodney's expression as he leaned forward. Jeannette was paddling slowly; her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes brilliant. Another moment and a point hid them from my view. I went home troubled.
'Did you enjoy the picnic, Miss Augusta?' I said with assumed carelessness, that evening. 'Dr. Prescott was there, as usual, I suppose?'
'He was not present, but the picnic was highly enjoyable,' replied
Miss Augusta, in her even voice and impartial manner.
'The Doctor has not been with us for some days,' said the major's wife, archly; 'I suspect he does not like Mr. Piper.'
Mr. Piper was a portly widower, of sanguine complexion, a Chicago produce-dealer, who was supposed to admire Miss Augusta, and was now going through a course of 'The Harp that once.'