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 shore, at some distance from the tents, when his canoe glided suddenly into view, coming round a near point; he beached it and sprang ashore.
“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.”