The creek began to close, and ahead loomed a wharf and a building standing upon it. The hills grew higher round about, and the boat needed steering as her channel became narrower.
“Tide’s turning,” said Ned, and for answer, the rower quickened his stroke.
They passed the wharf, where a trout stream from a coomb ran into the estuary, then, ascending to the head of the boatable waters, reached their destination. Already the tide was falling and revealing weedy rocks and a high-water mark on either bank of the creek. To the right a little boathouse opened its dark mouth over the water, and now they slipped into it and came ashore.
Medora thanked Jordan Kellock warmly.
“Don’t you think I didn’t enjoy it because I got a bit chilly after the hailstorm,” she said. “I did enjoy it ever so much, and it was very kind of you to ask me.”
“The last time we’ll go boating this year,” he answered, “and it was a good day, though cold along of the north wind. But the autumn woods were very fine, I’m sure.”
“Properly lovely—poetry alive you might call them.”
“So I thought,” he answered as he turned down his sleeves and presently put on his coat and tie again. The coat was black and the tie a subdued green.
Ned made the boat ship-shape and turned to his wife.
“A good smart walk up the hill will warm you,” he said.