CHAPTER XVI
SANS PEUR
Almost before the birds Greta was up the next morning. She had not slept well, for the attic was hot. Not a breeze was stirring when she loosed the boat from its moorings and pushed out upon a lake that wore scarcely a ripple. “We are due for a big storm if this keeps up,” thought Greta. The air was oppressive and clouds were gathering. Even the effort of rowing brought the perspiration to Greta’s brow, still tender from its hurt. She lost no time, for there was a low rumble of distant thunder and she did not want to be caught out upon the water.
On the peninsula across from her the boys’ flag flew. Their cabin was partly concealed by the trees between it and the lake. No one there seemed to be stirring. Presently a breeze developed and Greta bent, indeed, to her oars. She must reach the little bay and the girls’ camp as soon as possible. But the clouds did not seem to be heavier.
“There she comes, Molly!”
Three sober girls watched Greta make her way around the curve in the lake shore and steadily row toward them, stopping for one little wave when she saw them.
“She is awfully strong, isn’t she—for all she looks so pale and worn when she comes?”
“All that hard work would give anybody muscles. Have you noticed her poor hands?”
“Yes, Jean; but they are not out of shape at least.”
“No, just rough and her finger-nails are all broken. I suppose the washing does it and I don’t know what else she does, but she happened to speak of doing that. She had a big bundle of clothes in the boat last evening. How are we going to manage this, Molly?”
“What do you mean, Jean?”