He gave way once more, unaccountably glad. The bow, lifting, grated in sludgy sand. Neither spoke until he had dragged the magician’s punt well up the beach. Though standing nearly shoulder-high beside him, she had grown, as if at the touch of land, magically smaller; yet her presence, her influence, freed from the confines of the boat and the mist, not only stood more remote but reared more alarming. Their adventure, which had seemed limitless, now poignantly ended.
“I hope,” he began, “I hope—” He longed vaguely to offer help, but against what? And why did she still look down, as though afraid or angry?
“What ye doin’ down there?” growled a thick, slurring voice. “Good-f’r-nothin’, traipsin’—told ye—”
The bank and upper shore formed a layer of solid reality, below the brooding unreality of the fog. The little house, gray and raggedly patched, stood close at hand, against the white shafts of birches. In the open door stood Abram, swaying blindly.
“Come ’ere!” he grumbled. “Come ’ere to me! I’ll learn ye—”
He brandished an uncertain fist, lurched a step forward, and stumbled. The rising bank hid his fall.
Without looking back, the girl went slowly up the beach.
