“I see it a fortni’t ago,” said Old-Hab. “Up here alon’. P’r’aps ’twon’t show to-night.” He pointed across the vast darkness of the valley. “Down there’s the river, and my finger’s ’bout on that bit o’ island opposite your place. Now from tide-water, she looks all solid fars and spruce, don’t she? But up here, daytimes, they show jest a ring-round, like, and a bald spot in the middle. Now, one night—”
He bosomed the lantern under his sheepskin coat. In starlight, they faced a bitter wind, hearing only the whisper of the beeches and the distant bark of a fox.
“Watch! Nothin’, is they? Well, p’r’aps—Hold on! See there!”
Far off and far below, a point of light gleamed, winked, shone steady for some minutes, and was gone.
“Jest like other time,” said Hab. “Now what d’ ye make o’ that?”
Miles, wondering, could find no explanation.
“Me neither,” muttered his companion, as they descended to the hut. “Some one diggin’ for the Old Sir’s money? I give it up. Ain’t pic-nic weather, any rate, jibometer below. Not tellin’ fo’ks, but some loafin’ weather I may take a look there myself—invest things, kind of.”
Without further incident their ten days drew to a close. Though they climbed the hill a second time, no light appeared on the island. Their speculation flagged, and soon Miles was to forget it, along with other trifles.
They were returning from a day’s work below the hut, and had crossed a long bog or heath, where the pent-up water of some brook shone toward the sunset, a broad, pale mirror of green ice. On the upper side of this they had gained the road, which ran roundabout with the low, skirting alders, black against the west,—a belt of night, between the last daylight sinking vertically in the sky and the last daylight horizontally retreating along the ice.
“Somebody comin’,” said Old-Hab suddenly. Both men paused and listened.