CHAPTER VII.
Another week of night work, and then the sunniest of Sundays on the shore of old Lake Michigan.
I noticed that Mary was in deep disgrace with my wife, who would hardly speak to her, and I judged therefore that Mr. Will Axworthy had not been brought to time.
I am not a venturesome boatman, and generally confine my aquatic outings to the smaller lake, but that Saturday night there was not a breath of wind, and the water was placidity personified, so I drifted in my small skiff through the channel that connects the smaller with the larger body of water. On the sandy point jutting out at the mouth, upon an old stump, sat a solitary maiden, the picture of woe.
"Hello, Mary!" said I, ignoring the tears; "want to go for a boat ride?"
"I don't care if I do," she replied, seating herself in the stern, which I turned toward her.
Silently I pulled out into the big lake, where the copper-colored sun going down in a haze near the horizon bade us beware of a hot day on the morrow. Out of the lake to the right rose the full moon, failing as yet to make her gentle influence felt against the radiant glow the sun was leaving behind him.
"So Axworthy's gone back on you, Mary?"
The fountains played again.