"What about our water?"
"It's all spilled."
"We'll go back for more. He won't come back. I doubt if he'll find his axe in this fog. Which way now?" and he stood puzzling, for force of circumstance and much trampling of the sand had lost them their clue. "You cast round that way for the mark of the oar, but don't go far. I'll try this side. Call if you find."
"Here!" she cried, almost at once, and he followed her voice into the fog and found her standing on the line.
But so confused were they that even then they had not an idea which way to follow it.
"Which way?" she asked, staring down at the groove under her feet.
"This, I think.... I don't know," and he stood perplexed, "There is nothing for it but following it up and seeing where we come to."
So they picked up their buckets, and he took the oar, and they set off again,—and came out at last, not on the green undergrowth which flourished round the ponds, but on the bare shore of the lake.
"Now we know where we are at all events. Dare you stop here while I go back?"
"No," she said with a shiver.