On the return walk to Adams’ Beach, having no strangers for companions, they gave closer attention to the woodland path and its mossy beauties. On a slight rise of ground, where the trees had been cut away, and the afternoon sun shone bright and hot, Elizabeth found a patch of curious russet plants. She stopped to examine them and then called to her brother.
“Look, Fred, what do you suppose these queer little flowers can be?”
Fred came back but could not identify the hairy round leaves with their sticky drops shining in the sun like dew.
“Let’s dig one up and you can carry it home in the little birch-bark basket. To-night we will look up its name in the wild-flower book,” he proposed, suiting the action to his words.
“Look, there’s a little fly caught in the sticky hairs of one leaf,” remarked Elizabeth.
Quite a breeze from the south had sprung up during their sojourn on the land, and now the children had a lively trip home in the launch. A drenched sextette reached Sunset Island, and had to scramble into dry clothes in double quick time so as not to be late for supper.
The main dish that evening was flounder, rolled in cornmeal and fried a golden brown in boiling fat. Mr. Remington served his wife and daughters first as usual, then the younger boys, and lastly, Fred and himself.
“These flounders are as good as sole,” said he, approvingly, as he tasted a bit.
“Don’t jab at your food in that fashion, Billy!” reproved Mrs. Remington.
“But, mother, I can’t seem to cut the old fish!”