"Indiana, your hat!" cried Mrs. Bunker. A gust of wind had torn it off her head. Haller deftly rescued it from the lake and restored it to Indiana in a dripping condition. She sat bare-headed, enjoying the outlook, the moist wind blowing her hair in large rings around her face.
"We're in for it," said Mrs. Bunker. When they started, the lake had been grey and calm. Now, it was gradually darkening, and dotted here and there with white-caps.
"Are yer skeert?" said Haller, looking at Mrs. Bunker with one of his contortions.
"No," retorted Mrs. Bunker, sharply, "but I want to get to the camp."
"Waal, we're goin' there," said Haller, calmly.
In a little while they came in sight of the boat-house, elaborately rustic, and pretty in design. Near it was planted an enormous flag-staff, from which waved a white flag bearing the name "Camp Indiana" in red letters.
Camp Indiana, christened after the only daughter of the owner, was the usual log structure, but capacious in dimensions, with a luxurious interior. There were many adjuncts in the way of out-buildings and summer-houses, glimpses of which could be caught between the trees. The camp owed much to art, but rejoiced in one supreme, natural beauty. This was a giant balsam tree which Stillwater could not bring himself to cut, and, therefore, had been used in the construction of the camp itself. The huge trunk supported the balcony, and the lower branches were entwined in the rustic railing. Thence it rose, screening the front windows up to the very roof, above which it towered paternally. Birds innumerable made their homes in the branches, and chipmunks in the moss-covered trunk. Every summer the little creatures ran nimbly along the lower limbs, peeping curiously at the sharers of their home; and young birds, essaying to fly, met with mishaps and fell into the camp with broken wings and legs. The latter were a great solicitude to Indiana. She nursed them carefully, with a knowledge founded on similar cases in the Rocky Mountains. There, she had gained much experience with birds and animals.
Though it was blowing strongly on the lake, there was no wind at the camp. No matter how the elements rage, there is quiet among the trees, except for a sighing whisper, to which one could fall asleep.
"Em—n!" said Mrs. Bunker, taking a survey when she reached the balcony. "Enough to give one the blues."
There was a huge deer-head over the entrance, a trophy of Stillwater's first year in the Adirondacks. The large hall was decorated with many other trophies from the Rocky Mountains and elsewhere. Wild skins of every description strewed the polished floors throughout the camp. Logs crackled brightly in the great, deep fire-place of the hall, as they entered, emitting an odor of pine. The large, brown eyes of an elk gazed beneath the branching antlers mildly down on the fire. A short, wide flight of stairs was broken by a balcony over the hall. From the railing hung an antique, Persian silk rug, upon which the fire played richly. Beneath the stair-case and each side of the fire-place were deep niches, comfortably furnished with pillows, of which red was the prevailing tone. Graceful jars of old pottery decorated the shelves above, with here and there a brilliant cluster of peacock's feathers, or the rich plumage of a stuffed bird, to relieve the dullness of the clay. This decoration was repeated in all the lower rooms, of which there were many, one opening into the other, giving a vista of fire-lit interiors, the flames catching an occasional flash of color from a red pillow or an Oriental scarf hanging carelessly from a shelf. The camp resounded to the crackling of logs with the accompanying, healthy perfume of the burning pine. Indiana ran through all the rooms, looking out of every window upon the lake. Those of her own room opened directly into the balsam tree which ornamented the front of the camp. This room had been built entirely of white maple. There was simple furniture of the same wood. The gleaming white walls and ceiling served as a background for a continuous Bacchanalian dance of shadows, cast by the branches of the giant balsam screening the windows. Here, also, logs crackled cheerily in a deep, wide fireplace, tiled with white onyx, which reflected the flames in fitful opaline gleams. White bear rugs strewed the floor. Indiana, as she looked around her, had visions of frosty, October mornings, when she had put her feet unwillingly out of bed into the warm fur, and hopped over the intervening space of cold floor to the fire. She remembered awakings, when a breath of balsam air swept like a cool hand across her forehead. Open windows and fires were Mr. Stillwater's strict injunctions at the camp. Indiana, for one, obeyed him. She had often opened her eyes to see a chipmunk sitting on its haunches, regarding her curiously. And birds were in the habit of flying around her little nest and out again to their own nest in the tree. She stood for a moment by the fire with a sense of glad content to be once more in this white, balsam-scented room. Then she ran into her mother's room, and into that reserved for Glen. On the mantel were portraits of his mother and father. They had insisted on his leaving some of his belongings there last year, saying that if he did so, he would be sure to come again. Indiana inspected the portraits. "I'm glad they're here," she thought. "It'll be a welcome for him."