She did not know that she was passing near the back of Old Peter McDuff's farm, but she noticed that the fences were conveniently broken down, and left a path clear down to the water's edge.
Lake Algonquin lay before her in its evening glory, a glory veiled and softened by the amethyst veil the autumn was weaving. The water was as still and as clear as a mirror. To her left the town nestled in a soft purple mist, the gay voices from the park were softened and sweetened by the distance. Straight ahead of her lay Wawa island, an airy thing floating lightly on the water, and reflected perfectly in its depths.
At one end of its dark greenery autumn had hung out a banner to herald her coming—a scarlet sumach. A yellowing maple leaf fell at Helen's feet as she passed. Along the water's edge where the birches grew thick arose a great twittering and chattering. The long southern flight was already being discussed. Away out beyond the island a canoe drifted along on the golden water. Some one seated in it was picking a mandolin and singing, "Good-bye, Summer."
Helen slipped down the path where the birches and elms, entwined with the bitter-sweet, hung over the water. A little point jutted out with a big rock on the end of it. She took off her hat, seated herself upon the rock, and drank in the silence and peace of the calm evening.
A little launch went rap-rap-rap across the clear glass of the water, leaving a long trail of light behind it like a comet, and the sweet evening odours were mingled with the unsavoury scent of gasoline. Helen had often sped joyfully over the bay at home in just such a noisy little craft, quite unconscious of being obnoxious to any one else. It was not the first time she had found her view-point was changing. She seemed to have been drifted ashore in a wreck, and to be sitting looking on at the life she had lived with wonder and sometimes with disapproval. The launch passed, the evening shadows deepened, but she still sat wrapped in the deeper shadows of her own sad thoughts.
She had no idea how long she had sat there when she was roused by the sudden appearance of a canoe right at her side. It had stolen up silently, propelled by the noiseless stroke of a practised paddler, and went past her like a ghost. The young man kneeling in the stern had something of the perfectly balanced play of muscle, and poise of lithe figure that belonged to the Indian. For in spite of his Anglo-Saxon blood, Roderick McRae was as much a product of this land of lake and forest as the Red Skin. He had almost passed her, when he looked up and saw her for the first time. He gave a start; it seemed too good to be true. But she bowed so distantly that his hesitating paddle dipped again. He went on slowly, too shy to intrude. He had taken but a few strokes when from away behind her on the darkening land, came a loud sound of singing. Peter Fiddle was drunk again. Feeling very grateful to Peter for the excuse, Roderick turned about, with an adroit twist of his paddle, and glided back till he was opposite her.
"Excuse me, Miss Murray," he stammered, feeling his old shyness return, "but—are you alone here?"
"Yes," said the girl a slight wonder in her voice at the question. "I came down for a walk and—" she turned and glanced behind her and gave an exclamation at the darkness of the woods. She had forgotten the magic power the water has of gathering and holding the sunset light long after darkness has wrapped the earth. "Oh, I had no idea it was so late!" she cried in dismay.
Roderick joyfully ran his canoe up close to the rock. The fear in her voice made him forget his embarrassment. "I don't wish to trouble you," he said, "but it isn't wise to go home that path through the woods alone." He hesitated. He did not like to tell her that Old Peter might come down there raging drunk, and that at the head of Willow Lane she might meet with another drunken row between Mike Cassidy and his wife. "Oh dear!" she cried, "how could I be so foolish? I never dreamed of its being so dark and I forgot—"
"If you will let me I'll take you home," said Roderick eagerly, "in my canoe."