Henry blessed the good fortune that had placed her with her back toward him. He was surprised that they were still float; and more surprised that they seemed continuing to stay afloat.
The canoe, pointing directly into the wind, rode easily. Henry found he could put the paddle over the gunwale into the water and still they did not upset. The girl took a stroke. He held his paddle as she was holding hers and took a stroke also—awkwardly but nevertheless with some effect.
“We go that way—down the lake,” said the girl; and pointed on his side. Then she paddled harder.
As the canoe swung around broadside to the waves it began to roll. Henry felt a wild desire to drop his paddle and grip the sides with his hands.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” the girl remarked.
Henry remembered then that the moon was shining. But he was afraid to look up; he kept his eyes fixed upon the girl and imitated her strokes as nearly as he could.
After a moment he suddenly found that he could bend at the waist with the roll of the canoe, keeping his shoulders level. And paddling didn’t really seem so difficult; and every moment as they approached the narrower part of the lake the waves were getting less high.
At the end of the fifteen-minute trip, Henry’s soul, temporarily compressed, had expanded again, bigger, freer, more dominant than ever. They landed on another little beach, almost in still water, in front of a little cottage. Henry manfully pulled the canoe well up on shore and stood again facing the girl.
“My name is Elsie Morton,” she said. “I’m awfully obliged to you. Won’t you come in a minute and get dry, Mr.—”
“Jones—Henry Jones,” said Henry. “No, I think I’d—it’s pretty late; I’d better get on home. I’m glad you’re safe.”