“It disappeared under this bank. Ah, the other one is following in its wake. Yes, I should say those are Indians.”
“Let us go on down. We can see better from the bank. My curiosity is aroused. I didn’t know there was so much fishing done here. Mr. Iredale never speaks of it.”
“I don’t think Mr. Iredale sees much of the lake. His land––that is, his grazing––lies to the west of the house. But he rarely talks about his work. As he says, so few people care about this wild district that he does not like to worry folks by reminding them of its existence.”
“All the same,” replied Alice, “one of these fine days some enterprising American will come along and find out some, at present, unknown wealth in the place, and then the settlers round the district will kick themselves. Trust a Canuk for sitting down on his hundred and sixty acres and never moving beyond the limits of his fencing. I like this weird place, with its woods, its hills and valleys, its lake and its mysterious boats. You should draw George––I mean Mr. Iredale––out. There must be a deal that is of interest here.”
“Why should I draw him out?” asked Prudence innocently, as the horses ambled down the hill towards the shore of the lake. “You ask him. I believe he’d like to tell some one all about it.”
“No, thanks, friend Prue,” said Alice cheerfully. “I’m not what you might call a ‘free agent.’ There 164 is a young man, to wit, a certain Robb, who might object. Besides, I have not turned poacher yet.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
Prudence turned a pair of astonished brown eyes on her companion. Alice didn’t answer, and the two looked squarely into each other’s faces. The elder girl read the meaning which Alice did not attempt to conceal, and a warm flush mounted quickly and suffused her sun-tanned face.
Then followed a long silence, and the crackling of the pine-cones beneath the horses’ feet alone aroused the echoes of the woods. Prudence was thinking deeply. A thoughtful pucker marred the perfect arch of her brows, and her half-veiled eyes were turned upon her horse’s mane.
George Iredale. What of him? He seemed so to have grown into her life of late that she would now scarcely recognize Loon Dyke Farm without him. This sudden reminder made her look back over the days since her return from “down East,” and she realized that George, since that time, had literally formed part of her life. He was always in her thoughts in some way or other. Every one on the farm spoke of him as if he belonged to it. Hardly a day passed but what some portion of it was spent by him in her company. His absence was only when his business took him elsewhere.