"I'm afraid that wouldn't do," he said, gravely.
"Why?"
"Because the lagoon is tidal. You'd be awash sooner or later."
"I see. Well, then, anywhere in the woods will do——"
"Not anywhere," he said, smiling. "High water leaves few dry places in this forest; in fact—I'm afraid that my shack is perched on the only spot which is absolutely dry at all times. It is a shell mound—the only one in the Dead Lake region."
"Isn't there room for my tent beside yours?" she asked, a trifle anxiously.
"Y-es," he said, in a voice as matter of fact as her own. "How many will there be in your party?"
"In my party! Why, only myself," she said, with smiling animation.
"Oh, I see!" But he didn't.[40]
They lugged the tent back among the trees to the low shell mound, where in the centre of a ring of pines and evergreen oaks his open-faced shack stood, thatched with palmetto fans. She gazed upon the wash drying on the line, upon a brace of dead ducks hanging from the eaves, upon the smoky kettle and the ashes of the fire. Purest delight sparkled in her blue eyes.