“Well, no,” his sister agreed.
“May not be so bad after all,” Mark said cheerfully. “While you were taking care of Bill, we floated three large dry logs out to our damaged ship. We lashed them to the pontoon support. That means she won’t sink any more. And when we are frozen in, we—”
“Frozen in!” Mary was startled. She had realized in a vague sort of way that at this very moment the thin ice on the lake was hardening, that they could not hope to get away on pontoons, yet the thought of a forced wait was disturbing.
“How—how long?” she managed to ask.
“Perhaps ten days, perhaps a month. Depends on the weather.”
“Ten days, a month!” The girl’s head swam. Adventure! Surely this was it!
“But, Mark,” her voice was low with emotion, “so many things might happen. A storm may come roaring up the mountainside and—”
“And wreck the planes beyond repair. Yes, but we’ll do our best and we must trust God for the rest.”
“Yes,” the girl thought. “We must trust Him and do our best.”
Then, because she did not wish longer to dwell upon their own position, she forced her thoughts into other channels. She tried to picture the folks at home—mother, quietly knitting by the fire, Florence, if she were back from Palmer, poring over a book, and silent, occupied only with her thoughts, the strange Madam Chicaski.