As for Tillie, she never faltered. Such is the soul of one bred to the rigor, the suffering and perils of the north country. It accepts the condition that each moment offers and awaits the rest. Who will say that this, as a rule of life, is not best?
“Cheerio, old thing!” Tillie exclaimed at last. “Another quarter of an hour, and we will be there.”
There was courage in her voice, but a look of utter weariness in her eye.
“Will she last?” Florence drew one more portion from her reserve strength, prepared, if need be, to see her gallant friend through.
Her aid was not needed. The sturdy muscles and vigorous heart of this backwoods girl carried her through. Certainly no city cousin of hers who starves her body and poisons her blood to obtain a slim and graceful figure could have done as much. Who wants to be a wisp that contains a soul? Who would not rather be a Greek goddess?
They landed at last upon a broad and pebbly beach.
As they crept up away from the waves, the sharp pebbles brought no pain to hands and knees. They were benumbed by cold, too exhausted to feel pain.
Yet, after Tillie had laid there for a moment, she drew herself to a sitting position to say an astonishing thing.
“Florence,” she exclaimed, “we’ll get that old black bass yet!”
In spite of the cold and exhaustion, Florence laughed. The laugh did them both good.