There is that about the woods and water at night which casts upon one a spell of irresistible loneliness and sadness. It is as if all the generations of those who have lived and died in the vicinity, whose canoes have glided silently through rippling waters, whose axes have awakened echoes and whose campfires have brought dark shadows into being, return at this hour to mourn their loss of a beautiful world.
Florence felt something of this as the mystery lady donned a cloak of somber hue, then pushed a dark rowboat into the water.
A faint knock of oarlock was the only sound that disturbed the grave-like stillness.
Some dark bird, awakened from his sleep, rose in their path to go swooping away without a sound.
The lady of the island did not speak. From time to time she glanced over her shoulder to sweep the water with her eye. When some object a little darker than the water appeared in the distance, she pursued a course that led directly to it.
“There,” she said, as they bumped against the object, “is your boat. It doesn’t seem large, nor heavy. You are strong. Perhaps we can right it.”
Ten minutes of muscle testing struggle and the boat, half filled with water, lay alongside.
As Florence settled back to catch her breath before assisting in bailing out the boat, she exclaimed:
“How can rich people be so thoughtless, reckless and cruel?”
“Why!” said her hostess in a mild tone, “I haven’t found them so.”