The distant shore line was that of Isle Royale fifteen miles off the shore of Canada, in Lake Superior.
All this was a grand and glorious dream to her.
They had been here three days, she and Florence Huyler, whom you may have met before, and Greta Clara Bronson, whom you are going to love as Petite Jeanne, who had known her for but two months, loved her.
“Tomorrow,” Jeanne had whispered to herself, standing there in the moonlight, “we are going ashore, ashore on that Mystic Isle.”
Ashore? One would have said she must be standing on a ship lying at anchor. This was not true. The old Pilgrim, a three hundred foot pleasure boat, would never sail again. Fast on the rocks, her stern beneath the black waters, her prow high in air, she would rest there a while until—ah, well, until, who could say what or when?
“This,” the little French girl had whispered, “is our summer home.” How the thought had thrilled her! Three girls, the “last passengers,” they had styled themselves, three girls alone on a great wrecked ship for long summer months.
What fun it had been to fit out the captain’s and the first mate’s cabins—what fun and what work! Bunks had been leveled, chairs and tables fitted with two short and two long legs to fit the slanting floors, a score of adjustments had been made. But now they were all done.
“And tomorrow,” she had repeated in a whisper, “tomorrow—”
But what was that? Had she caught a sound? Yes, there it was again, like the purring of a cat, only louder. It came from the dark waters of night. Listening, intent, motionless, she had failed to fathom its meaning.
“Something on shore,” she had tried to assure herself.