“Sure! Be glad to.” Dave signaled for a stop. “They call it Birch Island. It’s a beauty.”
As she came close to the island in her small boat, Jeanne assured herself that here was a place of great enchantment.
White birches, evenly spaced and reaching for the sky, grew to the very water’s edge. Mingled with these were hundreds of fern-like balsams.
A single fisherman’s cottage, built of weather beaten logs, stood close to the shore. Silent and seemingly deserted, it told of another day.
That this cabin had not been long deserted, Jeanne was not slow in discovering. True, save for a few rusty cans of pepper, ginger and other spices, there was no food on the narrow shelves. But the frying pan, tea-kettle and coffee pot still shone brightly.
Leaving the cabin, the little French girl wandered down a narrow path that ran the length of the island. It was not a long walk. She was soon at the far end of the island. There, to her surprise, she discovered a second cabin. Perhaps one might say it was only a shelter. Built of driftwood logs, it had but three sides and a roof. The front was enclosed only by a mosquito-bar canopy.
When Jeanne had looked within she backed hurriedly away. She was, she thought, intruding on someone’s privacy. A few pots and pans hung against one wall, while on the opposite side, in considerable disarray, were garments, quite evidently a man’s. From the nature and color of these clothes she concluded the man must be from some city and quite a young man.
She was not long lacking in proof of this theory. Even as she stood there, the low thud of footsteps reached her. With a voiceless cry and a soundless leap, she was away in the bush.
She had escaped. Yet curiosity compelled her to linger for a peeping look through the bushes.
What she saw startled her no end. A tall, good-looking youth of uncertain age stood before the shelter. His gaze wandered from place to place. “He suspects something,” the girl told herself as her heart skipped a beat.