It was a silent and mystified Florence who walked slowly back. All that had happened appeared to prove that she was right. This boy wished to hide. Why, unless he were doing wrong? And what was more probable than that he was setting fires? And yet— Why had Jeanne been so silent, so reluctant to tell all?
As they at last stood again on the small fisherman’s dock, Florence looked at Indian John’s jet black hair and smiled.
“John,” she said, “you are rapidly growing gray. There are white ashes in your hair.”
It was true. Fine white specks of ash were slowly drifting down from the sky.
“The threat is still with us,” the girl murmured.
Nor, on this day, was it long in making itself known. A brisk wind, blowing off the island, began bringing in an uncomfortable feeling of heat. Then, quite suddenly, like battling troops coming out of the trenches, a long line of flames appeared at the crest of a low ridge not a mile from Birch Island.
“Florence!” Katie exclaimed. “It is terrible. This beautiful island will burn unless—”
“Unless what?” Florence asked eagerly.
“Unless we can save it.”
“How?”