They slept until ten next morning. Because of their service to the island all dining room rules were broken, and they were served with delicious French toast and coffee. After that, they retired to the broad lounge where they stretched themselves out in roomy chairs before a cheerful fire.
“How grand it would be just to live here as guests!” Jeanne whispered.
“And forget all about the fire,” Florence agreed. “But that would be impossible.”
And indeed it would. The fires were not forgotten by anyone. Only the hardiest of souls had remained on the island. At that moment, catching snatches of conversation from the guests lounging in the big room, the girls heard, “They say they’re being set; these fires.” It was a woman who spoke.
“See?” Florence whispered. “What have I been saying?”
“That’s nonsense,” a man’s voice rumbled. “The island is like tinder. Bits of birchbark are lighted by the flames. They break away and are carried miles.”
“Still on fire?” said another voice.
“Absolutely!” the man insisted. “There are ashes in your hair right now, and you weren’t out of doors a quarter-hour. Where did they come from? Many miles away. Yesterday I saw a black object floating down. I caught it. It was a leaf, charred black by the fire. It had floated in the air miles and miles.”
Apparently convinced, his companions said no more. But Florence was not satisfied. Had she not been told the fires were being set? And had she not seen the youth with the crimson sweater? Did some imp whisper, “Yes, and you are to see him again—very soon. No good will come of that, either.” Well, perhaps not. Who can say?
“There’s grand fishing here at the island,” said a man in high boots and red plaid shirt. “I row a heavy boat three hundred miles every summer, trolling for lake trout. It reduces my waistline two inches.”