“Isn’t it pretty, papa?”
“Rather. But, Anne—”
“I am sleepy,” she said. “By-by,” and she pushed their canoe away. “Let go, Pierre; I want to go to sleep again.”
“Was it out of some book, Pardy?”
“Gracious, Rose, how do I know?”
CHAPTER XXII
The Sunday stillness of the Island Camp was broken by lunch, and after it Ellett thought he would go down to call on the Lyndsays, and perhaps Fred might like to go with him. But Fred had letters to write—he was too lazy—he wished to finish a novel. However, he wrote a note to Mr. Lyndsay, to say that on Thursday he meant to go down the river to Mackenzie to see a man about a cabin he desired to have built on the Island, and would call to ask if Mr. Lyndsay still wished him to have a check cashed at the bank, in order to pay his men. Also, he could then arrange for the tickets and sleeping-car accommodations Mr. Lyndsay’s family needed on their return. And thus, having secured the absence of Ellett, he saw him depart, and for an hour or more smoked, and diligently struggled with a book by a sadly literary woman who was contributing her feeble ferment of doubts to enliven the summer moods of man and maid. At last he rose, pitching the book across the tent, and said aloud:
“There was a young woman of Boston,
A blanket of doubts she was tossed on;