“This way,” said Lyndsay; “here, Margaret, in my canoe.”
“Could I have Ned with me, brother?” asked Miss Anne.
“Certainly. Here, in this canoe, not the birch. This one,—now, so, with your face up the river, and you, Ned,—yes, on the cushion on the bottom.”
“How comfortable!” said Anne, as she leaned back on a board set at a slope against the seat.
“And now, Margaret,—you and I, together with Pierre and—Halloa there, Gemini! Oh, you are in the birch already. No nonsense, now! No larking! These birches turn over like tumbler-pigeons.”
“You, dear,”—to Rose,—“you are to go with Polycarp and Ambrose. By yourself, my child? Yes.”
There was a special note of tenderness in his voice as he spoke.
“How is that, Rosy Posy?”
“Delightful! How well you know! And I did want to be alone,—just to-night,—for a little while.”
“Yes.” As he released her hand he kissed her. “Now, away with you.” In a few moments the little fleet was off, and the paddles were splashing jets of white out of the deep blackness of the stream. By degrees the canoes fell apart. Despite the parental warning, the twins had secured paddles, and were more or less competently aiding their men, so that soon they were far ahead.