So said old Michael, the steward, who was the first person our hero saw on his arrival.
“You are sure she said to the landing, Michael?”
“Of course I am. I put up the luncheon for ’em; and she told me how she was going when I gave it to Mary.”
“She knows which landing it was that I left my boat at?”
“She said the Park landing, and there is but one that I know of by that name.”
“That is so,” the young man nodded, and then, without stopping for further remark, he turned about and started toward the river.
His course was in a northerly direction, and the distance to the landing three-quarters of a mile. Not quite two-thirds of the way was down the gentle slope of the open, velvety park, and beyond was a belt of woods, but entirely free from wildwood or the tangle of underbrush.
The trees, however, were of the old forest growth, standing near together, forming a solitude grand and imposing. The woods extended to the river’s bank, and the path which Percy was following led directly to the landing.
He began to look for his darling and to call her by name as soon as he had entered the strip of forest, but he saw nothing nor did he receive any answer.
Pretty soon he was at the landing—a platform of chestnut plank, built out to deep water, so that vessels of goodly draught could lie alongside it.