beaded and fringed, that air of superb repose and unconsciousness which civilization only imitates, but does not attain—all were fascinating and unique. He stood one moment as some exquisite bronze, then stepped lightly over the springy moss, lifted the fold of a tent, and disappeared. This was her brother, Philip Nicola, the little girl told the ladies, and her name was Malie. Edith gave the child an Indian prayer-book, prepared by their patlias; then the party embarked again, spread their sail to the breeze, and sped down the bay.
Dick Rowan, standing to unfurl the sail, sang out joyously, in a clear, ringing voice, an old French song:
“‘Si le roi m’avoit donné
Paris sa grand’ ville,
Et qu’il me fallût quitter
L’amour de ma mie,
Je dirois au roi Henri:
Reprenez votre Paris,
J’aime mieux ma mie, oh, gay!
J’aime mieux ma mie.’”
Edith turned her head aside, and watched their sparkling wake subside to a milky path. If she was pleased, no one could see. But as they approached that low, sandy island that three of them had visited before, she rose, and leaned on Dick’s arm, and gazed on it with him.
“God have mercy on him!” they whispered; and both Dick and the captain removed their hats, and remained uncovered till they had passed by. The others did not know what it meant, but they asked no question, and soon all was gay again.
They landed a few miles down the bay, wandered awhile on the shore, took their luncheon there, and sat to see the sun go down, reddening all the water. Then a bright pallor succeeded, tingling with unseen stars, and the bay became a silver mirror. The breeze went down with the sun, and only a soft breath out of the
south pressed their sail as they started to return. Between two fleckless, transparent abysses, they floated, as through ether, and might, it seemed, be drawn up or sink down at any moment. The night deepened, and became a crystalline darkness, with stars above and stars below, and then the east grew radiant with a soft aurora.
As the light increased, they saw a speck on the water, and, leaning low, Captain Cary espied Philip Nicola in a bark canoe, dancing across the bay, skimming the water like a bird. The imp of mischief, or of vanity, seemed to possess the fellow. He shot across their prow, so near as almost to catch the foam it threw up, he zigzagged ahead of them, he slid into their wake on one side, and flew past them on the other. Lastly, he dropped far behind, and they heard him singing over the water. The song was some wild chant in his own language, piercingly sweet, and full of a barbarous pathos and power. As they listened, convention dropped from them like a garment. They were simple children of nature, and creation was full of mysteries for them.
A golden splendor filled the east, a disk of burning gold showed above the woods, and kindled their feathery tops, a crinkling flame ran round every ripple of the bay, and their prow tossed off sparks instead of foam. Then the moon sailed majestically upward, and made an enchanted day about them. As she rose, the blue of the sky drew back, like the fold of a curtain, and left a pathway of mellow light for her feet.
Not a word was said by any one. The scene was too beautiful for praise. Edith and Carl sat opposite each other, and Dick Rowan stood between them, leaning against the mast, and looking down on that fair head