A few moments later a portable canoe glided out from under the stern of the launch. In it, lazily wielding the polished paddle, sat young Mrs. Haltren, bareheaded, barearmed, singing as sweetly as the little cardinal, who paused in sheer surprise at the loveliness of song and singer. Like a homing pigeon the canoe circled to take its bearings once, then glided away due _south_. Blue was the sky and water; her eyes were bluer; white as the sands her bare arms glimmered. Was it a sunbeam caught entangled in her burnished hair, or a stray strand, that burned far on the water. Darrow dropped his eyes; and when again he looked, the canoe had vanished behind the rushes of Flyover Point, and there was nothing moving on the water far as the eye could see. * * * * * About three o'clock that afternoon, the pigeon-toed Seminole Indian who followed Haltren, as a silent, dangerous dog follows its master, laid down the heavy pink cedar log which he had brought to the fire, and stood perfectly silent, nose up, slitted eyes almost closed. Haltren's glance was a question. "Paddl'um boat," said the Indian, sullenly. After a pause Haltren said, "I don't hear it, Tiger." "Hunh!" grunted the Seminole. "Paddl'um damn slow. Bime-by you hear." And bime-by Haltren heard. "Somebody is landing," he said. The Indian folded his arms and stood bolt upright for a moment; then, "Hunh!" he muttered, disgusted. "Heap squaw. Tiger will go." Haltren did not hear him; up the palmetto-choked trail from the landing strolled a girl, paddle poised over one shoulder, bright hair blowing. He rose to his feet; she saw him standing in the haze of the fire and made him a pretty gesture of recognition. "I thought I'd call to pay my respects," she said. "How do you do? May I sit on this soap-box?" Smiling, she laid the paddle on the ground and held out one hand as he stepped forward. They shook hands very civilly. "That was a brave thing you did," she said. "Mes compliments, monsieur." And that was all said about the wreck. "It's not unlike an Adirondack camp," she suggested, looking around at the open-faced, palm-thatched shanty with its usual hangings of blankets and wet clothing, and its smoky, tin-pan bric-a-brac. Her blue eyes swept all in rapid review--the guns leaning against the tree; the bunch of dead bluebill ducks hanging beyond; the improvised table and bench outside; the enormous mottled rattlesnake skin tacked lengthways on a live-oak. "Are there many of those about?" she inquired. "Very few"--he waited to control the voice which did not sound much like his own--"very few rattlers yet. They come out later." "That's amiable of them," she said, with a slight shrug of her shoulders. There was a pause. "I hope you are well," he ventured. "Perfectly--and thank you. I hope you are well, Jack." "Thank you, Kathleen." She picked up a chip of rose-colored cedar and sniffed it daintily.