"Certainly. Be careful, Lord Canning! It’s pitch dark, and you don’t know the way! There! I knew you’d stumble—you’d better take my hand." "I—I really think I had better," said Lord Canning, helplessly. *CHAPTER VII.* *The Weaver* The storm spent its full force in the night. The wind raged in the clearings and upon the lakes. But Camp Indiana, sheltered by the woods, heard nothing of the angry elements beyond the continuous sighing of the trees, which, when the wind was most fierce, grew into a painful sobbing whisper. The pines of the North Woods sing varied harmonies, always in a minor key; sometimes, it is a sacred anthem, sometimes a tragic prophecy, sometimes a death chant and sometimes a sad lullaby, such as a bereaved wife might croon to her child. When the guests emerged upon the balcony in the morning the clouds still shrouded the mountains and the lake. There was nothing to be seen but a white mist. "We are literally in the clouds," said Lord Canning pacing the balcony. "But what a soft rare air, and that strong odor of pine; it is most exhilarating." He drew a deep breath. "What a magnificent tree," said Lord Stafford. "They’ve built it into the balcony. Look, Thurston! Isn’t that a unique idea?" He bent over until his body was half in the tree. "By George, there’s a chipmunk!" "Balsam!" exclaimed Lord Canning, examining a branch. He ascended the steps looking up at the tree. "Magnificent! A natural ornament! What a novel thought to make it a part of the house. I am reminded of the roof-tree of olden times, Uncle Nelson." "Quite so!" said Lord Stafford. "Look!" continued his nephew. "The clouds are rising—slowly. There is the lake! How blue, and what beautiful slopes—how rich in foliage. Such a contrast in greens; the vivid emerald of the maple trees, with the dark shade of the hemlock and other pine varieties—there is no green like theirs—and that faint, very faint touch of red, here and there—a foretaste of Autumn. Look at those wild crags, with the trees rooted in their clefts! This is a panorama of clouds. How systematically they rise, one veil after the other. The mountains are just becoming perceptible—do you see their shadowy outline behind that last thin veil? It is rising—slowly—slowly. Little fragments of mist are floating everywhere. Upon my word, it is quite unreal—like a dream scene." "Ha, ha, ha! I’d advise you not to broach the subject of dreams again." "Charming! The dark, rich blue of those mountains, with the little mists curling upon them, here and there. That low cloud on the lake here, has remained stationary. Ah, now it is rising. Uncle Nelson, do you see anything?" Lord Canning had suddenly discerned in the mist, the phantom outline of a female figure kneeling in a canoe. "Yes, by George! Do you think it could be a peculiar form taken by the mist?"