The next morning was quiet and the sky clear. I had read my maps rightly, and once embarked, an hour of paddling brought us to Sturgeon Cove. It opened before us suddenly, a wedge of flecked turquoise laid across the shaded greens of the peninsula. As we entered it a flock of white gulls rose from the rocky shore and flew before us. The air, rain washed, was so limpid that it seemed a marvel that it could sustain the heavy-pinioned birds, but they moved in sure curves and seemed to bear us with them. I pointed the woman's glance toward them. "An omen. We shall follow them and rest here. It is our home." We nosed our way, with leisurely paddles, close to the northern shore. The land sloped gently from the beach, and the quivering water, a faded green from the tree shadows, crawled over gravel that was patterned with the white of quartz and with the pomegranate of carnelian. It was a jeweled pavement, and it led to forest aisles where cathedral lights splashed through the trees. But I would not stop. The gulls were still leading. The bay narrowed, and the shores pressed close to us, with compact ranks of cedars held spearwise. Yet we pushed on, and the water path spread out once more, a final widening. We saw before us the rounded end of the bay, and the neck of land that formed the Sturgeon portage. The woman looked at me. "What now, monsieur?" But I smiled at her with my conceit untroubled. I had seen reeds close to the northern shore. "Halt!" I cried to the canoes. We lay quiet a moment, and the birds glancing back at us found us suddenly harmless. The reeds under them were swarming with young fish. The gulls looked down and squawked in a hungry chorus. In a moment they lighted, balancing their great wings like reefing sails. I laughed as I looked at the woman. It was a small triumph, but intoxication breeds easy laughter. I had been drinking deep that morning of a sparkling happiness more disturbing than any wine. We sent the canoes shoreward into the curve where the reeds lay. The stiff green withes rattled against our canoes like hail, and gave warning of our approach for a half mile distant. I nodded my inner approval. "The gulls are wise," I said to the woman. "We could not plan a better water defense to our camp." The grass came down to the water, and we pulled the canoes over short turf and into beds of white blossoms. A cloud of butterflies rose to greet us; they too were satin-white, the color that a bride should wear, and they fluttered over us without fear. The smell of the grasses rose like incense. With all the light and perfume there was a sense of quiet, of deep content and peace. Even the woods that fringed the meadow seemed kindly. They did not have the sombre awe of the heavy timber, but looked sun-drenched and gay. "We shall stay here," I said. "Unload the canoes."