"Aunt Pat is a famous sailor!" observed Helen as the launch rocked. "The last time we crossed the captain had personally to take her below during a hurricane." "Helen always likes to make a heroine of me," said Miss Pat with her adorable smile. "But I am not in the least afraid on the water. I think there must have been sailors among my ancestors." She was as tranquil as the day. Her attitude toward her niece had not changed; and I pleased myself with the reflection that mere ancestry--the vigor and courage of indomitable old sea lords--did not sufficiently account for her, but that she testified to an ampler background of race and was a fine flower that had been centuries in making. We cruised the shore of Port Annandale at a discreet distance and then bore off again. "Let us not go too near shore anywhere," said Helen; and Miss Pat murmured acquiescence. "No; we don't care to meet people," she remarked, a trifle anxiously. "I'm afraid I don't know any to introduce you to," I replied, and turned away into the broadest part of the lake. The launch was capable of a lively clip and the engine worked capitally. I had no fear of being caught, even if we should be pursued, and this, in the broad light of the peaceful Sabbath afternoon, seemed the remotest possibility. It had been understood that we were to remain out until the sun dropped into the western wood, and I loitered on toward the upper lake where the shores were rougher. "That's a real island over there--they call it Battle Orchard--you must have a glimpse of it." "Oh, nothing is so delightful as an island!" exclaimed Helen; and she quoted William Sharp's lines: "There is an Isle beyond our ken, Haunted by Dreams of weary men. Gray Hopes enshadow it with wings Weary with burdens of old things: There the insatiate water-springs Rise with the tears of all who weep: And deep within it,--deep, oh, deep!-- The furtive voice of Sorrow sings. There evermore, Till Time be o'er, Sad, oh, so sad! the Dreams of men Drift through the Isle beyond our ken." Ijima had scanned the lake constantly since we started, as was his habit. Miss Pat turned to speak to Helen of the shore that now swept away from us in broader curves as we passed out of the connecting channel into the farther lake. Ijima remarked to me quietly, as though speaking of the engine: "There's a man following in a rowboat.", And as I replied to some remark by Miss Pat, I saw, half a mile distant, its sails hanging idly, a sloop that answered Gillespie's description of the _Stiletto_. Its snowy canvas shone white against the green verdure of Battle Orchard. "Shut off the power a moment. We will turn here, Ijima,"--and I called Miss Pat's attention to a hoary old sycamore on the western shore. "Oh, I'm disappointed not to cruise nearer the island with the romantic name," cried Helen. "And there's a yacht over there, too!"