But we still followed the star with our eyes, and we saw it gain the end of the procession, sweep on at its own pace, past the casino, and then turn abruptly and drive straight for Glenarm pier. It was now between us and our own shore. It shone a moment against our pier lights; then the star and the fairy lanterns beneath it vanished one after another and the canoe disappeared as utterly as though it had never been. I purposely steered a zigzag course back to St. Agatha's. Since Helen had seen fit to play this trick upon her aunt I wished to give her ample time to dispose of her canoe and return to the school. If we had been struck by a mere resemblance, why did the canoeist not go on to the casino and enjoy the fruits of her victory? I tried to imagine Gillespie a party to the escapade, but I could not fit him into it. Meanwhile I babbled on with Miss Pat. An occasional rocket still broke with a golden shower over the lake, and she now discussed the carnival and declared the gondola inferior for grace to the American canoe. Her phrases were, however, a trifle stiff and not in her usual light manner. I walked with her from the pier to St. Agatha's. Sister Margaret, who had observed the procession from an upper window, threw open the door for us. "How is Helen?" asked Miss Pat at once. "She is very comfortable," replied the Sister. "I went up only a moment ago to see if she wanted anything." Miss Pat turned and gave me her hand in her pretty fashion. "You see, it could not have been--it was not--Helen; our eyes deceived us! Thank you very much, Mr. Donovan!" There was no mistaking her relief; she smiled upon me beamingly as I stood before her at the door. "Of course! On a fête night one can never trust one's eyes!" "But it was all bewilderingly beautiful. You are most compassionate toward a poor old woman in exile, Mr. Donovan. I must go up to Helen and make her sorry for all she has missed." I went back to the launch and sought far and near upon the lake for the canoe with the single star. I wanted to see again the face that was uplifted in the flood of colored light--the head, the erect shoulders, the arms that drove the blade so easily and certainly; for if it was not Helen Holbrook it was her shadow that the gods had sent to mock me upon the face of the waters. CHAPTER XII THE MELANCHOLY OF MR. GILLESPIE I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects; and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.--_As You Like It_.