We came out presently upon a gravelly beach, and Bates stamped suddenly on planking. “This is the Glenarm dock, sir; and that’s the boat-house.” He waved his lantern toward a low structure that rose dark beside us. As we stood silent, peering out into the starlight, I heard distinctly the dip of a paddle and the soft gliding motion of a canoe. “It’s a boat, sir,” whispered Bates, hiding the lantern under his coat. I brushed past him and crept to the end of the dock. The paddle dipped on silently and evenly in the still water, but the sound grew fainter. A canoe is the most graceful, the most sensitive, the most inexplicable contrivance of man. With its paddle you may dip up stars along quiet shores or steal into the very harbor of dreams. I knew that furtive splash instantly, and knew that a trained hand wielded the paddle. My boyhood summers in the Maine woods were not, I frequently find, wholly wasted. The owner of the canoe had evidently stolen close to the Glenarm dock, and had made off when alarmed by the noise of our approach through the wood. “Have you a boat here?” “The boat-house is locked and I haven’t the key with me, sir,” he replied without excitement. “Of course you haven’t it,” I snapped, full of anger at his tone of irreproachable respect, and at my own helplessness. I had not even seen the place by daylight, and the woodland behind me and the lake at my feet were things of shadow and mystery. In my rage I stamped my foot. “Lead the way back,” I roared. I had turned toward the woodland when suddenly there stole across the water a voice,—a woman’s voice, deep, musical and deliberate. “Really, I shouldn’t be so angry if I were you!” it said, with a lingering note on the word angry. “Who are you? What are you doing there?” I bawled. “Just enjoying a little tranquil thought!” was the drawling, mocking reply. Far out upon the water I heard the dip and glide of the canoe, and saw faintly its outline for a moment; then it was gone. The lake, the surrounding wood, were an unknown world,—the canoe, a boat of dreams. Then again came the voice: “Good night, merry gentlemen!” “It was a lady, sir,” remarked Bates, after we had waited silently for a full minute. “How clever you are!” I sneered. “I suppose ladies prowl about here at night, shooting ducks or into people’s houses.” “It would seem quite likely, sir.” I should have liked to cast him into the lake, but be was already moving away, the lantern swinging at his side. I followed him, back through the woodland to the house.