But, despite the dreariness of the storm outside, there was pleasing comfort within the cottage. The increasing darkness of the night, the dashing rain and the noisy wind, like unwelcome guests, came only to the threshold and gained no admittance. A fire of driftwood blazed in the big stone fireplace, and the soft rays shed by a lamp suspended from the ceiling further lighted up the cosy room. There were four occupants of the room. Mrs. Warren, a sweet-faced, cheery little woman, and the three brothers, were seated about the fire. They were conversing earnestly, and, as the talk progressed, it seemed as though the influence of the storm was getting into the room. “It’s no use, mother,” said George Warren, who stood in front of the fireplace, facing the others, “trying to make us think that Tom and Bob did not start to cross the bay. Ever since the boys were out in the big storm on Moosehead Lake they’ve been afraid of nothing. Tom Harris declares his canoe will stand as rough a sea as a dory,—and, what’s more, the storm hadn’t begun by the time they must have left the mouth of the river.” “Yes, but Captain Chase would warn them not to cross.” “I’ve no doubt he did, mother; and, if he did, that might make it so much the worse. If the boys had been in a sailboat they probably would have listened to him; but the captain would sneer at that canoe, and would like as not tell them it wasn’t fit to cross the bay in at any time, much less in rough water. And that would be just enough to put them on their mettle. They’d make the attempt, even if they had to put back.” “Yes, and Tom said in the note that they would be here to-night,” broke in young Joe. “And when he gave that to Captain Chase to bring, it showed he meant to start, anyway.” “But when the storm increased they would put back,” urged Mrs. Warren. “No,” answered George, “they must have gotten two-thirds of the way across the bay before the worst of the storm broke. The storm seemed to hold up for an hour or two during the latter part of the afternoon, and then increased all of a sudden with the turn of the tide. The boys would have gotten so far across that it would be too late to turn back, and they would have to keep on.” “And yet you boys want to imitate their recklessness!” cried Mrs. Warren, impatiently. “Come, Arthur,” and she turned to the boy who had remained silent thus far during the discussion. “Help me convince your brothers of their mistake. You don’t agree with them, I am sure.” The boy thus addressed, though a year younger than his elder brother, was the one on whose judgment the mother more often relied. He was fully as active as the other two, but his was a calmer temperament than theirs. This confidence in him really extended to his brothers, though they joked him on his moderate, studious ways, and called him the “professor,” because he was a little near-sighted and sometimes wore glasses. He came forward now and stood by his mother’s chair.