"Thanks," said Doris gratefully. "That'll save me a lot of time." In another moment Sally had beached the boat on the shore directly in front of "The Bluffs," and Doris, gently disengaging the still sleeping Genevieve, hopped ashore. "I'll see you soon again, Sally," she said, "but I've got to just scamper now, I'm so worried about Mother." She raced away up the steps, breathless with fear lest her long absence had unduly upset her invalid mother, and Sally again turned her boat out into the tide. * * * * * After supper that evening, Doris sat out at the end of the hotel pier, watching the gradual approach of sunset behind the island. Her mind was still full of the afternoon's encounter, and she wondered vaguely whether she should see more of the strange village child, so ignorant about many things, so careless about her personal appearance, who could yet quote such a wonderful poem as "The Ancient Mariner" in appropriate places and seemed to be acquainted with some queer mystery about the river. Presently she noticed a red canoe slipping into sight around a bend, and in another moment recognized Sally in the stern. There was no Genevieve with her this time. And to Doris's wondering eyes, the change in her appearance was quite amazing. No longer barefooted, she was clothed in neat tan stockings and buttoned shoes. Added to that, she boasted a pretty, well-fitting blue serge skirt and dainty blouse. But the only jarring note was a large pink bow of hideous hue, a patent imitation of the one Doris wore, balanced on her beautiful bronze hair. She managed the canoe with practiced ease, and waved her hand at Doris from afar. "Here's your canoe!" she called, as Doris hurried down the long dock to meet her on the shore. And as they met, Doris remarked: "It's early yet. How would you like to paddle around a while? I'll run in and ask Mother if I may." Again Sally flushed with pleasure as she assented, and when Doris had rushed back and seated herself in the bow of the canoe, they pushed out into the peaceful tide, wine-colored in the approaching sunset. But the evening was too beautiful for strenuous paddling. Doris soon shipped her paddle and, skilfully turning in her seat, faced Sally. "Let's not go far," she suggested, "let's just drift--and talk." Sally herself was privately only too willing. Dipping her paddle only occasionally to keep from floating in shore, she nodded another approving assent. But her country unaccustomedness to conversation held her tongue-tied for a time. "Where's Genevieve?" demanded Doris. "Oh, I put her to bed at half-past six most always," said Sally. "She's usually so sleepy she can't even finish her supper. But I miss her evenings. She's a lot of company for me."