The next morning the sun rose with a halo cast by prisms of ice in the upper air, and presently a strong west wind sprang up. Jean calculated that it would increase all the morning, perhaps all day, till it brought lower clouds from the storm center and then a gentle rain. It was Monday, the twenty-eighth. Marvin had promised to arrive before her birthday, which would be Wednesday. He would not leave his arrival till the last uncertain moment, and therefore he would come today. Her confidence was childlike and absolute. Theoretically he might be struck down by pneumonia or lightning or an automobile, but in fact he would be on the mailboat when it reached Upper Encampment at ten o’clock. Then he would borrow Mabel’s skiff and attempt to row down. But by that time the waves would be very high, and to come in a skiff would be dangerous. Therefore she must go and get him. But first she must provide for dinner. She would give him perch. She would give him strawberry shortcake made with preserved berries. So after breakfast she slipped out to catch perch. She found herself fishing with savage glee. Murder seemed natural. The prospect of crunching them in his company thrilled her. Together they would set their teeth in those delicate bodies, that opalescent nitrogen. Her golden prey captured and imprisoned, she set out for the north. Already the rowing was hard, but she hugged the western shore for a mile, turned her bow, and shot across the river to the pier. Then she stood watching. The wild west wind tousled her blossom of hair and pressed her raiment against her young bosom and exquisite limbs. By and by the postmistress joined her and was likewise sculptured. Ten o’clock, and the punctual fleck of white appeared in the north, with a banner of precious carbon flung eastward. She watched the prow. On and on it came, silent, little, and dramatic. Presently the whistle sounded, and the boat swung in. And now she saw him! He had not been struck down, but had returned as surely as a planet, as faithfully as an Indian who promises to be at a certain tree on a certain day in a certain moon. He stood on the deck in the very prow, straight as the flagstaff beside him, and waving his cap. The pier groaned with the steamer’s impact. She caught the flung hawser and fastened it round the post. She did not even look his way as he leaped ashore and shook hands with Miss Mabel, but stood at attention till she heard the mate’s order to cast off. Miss Mabel departed with the mail-sack on her shoulder and her shawl blown stiffly out. The steamer churned the water and was gone. “Glad to see me?” The wind tore the words from his lips. “Of course.” “Knew I’d come?” “Of course.” “Won’t you shake hands?” She obeyed. Then she led the way to the dory and thrust his bag far up under the tiny deck to keep it dry. She did not intend to ship any water, but you never could tell.