“Why, it says here that Dr. Ambrose Rich and his charming daughter are going to take a drive tomorrow afternoon, leaving the Rich pier at two o’clock fast time, in order to view the landscape from the top of the mountain!” She dropped her dry towel and exclaimed, “Oh, how wonderful!” It was enough. He was off before she could take it back. The dog followed him and crossed with him to Canada. He made his way through the woods to the first clearing, and was allowed to telephone for a car, and to leave the payment. Then he returned to the shore and viewed the Duckling as it lay against the western sky. From this side it was a smooth lump of silver rising into malachite pinnacles. He could imagine it in sunset as a cathedral with windows of glory, and after sunset as a smoky crystal lying under the crystalline heavens. It troubled him to think of shattering such beauty, but it could not be helped. All winds were hushed as he made his way back. The surface was smooth as a lover’s dream, and every touch made a whirling flower, and the blade dropped a long line of interwoven circles. Softly he glided into port. Softly he ascended to the smooth board that was so hard to get. He removed it from the pine, made his way over the rock, and lay down where gray moss had gathered deep. A little breeze sprang up and brought him the perfume of the grass which Indians weave into their baskets. The dog lay at his feet, with one soft paw on the totem board. But the man could not sleep. All he could think of was the utter emptiness of her larder. He arose, penetrated the grove, and stood looking about him in the shadows. The wind whispered like distant surf. From the warm pine needles arose a sleepy odor and also a delicate sweetness. Looking down, he saw the living mist of the twin-flower. To catch the elusive fragrance he reclined and inspected the source. He rested his head on the ground, and let his eye travel up each stem to where it branched in a sharp angle, suspending its roseate and balanced bells. And so he lay, still thinking of that tragic storeroom. Presently the dog pricked up his ears, but it was only at the sound of a partridge talking to her young in a voice like the rippling of water in a trout brook. Overhead a white-throated sparrow was saying something. New Englanders hear it say, “Peabody, Peabody.” Canadians incline to think it laments, “Poor Canada, Canada.” Ojibways hear a warning: “Jeegabeeg, jeegabeeg, jemaunense,” that is to say, “Keep in shore, keep in shore, little boat.” But these interpretations must be inaccurate, for Marvin, listening with all his knowledge of vibration rates, distinctly heard it call, “Jee-an Winifred, Winifred.”