in this desolate place, where the birds were asleep in their nests, and
the winds quiet among the mountain-tops, and the very frogs tired of their
chanting,--herself the only waking thing,--these two far, deep-toned
syllables seemed like a human voice. Like the voice, Gypsy fancied, of
some one imprisoned for years in the belfry, and crying to get out.

Two o'clock. Three--four--five--six. At about six they would begin to miss
her; her mother always called her, then, to get up. Four hours.

"Hum,--well," said Gypsy, drawing her sack-collar closer, "pretty long
time to sit out in a boat and shiver. It might be worse, though." Just
then her foot struck something soft under the seat. She pulled it out, and
found it to be an old coat of Tom's, which he sometimes used for boating.
Fortunately it was not wet, for the boat was new, and did not leak. She
wrapped it closely around her shoulders, curled herself up snugly in the
stern, and presently pronounced herself "as warm as toast, and as
comfortable as an oyster."

Then she began to look about her. All around and underneath her lay the
black, still water,--so black that the maple-branches cast no shadow on
it. About and above her rose the mountains, grim and mute, and watching,
as they had watched for ages, and would watch for ages still, all the long
night through. Overhead, the stars glittered and throbbed, and shot in and
out of ragged clouds. Far up in the great forests, that climbed the
mountain-sides, the wind was muttering like an angry voice.

Somehow it made Gypsy sit very still. She thought, if she were a poet, she
would write some verses just then; indeed, if she had had a pencil, I am
not sure but she would have, as it was.

Then some other thoughts came to Gypsy. She wondered why, of all places,
she chanced to come to the Basin in her dream. She might have gone to the
saw-mill, and been caught and whirred to death in the machinery. She might
have gone to the bridge over the river, and thrown herself off, not
knowing what she did. Or, what if the pond had been a river, and she were
now floating away, helpless, out of reach of any who came to save her, to
some far-off dam where the water roared and splashed on cruel rocks. Or
she might, in her dream, have tipped over the boat where the water was
deep, and been unable to swim, encumbered by her clothing. Then she might
have been such a girl as Sarah Rowe, who would have suffered agonies of
fright at waking to fi