ung man kneeling in the stern had
something of the perfectly balanced play of muscle, and poise of lithe
figure that belonged to the Indian. For in spite of his Anglo-Saxon
blood, Roderick McRae was as much a product of this land of lake and
forest as the Red Skin. He had almost passed her, when he looked up
and saw her for the first time. He gave a start; it seemed too good to
be true. But she bowed so distantly that his hesitating paddle dipped
again. He went on slowly, too shy to intrude. He had taken but a few
strokes when from away behind her on the darkening land, came a loud
sound of singing. Peter Fiddle was drunk again. Feeling very grateful
to Peter for the excuse, Roderick turned about, with an adroit twist of
his paddle, and glided back till he was opposite her.

"Excuse me, Miss Murray," he stammered, feeling his old shyness return,
"but--are you alone here?"

"Yes," said the girl a slight wonder in her voice at the question. "I
came down for a walk and--" she turned and glanced behind her and gave
an exclamation at the darkness of the woods. She had forgotten the
magic power the water has of gathering and holding the sunset light
long after darkness has wrapped the earth. "Oh, I had no idea it was
so late!" she cried in dismay.

Roderick joyfully ran his canoe up close to the rock. The fear in her
voice made him forget his embarrassment. "I don't wish to trouble
you," he said, "but it isn't wise to go home that path through the
woods alone." He hesitated. He did not like to tell her that Old
Peter might come down there raging drunk, and that at the head of
Willow Lane she might meet with another drunken row between Mike
Cassidy and his wife. "Oh dear!" she cried, "how could I be so
foolish? I never dreamed of its being so dark and I forgot--"

"If you will let me I'll take you home," said Roderick eagerly, "in my
canoe."

He was immeasurably relieved at her answer.

"Let you?" she cried gratefully. "Why, I'll be ever so much obliged to
you. I am sorry to be such a trouble. I don't see how I was so
careless," she added in frank apology.

Roderick knew he ought to say it was no trouble, but a pleasure. But
he was too shy and too happy. He succeeded only in mumbling, "Oh, not
at all," or something equally vague.

He brought the canoe close to the rock and held out his hand. She
stepped in very carefully, and with something the air of one venturing
out on a very thin piece of i