DOWN THE RIVER TO
THE SEA

BY
MISS MACHAR

NEW YORK
HOME BOOK COMPANY
45 Vesey Street

Copyrighted, 1894,
by
HOME BOOK COMPANY

DOWN THE RIVER TO THE SEA

CHAPTER I—NIAGARA.

The brilliant sunshine of a July day lighted up the great cataract and the rich verdure of the surrounding landscape, bringing out all the wonderful variety of hue in the surging mass of falling water, the snowy clouds that perpetually veiled and unveiled it, the iridescence that floated elusively amid their ever-shifting billows, and the deep emerald of the islands that nestled so confidingly among the foaming, seething rapids that swept down the slope above, in order to take the fatal leap. The Clifton House veranda had its usual complement of lounging groups of guests, most of them so absorbed in gossip, flirting, or the last sensational novel, that they scarcely seemed to notice the grandeur of the scene they had come so far to enjoy. Of a very different class of visitors was May Thorburn, who sat silently in a vacant corner of the wide veranda, gazing at the ceaseless rush of the Horse-shoe Fall, in a speechless ecstasy of delight. The brown-haired, brown-eyed, rather pale girl, who sat so absorbed in the wonderful grandeur of the scene before her, was not quite sure whether she was the same May Thorburn, who, only a few days before, had been all engrossed in the usual endless round of home duties, sweeping, dusting, or stitching away at the family mending (and how much mending that family needed!), and trying to squeeze in, between these homely avocations, a little of the poetry and music in which her soul delighted. And now, here she was, in the midst of Nature’s grandest poetry and music, realizing what had been the day-dream of years! And all this wonderful happiness had come about through the thoughtful kindness of her cousin, Kate Severne, in inviting her to share the delights of a trip all the way from Niagara to the Saguenay—names that had so long stood in her mind as equivalents for the greatest enjoyment that any tourist could hope for—at least outside of Mont Blanc.

She had come by way of Hamilton, and as the train swept her rapidly through the region of peach orchards, her mind was full of vague anticipations of the delights of the prospective journey, with occasional speculations as to Kate’s two Scotch cousins, Hugh and Flora Macnab, whose visit to Canada was the immediate occasion of this present trip. Kate, who had repeatedly gone over the whole ground before, and knew it well, wished to act the part of cicerone herself, while her kind, though somewhat peculiar aunt, Mrs. Sandford, was the chaperone of the little party. It had been the thoughtful suggestion of this aunt that May, who so seldom had a holiday, should be invited to join them, a suggestion which Kate had gladly carried out, in the kind and welcome letter of invitation which had put May into such a little flurry of delightful excitement and preparation.

The rest of the party had arrived before May; and her cousin Kate had met her at the Clifton House station with an enthusiastic welcome and a torrent of information as to their future plans, scarcely half of which May could take in, being quite happy enough in the sense of being really at the Falls at last, and of getting her first glimpse of them. She only vaguely heard, in an unreal sort of way, Kate’s eager account of her cousins—how “nice” and amiable Flora was, and how well she could sketch; and how Hugh, though very quiet, was very clever, too,—had taken honors at college, had somewhat injured his health by over-study, so that he was obliged to take a rest, and had even written a little book of poems which was soon to be published,—indeed, was now in the press. “And I shouldn’t wonder if he were to write another about his travels here, and put us all into it,” she added.

May had no particular desire to “be put into a book,” but, just then, the interest of the scene before her, with the thunder of “many waters” in her ears, was strong enough to exclude all other ideas. Her eager, watching eye just caught a glimpse of what seemed a giant’s caldron of milky spray, and behind it a dazzling sheet of snow; but her cousin hurried her on into the hotel and up to her room, which, to her delight, commanded a splendid view of the Horse-shoe Fall, on which she could feast her eyes at leisure to her heart’s content. And now, indeed, anticipation and faith were swallowed up in sight! She had, of course, frequently seen photographs of the great cataract, so that the outlines of the view were familiar enough; but the exquisite coloring, the ceaseless motion, the sense of infinite power, no picture could possibly supply. As she Lay dreamily back in a lounging chair, on the veranda, scarcely conscious of anything but the grandeur of the scene, a line or two from Wordsworth’s “Yarrow Visited” flitted across her mind:

——“this is the scene
Of which my fancy cherished
So faithfully a waking dream!”

“No!” she mentally decided, “no ‘waking dream’ could picture Niagara.”

“Well, dreaming as usual?” May looked up with a start, as she felt Mrs. Sandford’s plump hand on her shoulder. “Kate wants you to make haste and get ready for an expedition. Here are the Scotch cousins. This is Flora, and this is her brother Hugh. You don’t need any formal introduction. Kate will be down in a moment, and you are all going for a long stroll, she says, for which I don’t feel quite equal yet after my journey, though it is a charming afternoon; so I shall stay here and rest. Kate has promised me not to let you run into any sort of danger, and I am sure you’ll find her a capital cicerone.”

Kate, who appeared just then, renewed her promise to be most prudent, and especially to look after her cousin Hugh—her aunt’s chief object of anxiety. “And, indeed, you need taking care of,” she said, in answer to his attempted disclaimer. “You know you’re under orders not to overwalk yourself, or get heated or chilled, so mind, Kate, you don’t let him. I don’t want to have to stop on the way to nurse an invalid!”

“I don’t think you need be at all afraid, Aunt Bella,” the young man replied, with what May thought a pleasant touch of Scottish accent, though his pale face had flushed a little at the allusion to his semi-invalidism, which had been the immediate cause of his journey to Canada. His sister Flora, however, with her abundant fair hair, which, like her brother’s, just missed being red, looked the picture of health and youthful energy.

May, with her straw hat beside her, needed no further preparation for the expedition, on which she was, indeed, impatient to set out at once, Kate, to her relief, leading the way with Mr. Hugh Macnab, who was not her cousin, and it did not seem to her that she could find anything to say to any one so learned and clever as this quiet-looking young man must be. It seemed much easier to talk to the frank and merry Flora, who tripped on by her side, looking very fresh and trim and tourist-like, in her plain gray traveling hat and gray tweed dress, made as short as a sensible fashion would allow, and showing off to perfection a lithe, well-rounded figure and a pair of shapely and very capable feet. The party entered what is now called Victoria Park, and walked leisurely along the brink of the precipitous cliff that here formed the river bank, stopping at frequent intervals the better to take in some particular aspect of the wonderful scene before them.

“That’s the advantage of not taking a carriage, here,” explained Kate, who had relentlessly refused all the entreaties of the hackmen. “It’s ever so much nicer to go on your own feet, and stop just where you please, and as long as you please! We don’t want to hurry here. It’s a charming walk, now that all the old photographic saloons and so-called museums have been cleared away! By and by, when we feel a little tired, we can take a carriage for the rest of the way.”

May soon felt the dreamlike sensation come over her again, as they wandered slowly along the steep cliffs of shade, and came from time to time on some specially charming view of the white foaming sheet of the American Falls, so dazzlingly pure in its virgin beauty, as it vaults over the hollow cliff into the soft veil of mist that perpetually rises about its feet—always dispersing and ever rising anew. Then, as their eager gaze followed the line of the opposite bank, black, jagged and shining with its perpetual shower-bath of spray, what a glorious revelation of almost infinite grandeur was that curving, quivering sheet of thundering surge, with its heart of purest green, and its mighty masses of dazzling foam, and its ascending clouds of milky spray,—sometimes entirely obscuring the fall itself, as they float across the boiling caldron,—sometimes partially dispersed and spanned by the soft-hued arc, which here, as at the close of the thunder-storm, seems like the tender kiss of love, hushing the wild tumult into peace. From many other points she could get better views of individual details, but no nobler view of the mighty whole, than from this silent, never-to-be-forgotten ramble. No one said much; even the lively Kate lapsed from her office of cicerone, or, rather, best fulfilled it, by her silence; for, when the infinite in Nature speaks, the human voice may well be still. And how grand a voice was that which the cataract was speaking,—even to the outward ear! The “voice of many waters”—mighty as thunder, yet soft as a summer breeze—seemed to leave the whole being immersed and absorbed in the ceaseless rush and roar of the “Thunder of Waters”—the majesty of whose motion appeared to be, itself, repose.

This feeling deepened as they advanced nearer to the edge of the Horse-shoe Falls. They paused on Table Rock, so much less prominent than it used to be years ago. At every turn they paused, lost in the grandeur of the present impression. It was Kate who first roused them to a sense of the passage of time, and gave the order to proceed, for the afternoon was swiftly gliding by.

“Well!” said Hugh, “I never felt as if I had got so near the state of self-annihilation, the ‘Nirvana’ we read about. I don’t wonder at suicides here, under the fascinating influence of these rushing waters!”

“Really, Hugh,” exclaimed his sister, “I should scarcely have expected to hear you rhapsodizing at such a rate! We shall have to look after him, Kate.” Hugh replied only by a half smile, but May noticed his heightened color and the absorbed expression of his dark blue eyes, and began to feel much less shy of him. She had much the same feeling herself, though too reserved to say it out.

Kate hurried them on, until they had reached the very edge of the great Horse-shoe Fall. Here they stopped and sat down on a long black beam of timber that lay on the side of the quivering torrent, there seeming almost stationary, as if pausing in awe of the mighty leap before it. Just inside the old beam lay a quiet pool, reflecting the sky, in which a child might bathe its feet without the slightest danger, while, on the outside, swept the great resistless flood of white-breasted rapids, moving down the steep incline with a majesty only less inspiring than that of the cataract itself.

“Well! don’t you think Niagara deserves its name, which means ‘Thunder of Waters’?” asked Kate, after a long silence.

“It scarcely could have one that better describes the impression it makes,” said Hugh Macnab, in a low, meditative tone.

“Are you tired yet, Hugh?” asked Kate; “shall we walk on—it’s a good mile—or take a carriage?”

“Walk, by all means,” said Hugh, “if the rest of you are not tired.”

They walked leisurely on by the shore, washed by the swift hurrying water, while, above them, to their right, Kate pointed out the railway track along which they had come, and the point at which they had stopped, in order to get the celebrated “Fall view.”

“I shall never forget it,” said Flora. “I was a little disappointed at first about the height. I couldn’t see that from there, nor realize it at all! But the grandeur of the scale quite took my breath away. It was like seeing Mont Blanc for the first time. It takes a little while before you can feel yourself grow up to it!”

“That’s it exactly!” exclaimed Kate. “That just expresses my own feelings when I saw them first. Well, May, you look sober enough over it all.”

“Oh, Kate, it’s too grand for words; I’m trying to ‘grow up to it,’” she added, smiling.

They reached the bridge leading to the lovely Sister or Cynthia Islands, nestling amid the tumult and foam as safely as in the embrace of a calmly winding river where the constant shower-bath of the spray keeps the foliage and the ferns at their greenest and freshest; and the contrast between the tranquil beauty of the woodland ways and the turmoil of the rapids beyond greatly heightened the charm of the scene.

“Now, we must take a carriage back,” said Kate decidedly; and no one objected now, for all were tolerably tired, between the physical fatigue and the mental strain involved in the mere appreciation of so much beauty. They stopped for a few minutes at the Burning Spring, to look, as in duty bound, at that natural curiosity, and then settled themselves comfortably in the carriage they had hailed, while Kate gave the order to return by Prospect Drive, along the bluffs above, whence they could take in the whole sweep of the grand river from Navy Island, at the foot of Lake Erie, to the dark, narrow gorge below the Falls, where the waters fret and toss their crests, like angry coursers fretting at the curbing bit.

“Now,” said Kate, “if it were not so late already, I should have had you driven to Lundy’s Lane,—only about a mile and a half west of us; but it’s too late, for to-day.”

“What is remarkable about Lundy’s Lane?” inquired Hugh Macnab. “I confess my ignorance.”

“Oh, of course; one doesn’t expect you to be posted in Canadian history,” Kate replied. “Lundy’s Lane is where the British troops and Canadian volunteers beat the Americans eighty years ago, when they tried to take Canada.”

“Oh! I see. Pardon my ignorance. I never happened to hear of such things as battle-grounds in connection with Niagara. I shall have to read up these historical associations.”

“May can tell you all about it,” replied Kate. “She’s great on Canadian history. And there is something about it in my guide book; so you can read up in the evenings all about Lundy’s Lane and Queenston Heights, and then you can see them both, if you care enough about it.”

The drive was charming, under the slanting rays of the August sun; the sky and water taking on such exquisite ethereal tints, the iris on the clouds of spray so delicately bright, that their gaze was constantly turning backwards as they glided rapidly over the smooth high-road back towards the “Clifton.”

“Now for a rest, then dinner—and then, you know, we shall have the moon, and a lovely time for watching the Falls by moonlight.”

Kate’s programme was fully enjoyed—not least the latter portion of it. They were all tempted forth for another stroll along the river bank, halting again at some of the points from whence they had so greatly enjoyed the afternoon views, to compare the difference of the moonlight effect—less distinct, but more romantic and suggestive. Kate and Flora preferred, on the whole, the play of color and cheerful light of day, while Hugh Macnab endorsed May’s preference for the moonlight, which is as effective at Niagara as at Melrose Abbey. They sat long on the piazza that night, saying little, but silently enjoying the marvelous scene—the glory of the white, shimmering water, the solemn majesty of the ascending column of misty spray, and the strong contrast of light and shade—until the picture seemed to have become a part of their mental consciousness, never to be forgotten and a “joy forever.”

Next morning the party met at breakfast in good time, as they had a long day before them, and meant to make the best possible use of it. It was a charming morning, and they all set off in the best possible spirits, enjoying the Falls both in the present and the future. To begin with, however, there was a difficulty to be got over. The juniors were all eager to cross the river in the ferry-boat, so as to have the glorious view of the great cataract from a point of view which gives a different and grander impression than almost any other. But Aunt Bella stoutly refused even to consider the suggestion of trusting herself to the tender mercies of a cockle-shell of a boat tossed on that “boiling flood.” The difficulty was finally settled by Kate, who put her aunt under the care of a hackman who promised to take her across the suspension bridge and meet them at Prospect Point. The rest of the party, in high glee, followed the winding road that leads down to the ferry, and were soon packed into the large, heavy skiff. Here, indeed, they had the full view of both of the magnificent falls and of the boiling, white caldron below, and the dark, malachite-green rapids that seem to press like a solid body down the narrow river gorge, after leaving the turbulence of the boiling basin behind them. The cool spray dashed in the faces of the happy party as the boat danced lightly over the heaving waters, under the strong strokes of the sturdy rowers; and, when they reached the other side, after a short passage, they all felt as if the exciting pleasure had been quite too brief. On landing they ascended in the elevator to the bank above, and at once took their way to Prospect Point, where they stood for some time lost in the fascination of the scene before them—the majestic American Fall rushing down in snowy foam from the slope of furious white-crested rapids just above the headlong torrent. The thundering sheet filled their ears with its mighty music, and as they could now see its outline curved inwards almost as much as that of the “Horse-shoe” itself, for, of course, the action of falling water is the same on both sides of the river. But the fact that the rapids are here compressed by scattered islands seems to add to the force and fury with which they dash themselves wildly over the stony ledges with a resistless strength which makes us realize the power of the one spiritual force which is described as stronger than “many waters.” After they had stood silently watching the ceaseless progress of the waters, until all their senses had seemed to be filled with its mighty rush and roar, they joined Mrs. Sandford in the carriage, and were speedily driven across the bridge leading over the rapids to Goat Island, which seemed to May like a little tranquil paradise nestling amid the wild fury of the raging floods. Here, indeed, they could have all varieties of scenery. The whole party left the carriage, so that they might feel at liberty to enjoy all the charming nooks of the island at their own sweet will; Aunt Bella, however, preferring to make a leisurely circuit in the carriage, and take them up again at the end of it.

“Only see that Hugh doesn’t tire himself out,” she called out as they left her behind, and Kate, who noticed the young man’s rising color and expression of repressed annoyance at the allusion to them, hurried into a lively talk about the natural history of the island, explaining that it was fast wearing away under the force of the torrent; that it had been gradually growing smaller during the last hundred years, and that probably, in the course of another century, it would have almost entirely disappeared.

“Now, come round this way,” she said, “and soon you will almost forget that you are on the edge of the biggest waterfall in the world.”

They followed her lead, taking the woodland path to the left, catching charming glimpses of the fleecy rapids between the overhanging boughs of the trees, on which birds sang sweetly and merry squirrels frisked and chattered, as if in a solitary wilderness far from the busy haunts of men. As they came out presently on the open ground at the head of the island, they found themselves beside “still waters,” the shoal water rippling gently over the gravel, as if it were a quiet reach of woodland stream; while, above them, lay a smooth stretch of Lake Erie, with Grand Island in the distance, its apparent placidity concealing the fierce undercurrent which no power of man could stem.

“One might ‘moralize the spectacle’ to any extent,” said Hugh Macnab, as Kate told some stories of the deadly strength of that hidden current—that delusively peaceful expanse of water.

“But we haven’t time for moralizing,” retorted Kate. “Now for a change of scene.”

A change of scene it was, when they came out on one of the light rustic bridges which lead across the foaming rapids to the nearest small island, and from one to another of these fairy islets, so tiny that it only seems strange that they are not swept bodily over the Falls, with their wave-worn rocks and trees, gnarled and twisted by the prevailing winds. Under the bridges they saw pretty silver cascades, and swift rushing streams, looking innocent enough, but all charged with a portion of the same overpowering force. On the outer verge of the farthest one they stood, gazing across the boiling sea of rapids that extends unbroken from the Canada shore. Kate pointed out the column of spray which rose at one point, produced by the collision of cross-currents, driving the water forcibly upwards. Then, recrossing the little bridges, they slowly walked along the road leading by the edge of the island overlooking the rapids, till they found themselves standing on the verge of the great Horse-shoe Fall.

“Our Canadian Fall is the grandest, after all,” said May.

“Yes,” replied Kate, “only it isn’t all Canadian, you see, for the boundary-line runs somewhere about the middle of the river. The Americans have more than their own share—all their own, and nearly half of ours.”

“I shouldn’t think it mattered much,” observed Hugh, “as they certainly can’t take it away, or fence it in, and forbid trespassers.”

Their eyes followed the long, irregular curve, more like the figure five than like a horse-shoe, and so deeply indented in the center that they could scarcely mark the center of the abyss, whose almost apple-green tint was every moment hidden by the perpetually ascending clouds of milky spray, sometimes touched by the tinted bow, and always descending into the cloudy veil that eternally conceals the seething abyss below.

“This is Terrapin Rock,” said Kate, after they had looked in silence for a time; “and there used to be a tower here from which you could look down on all this wild raging commotion, feeling the strong stone structure tremble beneath you. It came down at last—or was pulled down, because it was thought dangerous, I forget which.”

“Well, this is fearful enough for me,” said Flora, turning away, at last, with Kate, while May still stood lost in the fascination of the scene, till roused by Kate’s call, when she discovered that Hugh Macnab had lingered also, absorbed in the same fascination, and was now waiting to help her back across the little bridge which joined the rocky point to the island.

“It seems like waking up to one’s own identity again, after having lost it in a vague sense of ‘the Immensities,’” remarked Hugh, as they joined the others; and May felt that the words exactly expressed her own feeling.

“But we must wake up in earnest,” said Kate, “and hurry on, or Aunt Bella will be certainly imagining that we have all gone over the Falls.”

They hurried along the smooth, broad road till they at last came up with Aunt Bella, seated on a rustic bench, with a large basket beside her.

“Oh, my dears! what have—” she began, but Kate playfully laid her finger on her lips, saying: “We are all here, Auntie, quite safe, and now we are going to look at the Fall from Luna Island.”

“My dear, not I! I never could go there since that dreadful thing happened there, years ago. It makes me faint, just to think of it! If you go, do be careful! Don’t go and stand near the brink!”

“No; we’ll be careful, I assure you. Now don’t worry about us! We’ll be back soon, and then we’ll have our luncheon.” And she led the way down the stair that leads from Goat Island to the charming bit of bosky green which cuts off the small “Central Fall” from the great “American Fall.” May and Flora both exclaimed with delight over its wonderful combination of beauty and terror, its glancing, silvery sheen and terrible velocity, as it rushed past them at headlong speed, on to the misty depths below. And while they stood fascinated by the sight, Kate told them the tale of the tragedy which had happened there on one bright summer day like this, when a young man thoughtlessly caught up a little child and sportingly held her over the brink,—when the struggling little one somehow escaped from his grasp, and the horror-stricken young man madly leaped after her, both being instantly lost to sight in the wild rush of the torrent.

Hugh Macnab turned away with a blanched face. “What a penalty for a momentary thoughtlessness!” he said, in a scarcely audible tone.

And a hush seemed to steal over the little party, as they turned silently away from the fateful spot.

“Yes,” remarked Kate, as they reascended the stairway to Goat Island, “the old Indian legend was not so far wrong—that the deity of the Falls demanded a victim yearly. There is scarcely a year in which more than one victim is not secured by these insatiable waters, though it is not always a young maiden—as the legend has it.”

When they reached Mrs. Sandford, they found that she had spread the contents of the basket on a white cloth on the grass, and they were all hungry enough to enjoy their luncheon in the midst of such romantic surroundings. After the lunch was finished, and they had all rested for awhile, they made their way to the little staircase close by, down which they were all to go in order to get the wonderful view from below. Mrs. Sandford chose to descend in the elevator, and insisted that Hugh should accompany her, while the three girls ran merrily down the long stair, Flora counting the steps on the way. Hugh was determined, in spite of all his aunt’s persuasive eloquence, to don a waterproof suit in order to go under the Falls and explore the Cave of the Winds; and Kate agreed to be his companion, the rest preferring to venture along the rocky pathway, only so far as they could safely do, under cover of their umbrellas. Mrs. Sandford took her seat on a mass of black rock, declaring that she would remain there, in fear and trembling, until they all returned in safety from their expedition. May and Flora strolled about the surrounding rocks, looking up, with some dread, at the precipices towering above them, and at the tremendous columns of falling water, which filled in the view in every direction. Presently, three frightful figures in bulky garments of yellow oilskin emerged from the building at the foot of the stairs, from two of which they presently, to their great amusement, recognized the voices of Hugh and Kate, accompanied by the guide. Allowing these extraordinary figures to precede them, May and Flora clung closely together, holding an umbrella between them, and following, as closely as they could, along the narrow pathway, where the spray rained down perpetually on the shining black rocks below. As they left the American Fall farther behind them, skirting the rugged brown cliffs that support Goat Island high overhead, the pathway became comparatively dry, and they could see more clearly before them the great Fall they were approaching from beneath—its tremendous wall of fleecy foam rising high above them into the deep blue sky, and losing itself below in the floating clouds of spray, which they soon began to feel again in a renewal of the light shower. The two girls had to stop, at last, and stood spellbound, watching the mighty expanse of eternally falling water, its fleecy, flashing masses of milk-white foam, and its gray impalpable billows of ever-ascending spray—through the rifts in which they could ever and anon catch glimpses of that seemingly solid gray wall of water behind. Strange sensations of awe at its solemn grandeur alternating with the sense of the exquisite beauty of the scene absorbed their consciousness, while they mechanically observed, also, the yellow figures—so infinitesimally small beside the mighty cataract—as they passed onward, and were for a few moments, to their momentary terror, lost to view among the clouds of spray that hid their farther progress. Very soon, however, they emerged again, and soon regained the point where the girls were standing, breathless and dripping, but in overflowing spirits.

“And what did you see, when you got in behind the Falls?” asked Flora.

“We certainly did not see much,” replied her brother. “Everything visible seemed swallowed up in a gray mist, but the whole experience was a wonderful one! I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

“Well, I’m quite contented with what I’ve had!” said Flora.

May had for a moment a little wistful sense of having missed something, but, after all, intense satisfaction preponderated.

Returning again to the starting-point, they gave Mrs. Sandford reassuring evidence of their safety, so far, and promising a quick return, they pursued their way to the entrance of the “Cave of the Winds,” the name given to the hollow arched over by the concave rock and the falling sheet of the lovely little Central Fall. May and Flora again followed under their umbrella, as far as they dared, and there waited, enjoying the wonder and novelty of the sight. May gazed into the mysterious cavern before her, veiled by the clouds of milky spray, as if it were indeed the veritable Cave of Æolus, in which were confined the wailing winds which clamored to be let loose on their mission of destruction, and also, it might be, of blessing; whose hollow roar seemed blended with the full soft “thunder of waters.”

May had lost all count of time, absorbed in the scene before her, when Flora’s relieved exclamation, “Oh, here they are at last!” recalled her absorbed senses, and she perceived the dripping figures of what might have been disguised river-gods, scrambling back along the wet, rocky pathway.

“Oh, it was grand!” Kate declared. “I’ll never forget it! To stand, just between those two lovely falls, till you felt as if you were actually a part of them! And then we went on a little way behind the American sheet, too.”

“Well, Hugh, are you satisfied now?” asked Flora. Hugh’s eyes were shining through the dripping moisture, and his face, so far as it was visible, was glowing with exercise and excitement.

“Satisfied? No!—delighted? Yes. But when is the eye satisfied with seeing? The grandest sights only seem to quicken our aspirations towards the Infinite.”

But Aunt Bella was now beckoning to the party to hasten back, and, as soon as they were within speaking distance, she hurried Hugh off to change his clothes as speedily as possible. Kate and he were soon out of their grotesque disguise, and in a few minutes they were all ascending, in the elevator, to the upper bank. Here they found the carriage awaiting them, which had been ordered to come back to meet them, and discovered, to their surprise, that they would have to drive home as rapidly as possible if they wished to be at the Clifton in time for the hotel dinner. It was a quiet drive across the suspension bridge, with the Falls to their left, and the deep green gorge of the winding river to their right. Each felt the silent enjoyment of the scenes they had just left, and of the fair evening view around them—with the wonderful Falls always in the distance,—quite enough for the present, without trying to talk about it. Even Mrs. Sandford, usually discursive, was too much fatigued with the day’s outing to do her usual part in the matter of conversation.

They made up for it later, however, when, too tired for further roaming, they all sat on the balcony watching the sunset tints fade into those of the brightening moonlight, whose whiteness seemed to harmonize so well with the snowy sheen of the Falls. Kate got out her guidebook, and, with occasional appeals to May to fill up her outlines, gave the strangers a few particulars as to the historical associations of the locality. “You see,” she said, “all this frontier was the natural scene of hostilities when the two countries were at war. This is one of the points at which New York troops could most easily make their entrance into Canada.” And then Hugh Macnab, by dint of cross-questioning, drew from the two girls, in turn, the main outlines of the war of 1812, concluding with the battle of Lundy’s Lane. As they at last said good-night to each other, and to the beauty of the moonlit Falls, they noticed regretfully that a yellowish halo had formed round the moon.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Sandford, “it’s quite likely we shall have a rainy day to-morrow, and, when it once begins, I shouldn’t wonder if we had two or three days of it, after such a dry time!”

“Well, we won’t believe anything quite so dreadful just now,” said Kate. “We’ll go to sleep now, and hope for the best.”

Mrs. Sandford was somewhat triumphant in the justification of her weather wisdom, when they heard, next morning, the sound of the rain pattering down on the veranda without. The morning did, indeed, look gray, dull, unpromising, as even a July day can sometimes look. May was rather mournful over the loss of the light and color, and the general change that had come over the landscape. But Kate persisted in her optimistic declaration that she believed it would soon clear up, and then everything would be even more lovely than before. Meantime they would have the chance of seeing how the Falls looked in bad weather!

And, indeed, they were by no means without beauty, even now. The purity of the central green was gone, but the soft gray tones melting away into gray mist, under a gray sky, gave the effect of a sketch rather than a finished picture, with suggestions of sublimity far beyond the visible.

As they wistfully scanned the sky after breakfast, watching for a promising gleam of blue, Kate proposed a programme to be carried out as soon as it should clear.

“You see it will be too wet for much walking and scrambling about, which would never do for Hugh, at any rate. Now, let us order a carriage and take a nice leisurely drive all about the country. We’ve seen the Falls pretty well now, and we can do the battle-grounds—Lundy’s Lane and Queenston Heights, and take the Whirlpool on the way.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said Mrs. Sandford resignedly, “if it does clear.” So she settled down to her knitting. Hugh Macnab sat scribbling in his note-book; Flora amused herself at the piano, and May hovered about the veranda, still enthralled by the spell of the “Thunder of Waters,” even in a washed-out sketch, as Kate styled it. But by and by, a warm, soft gleam stole through the mist-laden atmosphere, small patches of blue sky appeared, and, in a very short time, the color had, as if by magic, come back to the scene; the foliage stood out greener than before, and the emerald once more gemmed the center of the Horse-shoe Falls, though somewhat less than it had previously appeared.

The carriage was quickly summoned, and they were soon rolling smoothly along the road that led away from the river, through the quiet little village of Drummondville—back to Lundy’s Lane.

“You see we are really beginning at the end,” said Kate. “Lundy’s Lane came at the close of the war, in 1814, and it began in October, 1812, at Queenston Heights, which we are going to see this afternoon. For, you see, the American troops kept harassing this border for a couple of years.”

“Just as your English forefathers used to harass my Scotch ones long ago,” said Hugh.

“Oh, and I suppose the Scotch never did likewise! Indeed, I rather think they were a good deal the worst,” laughed Kate. “But, at any rate, this sort of thing had been going on for nearly two years, keeping the poor people in a state of constant dread, and I think Sir Gordon Drummond and his sixteen hundred men, part of them British troops and part Canadian volunteers, must have been pretty tired of it. He made up his mind, however, that, come what might, he wouldn’t retire before even five thousand Americans. That hill there was where he stationed his troops, and, as the guidebook says, they stayed there, though the Americans did their best to drive them off. At last they tired out the American general, who fell off with his defeated army to their camp, away up there beyond Chippewa—in the direction we walked the first afternoon—and I believe they never halted till they got back to Fort Erie, from whence they had come.”

“Your Canadian volunteers must have been a plucky lot of fellows; no disgrace to the British flag they bore,” Hugh observed.

“Yes, and it wasn’t only the men who were plucky,” May remarked, somewhat shyly. “The summer before Lundy’s Lane, a woman did one of the bravest deeds of the whole war. Her name was Laura Secord, and she was the wife of a militiaman who had been crippled in the war. She found out that the American troops were on the march from Fort George, down at the mouth of the river, with the object of cutting off a little garrison of volunteers entrenched at a place called Beaver Dam. If the Americans could have managed this it would have been a great blow to the Canadians; and, as there was no one to warn them, this brave young woman determined to walk all the way—and a very lonely way it was—through the woods, to warn Fitzgibbon, the British commander. She succeeded in getting through the Yankee lines, and arrived safely at the little Canadian garrison; and when the American troops arrived they met so hot a reception from sharp-shooters concealed in the woods, with a few British soldiers in front, that the commander thought he was trapped into an encounter with the whole British force, and precipitately surrendered his six hundred men, guns and all, to a Canadian force of much less than half his own numbers.”

“Well,” exclaimed Hugh, his eye lighting, and his cheek flushing, “that was a brave woman. Such an exploit as that, in our old border wars would have been immortalized in a ballad.”

“It has been the subject of two or three Canadian poems,” Kate replied. “May knows all about them, and I have no doubt she could recite some of the verses about Laura Secord.”

And May, on being pressed, recited a portion of a ballad rather shyly, but still with a good deal of spirit, and seeming to feel more at home with the formidable Hugh, through their fellow-feeling about such traditionary tales. They looked at the little hill and tried to imagine the scene, when, at sunset, the guns mingled their ominous roar with the majestic thunder of the Falls, until recalled by Mrs. Sandford to the recollection that it was nearly lunch-time. They drove some distance further along the pretty shady lane, with its bordering gardens and orchards on either side, and then rapidly returned to the hotel.

In the afternoon they set out again to drive down the river,—the afternoon being a lovely one,—the air fragrant with wandering scents from the woods, and the roads freed from dust by the recent rain. They drove past the little town of Niagara Falls, or Clifton, as it is still sometimes called, at the point where the railway crosses the river on its great suspension bridge, and whose chief center of life is the great railway station for the whole vicinity. Leaving that behind, they followed the road along the river bank till they turned in at the gate leading to the descent to the Whirlpool. A steep, wooded incline descended the abrupt and densely wooded cliffs, down which, at intervals, ran a car, drawn up and down by a chain that passed over a wheel at the top. The fatigue of a descent in any other way was not to be thought of; so, although this way looked rather formidable, they all committed themselves to the car, except Mrs. Sandford, who preferred to remain at the top until their return—remarking that she had no fancy for tobogganing, especially on dry land! And, indeed, the dizzy speed at which they descended was not altogether unlike tobogganing—at least, according to Kate—which, Hugh said, was some satisfaction, since he should not be able to enjoy the thing itself. At the foot of the rapid descent they had only to follow a woodland path for a short distance in order to get a full view of the boiling and raging torrent; the waters, to a depth of more than two hundred feet, being compressed into a narrow channel of about a hundred yards between the high precipitous banks, till the confined and chafing stream seemed to rise into a ridge of great seething, foaming waves, tossing their heads up like small geysers, or waterspouts, some twenty feet high, as they dashed furiously against each other with all the force of the strong hidden currents. Just here, where the river swerved suddenly to the right, the sweep of the river round the American cliff made a sort of back-eddy in the bay formed by the receding heights above them—where, under a surface of apparently still water, its solemn depths, dark and somber, like a mountain tarn set in the midst of dusky pines, lay concealed, save for a few whirling eddies, a fierce vortex, which nothing that approached it could resist. Looking only on the placid surface, it was difficult to realize the hidden power beneath, until Hugh Macnab threw a large piece of stick near the center, where they saw it continue to gyrate with tremendous speed as long as they cared to watch it. Kate said there were gruesome stories of bodies which had been carried over the Falls, reappearing here for a horrible dance of death, which it made them shudder to imagine. Hugh enthusiastically declared that the dark and savage grandeur of this lonely gorge, with its steep overhanging heights, rising in their dusky green against the sky, like prison walls about the little Maëlstrom, was the finest bit of scenery he had yet seen about the Falls, and seemed just the place in which to imagine any tragedy.

“Can’t you invent one for it?” asked Flora.

“Nothing worthy of the scene, I am afraid,” he replied. “It recalls Schiller’s ‘Diver,’ though, which has been haunting me constantly during the last few days. Do you remember it?”

Kate did not, but May had read Lord Lytton’s translation of it, and remembered it, though not distinctly.

“Couldn’t you repeat a verse or two of your own translation?” said Flora.

“I should have to repeat my own, if I did any,” he said, smiling, “for it’s the only one I could manage to remember.”

“Well, give us a bit of it, do,” commanded Kate.

Hugh thought for a moment. “I’ll give you the two stanzas that might do for a description of the present scene,” he said, and went on to recite, with great spirit:

“And it boils and it seethes, and it hisses and roars,
As if fire struggled fierce with the wave,
And a misty spray-cloud from its bosom outpours,
And the chasing floods endlessly rave;
And, like thunder remote, with its low distant rumbles,
The foam-crested stream from the dark cañon tumbles!

But at last comes a lull in the turbulent war,
And black in the midst of white foam
A yawning rift gapes in the center, that far
Leads downwards to bottomless gloom;
And lo! all the surges, swift, rushing and roaring,
Down into the whirlpool are endlessly pouring!”

“It has the merit of being pretty literal, at any rate,” he added, as they all thanked him, while Flora whispered to May that the whole translation was in the new book that was nearly ready. “But it is so strong and terse in the original that it is extremely difficult to render with any justice in a translation.”

“It would do for a description of this whirlpool, at any rate,” said Kate. And then she told them of a real tragedy, not unlike that of “The Diver,” which had been recently enacted there, the feat of a bold swimmer, who had ventured to oppose his own strength and skill to that resistless force of the flood, with a similar result.

“Poor fellow!” said Hugh, “that’s tragedy enough for the place without inventing one. But why will man be so foolhardy?”

“I can tell you of another daring feat, that succeeded though,” replied Kate, “though that might have seemed foolhardy, too.” And she went on to tell them how a little steamboat called the “Maid of the Mist,” which used to ply up and down, just below the Falls, in order to give visitors the same view they now had from the ferry boat, had finally been taken down the river to Niagara, at its mouth, piloted through these fierce rapids and that greedy whirlpool; and how, when at last the pilot had successfully accomplished his anxious task, and left the boat at its dock, he looked at least ten years older than he had done only an hour or two before.

While they talked Flora was trying to make a rapid sketch of the view had from where they sat on the bank—just as a help to remember it by, she said, for there was far too much to attempt in a hasty sketch, and the others were not sorry for an excuse to linger a little longer in so striking and picturesque a spot; but at last they felt compelled to bid it farewell, and tore themselves away, ascending in the same way in which they had come down, not without some tremor on the part of the girls, lest the stout chain should part while they were on the way. Rejoining Mrs. Sandford, who had grown very impatient, they were soon in the carriage again, but before pursuing their onward way they made a little détour, driving through a charming glen which led gradually downwards, under embowering trees and among mossy rocks and ferny glades, to where a pretty little bay lay, cut off from the raving stream by a beach of weather-worn pebbles. At the other extremity of the picturesque glen lay a little placid pool formed by an eddy of the river, at which Hugh declared he should like to stand all day with his fishing-rod, taking in leisurely all the influences of the tranquil scene. Flora, also, went into raptures over the place, which she said reminded her so much of a Scottish glen, and she and her brother eagerly discussed its points of similarity and contrast with several glens well known to them at home.

Returning once more to the high-road they continued their drive in the slanting afternoon light, with rich farms and orchards on either side of them and lovely glimpses of the river and the opposite bank, till they found themselves among the picturesque dingles that lie round Queenston Heights, ascending the noble eminence, crowned by a stately shaft, which had been for some time looming before them in the distance. This height, Kate declared, was a natural monument, marking the Thermopylæ of Canada. But when they came out at last on its brow, close to the base of the shaft, they all exclaimed with delight at the exquisite beauty of the view that lay at their feet, which for the time made them forget that such things as historical associations had any existence.

Just below them lay a fair, broad bay, into which the narrow, precipitous gorge had suddenly expanded; while away to their left they could trace, as on a map, the windings of the now placid river, round point after point, between banks that in the nearer distance looked like escarpments crowned with foliage, and, as they receded, gradually fell away in height until they descended almost to the level of the great Lake Ontario, which stretched—a blue, sea-like expanse—to the horizon line. Across the river, before them, the eye traveled over miles on miles of woodland and fertile farming country, dotted with villages and homesteads; the pretty little town of Lewiston, close to the river, just below. Immediately beneath them the rugged heights fell away abruptly to the river beach, and they looked down on the picturesque little village of Queenston, nestling among its graceful weeping willows, while, from its dock, a small ferry steamer was just leaving the quiet river, on its way to the nearly opposite dock at Lewiston. One or two sailing vessels and skiffs added animation to the charming foreground, and the whole seemed an embodiment of tranquil beauty.

“Who would ever dream,” said Flora, “that this was the same river we saw raging away up there?” though May, listening attentively, could still hear the soft, distant murmur of the “Thunder of Waters.”

“War and Peace,” said Hugh. “But are we not going to ascend the monument?”

“Of course,” said Kate, when they had all read the commemorative inscription, and duly admired the graceful shaft, crowned by the figure of General Wolfe, with one hand resting on his sword and the other extended as if to cheer on his men. They climbed the winding stair within to the summit, from whence they could command still more extensive and varied panorama on all sides of them. Kate eagerly pointed out on the last headland at the mouth of the river the little Canadian town of Niagara, which, she informed her Scotch cousins, was almost the oldest town in Ontario, and had even enjoyed the dignity of being its first constitutional capital. Close beside it they could trace just through an opera glass the ramparts of old Fort George, which had played an important part in stormy days gone by. On the opposite point rose the white walls of the American Fort Niagara. Landward, Kate pointed out the spires of St. Catherine’s, fourteen miles off, and the silver streak of the Welland Canal, winding its devious way from Lake Erie to Port Dalhousie, on Lake Ontario. And, “if they only had a good spy-glass,” she added, “they could catch a glimpse of Toronto, just across a blue stretch of lake.”

After feasting their eyes on the lovely landscape, lighted by the warm afternoon sun, they were not sorry to descend from their lofty perch and sit down a while in a shady spot on the verge of the height, looking down over its dense foliage of oak and maple, birch and sumach, to the blue-green river that flowed beneath, half concealed by the rocky ledges. And as they sat there and Flora sketched, Kate described—helped out by May—how, early in one October morning of 1812, a line of boats filled with American troops had stolen silently across the stream, until the gallant “forlorn hope” had made a landing on the Canadian shore; and how the fire of the guns that greeted their passage had roused General Wolfe at Fort George, and brought him galloping up at the head of his suite to take command of the gallant little British and Canadian force, of only about eight hundred men, all told. But this little force had opposed the progress of the invaders every inch of ground with such desperate valor as speedily to change the attack into a rout, in which numbers of the brave American soldiers, fighting gallantly, even after all was lost, fell victims to the uncontrollable ferocity of the Indians, determined to avenge the death of the brave Wolfe, who had fallen while fighting like one of his own men, and cheering on the “York Volunteers.” Many of the invaders who escaped the pursuing Indians were killed in trying to descend the rocky height or drowned in attempting to swim across the river.

“A well-fought fight it must have been,” exclaimed Hugh, “worthy to take its place beside any of our historical battlefields. Why don’t we know more about these affairs at home? Then we might feel more as if Canada were indeed a ‘Greater Britain!’ And so these heights had their dead hero, too, as well as the ‘Heights of Abraham’?”

“Yes, indeed,” said May; “General Brock was indeed a hero, just as much as Wolfe, though he only helped to keep Canada, instead of conquering it.”

“But,” said Kate, “to go back to ancient history, do you know that this ridge here is said to have been once the shore of an ocean, and, at a later time, the boundary of the lake; and that here the Falls are supposed to have made their first plunge. The geologists have traced it all the way—its gradually receding front all the way back to where it is now.”

“I’m sure I’m much obliged to them,” said Hugh, “but somehow these vast blank periods of geological history don’t touch me half so much as a little bit of human interest. That battle you have been describing is far more interesting than æons of conflict between water and shale.”

“If it interests you so much,” Kate rejoined, “you can read more about it when we get home, in a Canadian story I have, called ‘For King and Country,’ which ends with the battle of Queenston Heights.”

And now Flora had finished her little sketch, and Mrs. Sandford warned the lingering party that the afternoon was waning fast, in which undoubted fact they acquiesced with a general sigh of regret. They descended by the steep winding road on the other side of the height, through thickets of aromatic red cedar, down to the scattered little village, embowered among its orchards below, and drove some distance farther on along the road in order that they might enjoy, in returning, the charming view of the Heights, approached from the Niagara side. They followed, for a mile or two, the undulating road which, after leaving the village behind, was skirted with white villas, surrounded by wide stretches of soft green sward, flecked by the shadows of fine old trees, looking like a bit of an English park; and then, turning at last, enjoyed the charming view of the now distant bay, with wooded point after point intervening, and the bold eminence of Queenston Heights always fitly closing in the picturesque vista.

They all thought the drive such an enchanting one that there was not a dissenting voice when Kate proposed that, since they were going to take the daily steamer to Toronto from Niagara, on their onward route, by far the pleasantest plan would be to drive thither, when at last they must leave the Falls.

Leaving the Falls seemed a sad prospect to all of them, but more especially so to May, over whom the Falls had thrown such a spell of fascination that she would have liked nothing better than to stay there all summer, feasting eyes and ears on their grandeur. But Hugh Macnab, who owned to the same feeling, added the consoling reflection that “a thing of beauty is a joy forever,” and May felt convinced that the memory of the Falls would indeed be “a joy forever” to her as long as she lived.

They could only spare three days more to Niagara, and as they sat that evening as usual on the piazza, regretting the lateness of the already waning moon, they agreed that now, having taken a general survey of the main points of view, they should not attempt any plans for the remaining days, but should spend them in those leisurely, unpremeditated loiterings, which are always the pleasantest way of absorbing all the more subtile and indefinite influences of noble scenery.

So the remaining days turned out to be, perhaps, the most delightful of the sojourn, spent in charming desultory strolls, as the fancy of the moment dictated, revisiting all the points which had most impressed them, taking in new beauties which they had not observed before, while they talked or were silent, as the mood suggested, and Flora filled her sketch-book with pretty “bits,” and Hugh occasionally withdrew to a little distance and scribbled in his note-book, and Mrs. Sandford, sitting near while the others discursively rambled, accomplished yards on yards of her endless knitting.

Their last day was Sunday, when they walked down to the pretty little church at Clifton, and enjoyed the quiet service, and sat most of the afternoon on the piazza, of the view from whence they never tired. It was a lovely sunset, and they walked as far as Table Rock to have a last lingering look at the superb view from there in the rich evening glow. As they watched the two magnificent Falls into which the stream divides, to re-unite below, Kate told her cousin Hugh of a beautiful simile which she had seen in a new Canadian book called “The New Empire,” in which the author suggests that though the stream of the British race in America had divided like that sweeping river into two magnificent sections, so, like it, they might re-unite in the future citizenship of a world-wide Britain.

“And then, perhaps, we shall go on to our laureate’s dream of the federation of the world! It is at all events a pleasant thought to finish this glorious visit with; and I suppose this is our farewell look?”

“I am afraid so,” said Kate. “We shall not have much time in the morning for loitering. Let us be glad we have such a glorious sight of it—for the last!”

And they sat silently gazing, as if they would fain have prolonged the sunset light. But at length its last vestige had vanished, and they slowly walked back to the hotel in the starlight, while the grand music of the “Thunder of Waters” still filled their ears, and sounded even through their dreams.

CHAPTER II—ON THE LAKE.

“Dreaming again, May! Are you saying a last fond good-bye to the Falls? I’m afraid you’ve left your heart up there,” said Mrs. Sandford, as she smilingly laid her hand on the shoulder of her niece, who stood alone at the stern of the steamboat, silently gazing in the direction of the faint, distant cloud of spray that rose, just traceable against the clear blue sky, with a wistful regret in her soft gray eyes—regret at parting from that wonderful revelation of the sublime which had so powerfully impressed her imagination, and which, just at present, overpowered even the happy anticipations of the further revelations of beauty and grandeur that still lay in the future progress of this wonderful voyage down the glorious river to the sea.

They had a delightful morning drive through the long stretch of charming rural scenery that lies between the Falls and Niagara, studded with pretty bowery old homesteads, long green lawns flecked with the long shadows of spreading walnut and tulip trees, and dark stately pines, through which they could catch glimpses of old-fashioned, pillared piazzas, or of old gray farm buildings, till at last they reached the picturesque suburbs of the quiet little town of “Niagara-on-the-Lake.” As they drove through the grove of fine oaks that skirts the edge of the town, and admired the pretty little church of St. Mark’s, making a charming picture in the foreground, Mrs. Sandford, who in her youth had often sojourned in the vicinity, pointed out the spot where she remembered having seen the “hollow beech-tree,”—long since gone,—commemorated by Moore in his poem of “The Woodpecker,” though, it must be added, that this same beech-tree has been also located in the neighborhood of Kingston. Beyond the oak grove lay a broad green or “common” stretching away to the wide blue lake, on which the Iroquois used to hold an annual encampment to receive their yearly gifts and allowances. To the right of the road, just above the river, Mrs. Sandford pointed out the grassy mound and bit of massive masonry, which is all that is left of old Fort George, with its eventful history, and a little further on the tower of Fort Mississauga, built after the final retreat of the American troops in 1813, out of the ruins of the original town, burned by the American soldiers on a dreary December day. No traces of these old conflicts can now be seen, being long since smoothed over by the gentle yet strong hand of time, and a beneficent Nature. Just opposite them, across the broad blue-green river, which has now lost all traces of its turbulent passion, and subsided into a most peaceful and easy-going stream, they could see the white walls of the American Fort Niagara, which had exchanged so many rounds of cannonade with its opposite neighbor. May, fresh from reading Parkman, was eager to fix the exact spot where her special hero, LaSalle, had built his ill-fated “Griffin,” the first sailing vessel that ever floated on these waters; but here her aunt could give her no information. Her interest was entirely in later history, and she pointed out the place where Governor Simcoe had opened the first Parliament of Upper Canada and delivered his first speech, with all the usual formalities, to an assembly of eight members and two Legislative Councilors; after which the Governor, with his two Secretaries, departed in due pomp attended by a guard of honor of fifty soldiers from the old fort; and also, how, with less ceremonial, during the warm summer days, the Governor and his Council met on the green sward, under the spreading trees, and arranged the affairs of the Provinces, passing, among other useful measures, the memorable one which put an end forever to all possibilities of negro slavery in the young colony, thereby saving it from much future difficulty and dishonor.

The mention of this last subject had brought on a discussion of the history of slavery in the American Republic, which much interested Hugh Macnab, whose Celtic sympathies had been rather with the South in the great struggle, while Kate was a warm partisan of the North, and argued their cause so well that her cousin had at last to confess himself mistaken on several important points. The argument lasted until they found themselves on board the Cibola, getting up her steam to carry them from Niagara and its glories. While Mrs. Sandford had been dilating on the attractions of Niagara-on-the-Lake as a delightful and quiet health resort, May, who had been very quiet during the drive, had stolen off to a quiet corner in the stern, where the others found her at last, sitting very still and trying to fix the glorious Falls in her memory by calling up once again the picture of them as she had seen them last.

“So this is Lake Ontario!” said Hugh Macnab, looking around with keen enjoyment. “How well I remember stumbling over the name at school in my geography lessons, and reading with awe that line of Campbell’s about the tiger roaming along Ontario’s shores!”

“Oh, did he really say that?” said Kate. “Who would have thought a great poet would have made such a mistake in his zoology?”

“Oh, as for that,” said Hugh, smiling, “poets, especially when they are city-bred—are very apt to make mistakes about natural facts. And Ruskin had not written then, you know. But what a magnificent lake!” he exclaimed again, inhaling the fresh, bracing breeze, and surveying with delight the turquoise-blue expanse of water, whose horizon-line blended softly with a pale azure sky, banked here and there by delicate violet clouds which might have passed for distant mountains. “Over there,” he added, “one could imagine it the ocean, at least on one of the rare days when the ocean sleeps at peace!”

“It can be stormy enough, too,” remarked Mrs. Sandford, with a grimace, called forth by some vivid remembrance of it in that aspect. “I’ve been on it when even good sailors at sea have had to give in. For, you see, the short, chopping waves are more trying than the big ocean rollers.”

“And how long shall we be on it, after leaving Toronto?” asked Hugh, with some anxiety, for he was by no means a good sailor in such circumstances.

“Oh, you can have fourteen or fifteen hours of it, if you wish,” replied Kate, mischievously, suspecting the reason for his question. “But I’ve been planning a little variation that, because, of course, you see nothing of the country in traveling by lake, and I want you to see some of our really pretty places by the way; and besides, the Armstrongs, our Port Hope cousins, want to have a glimpse of you, of course, and would like us all to give them a day, at least, en route. And my plan is, that we take the lake steamer to Port Hope, which we reach in a lovely hour,—just in the gloaming, as Flora would say. We can all stay with the Armstrongs, for they have a good large house and some of the family are away; and we can have some very pretty drives about Port Hope next day. And then, the following morning, we can take the train, and go by the ‘Grand Trunk’ to a pretty little town called Belleville, on a charming bay called the Bay of Quinte, on which we can have a lovely sail down to Kingston. That will be better than spending the night on the lake—seeing nothing of the scenery and having to turn out of our berths at the unearthly hour of four o’clock in the morning, which is about the time the steamboat from Toronto arrives at that good old city.”

“That’s a splendid plan, Cousin Kate,” exclaimed both Hugh and Flora at once. “What a schemer you are, to be sure,” continued Hugh. “I don’t know how we should ever get on without you.”

May had been sitting by, silently watching the little group, as she had rather a way of doing; Kate’s bright face, Hugh’s more reserved and sensitive one,—yet seeming so much more animated and healthful than when she had first met him, only a few days ago,—and Flora’s sweet, rosy, good-humored countenance,—they made a pleasant picture. How much better Hugh seemed already, and how much he seemed to depend on Kate! May was much addicted to weaving little romances for the people about her,—often on very slender foundation,—and she had already begun to weave one for her cousin. How well they would supplement each other, she thought,—Kate’s quick, practical sense and Hugh’s more contemplative tendencies. From which it will be seen that May was somewhat given to theories, as well as to modern fiction.

Meantime, they had been swiftly steaming across the azure surface of the lake, and, even by straining her eyes, May could barely discern the faint cloud of mist that represented so much to her inward eye. Indeed they had all begun to look onward for Toronto, and could dimly trace the long succession of buildings and spires that had begun to separate itself from the blue line of distant shore towards which they were approaching.

“We shall be there very soon now,” said Mrs. Sandford, rising to collect her numerous satchels, wraps, etc., long before there was any occasion for it. It was a sort of occupation, and she had relinquished, for the time, the sedative of her knitting. While she was thus busied, Kate pointed out, as they drew nearer, the principal landmarks, and the strangers were surprised to find so extensive and imposing a city.

“That low bar of land, there,” she said, somewhat slightingly, “is what they call their Island, though it really is only a sandbar cut through. I suppose it’s better than nothing, for at least they get the fresh lake breezes; but no one who has seen our beautiful ‘Thousand Islands’ in the St. Lawrence could be content with that for an island. But it is the Coney Island, the Nantasket Beach, the Saratoga, of Toronto!”

“Toronto is an Indian name, I suppose,” said Hugh. “Do you know what it means?”

“I do,” said May, when Kate had confessed her ignorance. “At least I have read somewhere that it means ‘The Place of Meeting,’ from having been the point where the roving bands of Indians and the French traders used to meet in the old French time. At first it was only a little stockaded fort, called Fort Kouilly, after a French Colonial Minister, I think, and there the traders and Indians used to make their bargains.”

“And after that,” said Mrs. Sandford, “it was never known at all until Governor Simcoe made it the first capital, instead of Niagara, which was too near the frontier, and called it York, after the then Duke of York.”

“What a pity!” exclaimed Hugh. “But they went back to the Indian name, after all!”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Sandford, “they got tired of hearing it called ‘muddy little York,’ and changed back to Toronto about fifty years ago; and Toronto it has remained ever since. My father has often told me about the first Parliament buildings here, and the Vice-Regal residence, which the ‘Queen City’ would not think good enough now for a school building. At the time when it was made the capital, the woods clothed the shore down to the water’s edge, and there were only two wigwams here, in which lived two families of Mississauga Indians, from whom the whole site of the city is said to have been bought for ten shillings sterling, with some beads, blankets, and, I’m afraid, a little fire-water thrown in.”

“Well,” said Hugh, “everything is relative; I suppose that represented a small fortune to them, and it has taken a good while to get the ‘unearned increment’ up to its present value.”

“I don’t understand your new-fangled terms,” said Mrs. Sandford. “There weren’t any of them in my day. Now, make haste and get your traps together, for we’ll be at the dock in two minutes. Look for the Arlington carriage, Hugh, that’s where we’re going; I think you will find it there.”

And in a few minutes they were all stowed into the carriage, and driven rapidly away from the noisy dock to the quiet family hotel on King Street, which seemed an inviting resting place in the very warm afternoon. They felt the heat all the more after the cool lake breeze they had been enjoying; and they were all tired enough with their early start to enjoy a siesta before their luncheon, which was also much appreciated in its turn. The afternoon was to be devoted to seeing Toronto, and a large double hack was soon at the door, in which the whole party ensconced themselves for a leisurely drive about the busy and beautiful city. Kate, as usual, directed the route, and Hugh sat on the box beside the driver, where he could hear all the information given behind, as well as secure some more on his own account from the communicative charioteer.

They drove first eastward, along the fine stretch of King Street, admiring on their way the pretty, shady grounds of Government House, and the massive Norman architecture of St. Andrew’s Church opposite, in which Hugh, as a Scotchman, took a special interest. Passing on, along the favorite resort of Toronto promenaders, they admired the stately rows of buildings, though Hugh and Flora protested against the monotonous white brick, so new to their English eyes. They turned up the busy thoroughfare of Yonge Street, and, after a few blocks, left the region of shops and turned aside into the cool shadiness of Jarvis and Sherbourne Streets, with their handsome residences, surrounded by well-kept grounds; and so up to the rural quiet of Bloor Street. They crossed the fine bridge over the ravine at Rosedale, and admired the picturesque bits of scenery lying about that romantic spot. Then, after following Bloor Street into the new section of the city that has grown up so rapidly about Spadina Avenue, they turned into the beautiful “Queen’s Park,” and drove through its shady precincts, the Scottish strangers surveying with great interest the new academic buildings that are springing up about the University as a center. At the University, of course, they halted for a closer inspection of the beautiful building, which, as Kate remarked, had just risen, Phœnix-like, from the conflagration that had, a short time ago, left it a mass of magnificent ruins.

“You see they are building the library quite separate, over there, now,” Kate said, pointing to where the graceful library building was beginning to show its beauty of design. “It is really wonderful,” she added, “how generous people everywhere have been in restoring the loss of the books.”

“Yes,” replied Hugh. “And I have no doubt the University will be the gainer in the end, as the trash will have been all disposed of, and the scientific books will be all new and up to date. But I can imagine what a catastrophe it must have been at the time. It made quite a sensation, even among us students in Edinburgh. Though, apart from the associations, I’m afraid some of us wouldn’t have been sorry to have had our old building and old books renewed in the same way! It’s too bad for a Scotch university to be eclipsed, architecturally, by a Canadian one!”

“Ah, well, you see, we had the improved taste of this age to guide us,” remarked Kate.

“And the taste of a Scotchman, at that, if I am not mistaken,” added Hugh.

“Oh, yes, we must grant you the credit of Sir Daniel Wilson and his Edinburgh training. But look at this fine gateway. Fortunately it was not injured by the fire, and is just as it was. I think it’s the finest bit of the building.”

Hugh admired it all so enthusiastically that May, who had of course seen very little of fine architecture, was glad to have her own admiration endorsed by one who had seen so much more. And, happily, they encountered a stray professor, well known to Mrs. Sandford, who insisted on looking up the janitor, and personally conducting them through the interior of the building, which the tourists were very anxious to see, and which Hugh inspected with the critical eye of a student, approving of the various improvements everywhere introduced, and only regretting the lost glories of the Convocation Hall, on which the professor regretfully descanted.

“But we must wait for some Canadian millionaire to give us a Canadian Christ’s Church,” he said, smiling.

“Indeed, I think it is wonderful, as it is, for a new country,” said Hugh, as they exchanged a cordial adieu, Hugh promising in return to show him Edinburgh University if he would look him up over there.

From the University they drove down the fine shady avenue, to show the strangers, a little way from the University, on a little knoll in its picturesque grounds, a monument to the young volunteers who fell at Ridgeway. Hugh and Flora had already heard the story of the Fenian émeute that caused so much temporary excitement, and they looked with respectful sympathy at the monument so justly raised to these gallant young men, as true patriots as if the field on which they fell had been one of the historic battle-grounds of the world. The monument to George Brown also claimed their attention for a few moments, and Hugh triumphantly declared to Kate, that, so far as he could see, all the great leaders of Canada had been his fellow-countrymen.

Then they continued their drive down the fine avenue, past the School of Technology, and the great, new Parliament buildings, fast rising to completion, and down the alley of chestnuts on to which, under the spreading horse-chestnuts, leads down Queen Street, where they duly admired the classic stateliness of Osgoode Hall,—the law center of Ontario. Then they returned to King Street once more, and followed its coarse westward for some miles, to see the former site of the Old Fort near the Exhibition buildings, and the various great institutions of Toronto along its line. The old red brick building of Upper Canada College,—one of the oldest grammar schools in Canada; the handsome front of Trinity College, farther on, in its beautiful park, the grounds and buildings of which Hugh would fain have stopped to explore; the great gloomy-looking, high-walled inclosure of the Lunatic Asylum, with its saddening associations; and then, still sadder sight, the grim Central Prison and the Mercer Reformatory for women. A somewhat more cheerful object of contemplation was the large pile of buildings that form the beautiful Home for Incurables, which Kate declared was quite an ideal institution, at least so far as its plan and appointments were concerned. “But it is a rather melancholy place too,” she admitted, “though, if people are incurable, it is nice to know that they will be comfortably provided for!”

“I don’t believe much in institutions,” said Flora, in her soft voice and pretty Scotch accent; “I would rather have one of the plainest little rooms, in a wee, real home, than the most luxurious one in these great institutions!” and May warmly endorsed the sentiment.

“Still, if people can’t have even that,” said Hugh, “it’s well there are institutions. I must say myself, that I don’t care much for doing things by wholesale, so I for one could never be a socialist. Things were better planned originally. ‘He setteth the solitary in families.’”

“That was long ago, my dear boy,” remarked Mrs. Sandford. “It’s getting to be an old world, and a cold world, too, I fear.”

“Oh, I hope not, Aunt Bella. The old order faileth, giving place to new, only the new hasn’t got well worked out yet.”

On their way back they took a look at the Old Fort Barracks, and at the site of the old French Fort, near which the exhibition buildings, or “Fair grounds,” yearly present such a striking contrast to what must have been the silence and loneliness of the spot when it first became a British settlement. And the cool lake breeze was most refreshing after the heat of the July day, and sent them back to the hotel, reinforced for dinner, after which they were not disposed to do more than sit quietly on one of the balconies of the hotel, Mrs. Sandford knitting with great satisfaction, and the others amusing themselves with observing the ever-varying line of pedestrians constantly passing to and fro on their way from places of evening entertainment.

Next morning all the junior members of the party started for a ramble on foot, going first along King Street and looking in a more leisurely fashion at the various handsome public buildings, the banks, the great newspaper offices, a little off King Street, the fine post-office on Adelaide Street, the attractive picture and bookstores, and then turning up Church Street, pursued their way to the Normal School buildings, where Kate exhibited to her companions with some pride, the various educational appliances of that center of the public school education of the province, the handsome, and even luxurious lecture-rooms, class-rooms, library, and last, but not least, the spacious and delightful Kindergarten, a paradise of infantine education, which was Kate’s especial delight, and which to Hugh and Flora was a charming novelty in “school-keeping.” After that they continued their walk in a desultory fashion along the shady streets of that quarter of the city, admiring the handsome churches and villa-like residences which there abound. Then they crossed the Park to take one more look at the beautiful University buildings, and came back to the Arlington by the way of St. George Street with its fine residences, and Spadina Avenue, just in time for an early luncheon before preparing for their departure by the good steamer Corsican.

The early afternoon found them all on the deck of the steamer, gliding swiftly out of Toronto Bay, leaving in the distance the long mass of fine buildings that extends along Front Street and gives the stranger some idea of the wealth and business of Toronto; past the long sandbar, which at once protects Toronto Harbor and serves as a “health resort” and “villegiature” for so many Torontonians. Very soon, as the steamer ploughed her way through the blue lake, calm as a millpond, Toronto had become invisible, and the high land of Scarboro Heights rose to the left, while to the right the blue horizon line again reminded the travelers of the sea. Presently, there arose the fresh, bracing afternoon breeze, most grateful to the strangers especially, who had felt the heat at Toronto rather oppressive. It was a delicious afternoon, and as the sparkling and quivering golden pathway thrown on the waters by the westering sun showed them that it was passing away all too soon, Hugh declared that if he lived in Canada he should want to spend most of the summer on a yacht on such halcyon waters.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Sandford, “yachting is very well in summer weather, when it is calm like this, but it’s dangerous at best on these great lakes where sudden squalls are apt to rise at any moment. Don’t you remember, Kate——”

“Oh, yes, Auntie,” Kate interposed, hurriedly, “don’t talk about it now. It’s too sad. But, Hugh, how would you like to ‘paddle your own canoe’ all the way down from Toronto to the foot of the lake, as they used to do in the brave days of old?”

“I shouldn’t fancy any one would try such an experiment in these days of rapid locomotion,” said Flora.

“Indeed, some people would, and think it great fun,” replied Kate. “A friend of ours, with his wife and little girl, paddled down the whole way to the St. Lawrence one summer, just for the pleasure of it. And his wife—just as the squaws used to do—helped him with the paddling.”

“And how long did it take them?” asked Hugh.

“About ten or eleven days. And they kept a log, or at least a diary of each day’s events, for future edification. Of course, they stopped over night at some place where they could sleep comfortably and have a good breakfast to start with.”

“Oh, I should think that might be very pleasant. But, in ‘the brave days of old,’ they had not any of these conveniences, and I suppose they did not take it so leisurely.”

“Poor LaSalle had many a hard paddle up and down the lakes in all sorts of weather,” said May. “It makes one shudder to think of some of his voyages, and with so many hardships, too!”

“Well,” said Hugh, “I think I prefer the more expeditious way, where there’s no particular scenery to tempt one.”

“Oh, of course, there isn’t much of what you would call scenery along this coast,” said Kate. “Nothing like what there is along Lake Superior or Lake Huron. But still, if you were to keep close along shore, there are many pretty little ‘bits’ to enjoy; and just think what a delicious lotus-eating life it would be.”

“Except for the paddler,” interposed Hugh.

“Oh, indeed, you don’t know how the paddlers get to love it! There seems a sort of fascination about it, and it gets to be a passion with them. There is much more interest and variety about it than about rowing. Do you know, there’s a great American Canoe Association to which many Canadians belong, which has its ‘meets’ every summer, at some pleasant spot, with good boating. They have all sorts of exercises, races, canoe-gymnastics, prize contests, and a splendid time generally. And ladies belong to it as well as men. This year it is to be held at one of the ‘Thousand Islands’; and, by the way, I shouldn’t wonder if you might have a glimpse of it. You know we are all invited to spend a few days at the summer cottage of a friend there, with whom I have often stayed, and it isn’t very far from where they have the Canoe Camp; so we may just manage to have a look at it.”

“That would be charming! I should like that,” exclaimed Hugh and Flora both together; while May began to think that too many delights were clustering about this wonderful expedition, and that she should suddenly awake to find it all a dream; and Cinderella at home again, amid her dusters and her stocking-mending—as if there were no Niagara and no “Thousand Islands” in the world.

Meantime, they were ploughing their way through the gleaming blue and gold waves, with water and sky meeting at the horizon line, all around them, save for a blue strip of shore to their left, while the steering was done by compass, a new experience for the strangers, on an inland lake.

“I don’t wonder,” Hugh remarked, “now that I’ve seen this lake for myself, I don’t wonder that the British Foreign Office, long ago, should have sent out water-casks for the frigates here, as you were telling me. It is hard to realize that this great blue expanse is really fresh water.” And May felt delighted that she now could the better picture to herself what the sea was actually like.

But the soft shadows of evening were falling on the woods and hills before them, as the steamer glided into the beautiful harbor of Port Hope—a noted harbor even in the old Indian times, under the name of Ganeraské. The placid water, afire with rich sunset tints, and smooth as a mirror, was dotted with the skiffs of pleasure seekers, and the pretty little town looked most attractive, as, half in shadow, it nestled in its picturesque valley and straggled up the sides of its protecting hills. The long railway viaduct seemed to lend it an additional charm, and Flora McNab appealed to her brother whether it were not more like one of their old-country towns, than any they had yet seen. On the pier were a number of strollers, who had come out to catch the evening breeze, or to see the arrival of the daily boat; and, among them, Kate’s quick eye easily recognized Nellie Armstrong and her brother, who gave them all a warm welcome, and speedily packed them into a dog-cart and a light-covered carriage, in which they were driven through the shady, sloping streets to the pretty bowery home of the Armstrongs, where another kind welcome awaited them from the host and hostess, and where an inviting supper was laid out in a cool, pleasant dining-room, opening on a velvety lawn overshadowed by a great “bass-wood” or linden tree. To May it all seemed like a delightful romance, nor did she mind a bit the soft rain, which, during the night, she heard through her dreams, pattering on the great leafy bough with that peculiarly tranquilizing effect which a soft summer rain has on the sleepy listener at night.

The morning was wet and misty, but their host declared the latter to be a good sign. And so it proved, for by the time the carriages, ordered for a long drive, were at the door, the mists were rolling gently up the sides of the hills, giving to the charming landscape just the touch of poetry that could best enhance its charm. It was a delightful drive, taking in most of the hills around the town, and the fine view from the one called “Fort Orton” was particularly enjoyed by the travelers.

“It’s very like a pretty English or Scotch view,” said Flora. “Not what one is apt to imagine Canadian scenery.”

“Well, you see, this is one of the oldest settled parts of Canada,” said Mr. Armstrong. “The whole vicinity is associated with the early French Missions to the Indians, and with some of the early French and Indian wars. There was an old Sulpician Mission at the Indian village on the very site of Port Hope—a mission whose director was the Abbé Fénelon, the first explorer of this lake shore, and no other than a brother of the celebrated Fénelon, who was the distinguished Archbishop of Cambray, and instructor of the Dauphin of France.”

“And who wrote ‘Télémaque?’” said Kate.

“Precisely. And while he was writing it for his royal pupil, his brother, devoted to the spiritual good of the poor ignorant Indians, was trying to teach the Catechism and the Lord’s Prayer to the little Indian children, and enduring among the fierce Senecas, hardships far greater than those through which his brother was leading Télémaque. He was a real hero, that Abbé Fénelon.”

“I must read up those old French Missions,” said Hugh. “They seem to be wonderfully rich in heroic deeds.”

“They are, indeed,” said Mr. Armstrong, “but I wish you had time to go back to the neighborhood of Rice Lake and Peterboro‘, with its lovely little lakes. By the way, there is a pretty waterfall thereabout, named after this Abbé Fénelon, and the whole country is full of associations, not only with those old French explorers and missionaries, but also with the almost equally gallant fight of the old U. E. Loyalist settlers, with hardships and privation.”

“And what is a ‘U. E. Loyalist?’” asked Hugh. “I’ve seen the expression before, but have no idea what it means.”

“We should not expect you to understand our Canadian terms, without explanation,” said Mr. Armstrong, laughingly. “Well, a U. E. Loyalist means one of those first settlers of Canada who were driven to take refuge here at the time of the American revolution, because they would not give up their allegiance to the British Empire, and so they left their farms and possessions behind, and came to settle in the wilderness under the ‘old flag.’”

“Oh, I see,” said Hugh. “I have heard that many did so, but did not know that they were called by that particular name.”

“Well, they gave good proof of their loyalty,” said Mrs. Sandford; “for many of them had pretty hard times. Mrs. Moodie’s experiences which she records in her book, ‘Roughing it in the Bush,’ were endured in this section of the country. I must try to get the book for you to read. You know she was a sister of Miss Agnes Strickland, and she and her sister, Mrs. Traill, may be called our pioneer authoresses, though we can hardly call them Canadians.”

“Yes, and this is a neighborhood full of Indian legend, too,” said Mr. Armstrong; “we have a village called Hiawatha, not many miles from here, and a ‘Minnehaha,’ ‘laughing water,’ in the same neighborhood; and not far from either dwelt the magician Megissogwon, who, ‘guarded by the black pitch-water, sends fever from the marshes,’ as, indeed, many a pale-face victim of fever and ague has known to his cost. And old Indian battlefields have been discovered hereabout, besides the connection of this point with warlike expeditions between white men in later times.”

“And so we can never get away from ‘old unhappy things and battles long ago,’” said Hugh, moralizingly.

“Well, let us give them the go-by, just now,” said Kate and Flora together. “On such a lovely evening, we don’t want to think of battles and unhappy things,—old or new.”

“Only, somehow, they seem to add the touch of human interest, even if it be a sad one,” rejoined Hugh, who was so much interested in all he could learn of the past history of the country that Kate laughingly chaffed him about the book or magazine article he must be going to write when he got home. However, the chaffing had no effect on his thirst for knowledge, and when they returned in the lovely summer twilight,—more than ready for the substantial repast which awaited them, notwithstanding the luncheon they had enjoyed on the way,—Hugh eagerly set to work thereafter, to devour, in addition, all the scraps of information which Mr. Armstrong hunted up for him among the historical works in his library. But his attention was somewhat distracted by the songs which Nellie and Flora and May were singing, sometimes in concert, sometimes separately, at the piano in the adjoining drawing-room. Flora delighted them all with the sweetness and pathos with which she sang some of the “Songs from the North,” which the others had not previously heard. They gave her an enthusiastic encore for the spirited song “Over the Hills to Skye,” and at last, after hearing it two or three times, they all joined in the chorus.

“Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry.
And carry the lad who was born to be King,
Over the hills to Skye.”

And they were almost as much fascinated by the chorus of the other, “The Bonnie, Bonnie Banks of Loch-Lomond,” and sang again and again the mournful refrain:—

“Oh, ye’ll tak’ the high road, an’ I’ll tak’ the low road,
An’ I’ll be in Scotland afore ye;
But I’ll never, never see my true love again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch-Lomond!”

“You see, you can’t get away from the ‘old unhappy things,’” said Hugh, at last leaving his books and coming to join the group at the piano. “It’s always the same two minor chords we have in every pathetic song or story—love and war—in some form!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Armstrong, “see how the American war struck into life the latent possibilities of pathos and poetry in the practical American people.”

“Oh, by the way, Kate,” said Nellie, “don’t you remember that Mr. Winthrop we met at Old Orchard last summer, with whom you used to have so many arguments about the North and South, and all the rest of it? I think he made a convert of you.”

“Nonsense!” said Kate; “but what of him?”

“Oh, he called here two or three weeks ago in the course of a tour he was making, and he asked most particularly for you. I really believe he was going to look you up; and you were away from home. What a pity!”

“Indeed, I think it very unlikely that he would do anything of the kind. It would be quite out of his way,” said Kate, nonchalantly.

“Well, I do think he meant to do so,” returned Nellie. “He made most particular inquiries about just how to get there.”

“I shall certainly be very much surprised to hear that he took any such trouble. Was he as argumentative as ever?”

“No, for most of his time here was spent in making the inquiries I referred to!” retorted Nellie, rather mischievously. “I only wonder you have not stumbled across him in the course of your travels.”

Hugh had looked up with a sudden air of interest. “I noticed the name of Winthrop in the register of the Clifton, only a few days before we arrived.”

“Then we just missed him,” said Kate, in an indifferent tone, though with a somewhat heightened color. “You would have enjoyed meeting him, Hugh. He would have given you the American side of everything at first hand. What I have given you is only a very faint echo.”

“But haven’t you any Canadian songs to give me?” asked Hugh, as the girls were about leaving the piano.

“There’s the old ‘Canadian Boat-song,‘” said Nellie, doubtfully.

“No, no,” said Kate, “that’s all very well for singing on the river. We’ll have it there, by and by. Give Hugh something that has more of a native flavor about it. Sing him one or two of those French Canadian songs you used to be so fond of—‘La Claire Fontaine,’ you know, or ‘En Roulant Ma Boule.’”

“But they are so silly,” objected Nellie.

“Dear me! who expects songs to be sensible nowadays, especially songs of that sort? And Hugh can enjoy a little nonsense to a pretty air, as well as anybody, I’m quite sure. Remember how much Mr. Winthrop used to like them,” said Mrs. Sandford.

“Well, I’ll sing them,” said Nellie; “only, as the air is so simple, you must all of you join in the chorus, after the first time. You can easily catch it up.”

And she proceeded to sing, with much spirit and expression, two or three of the lively French-Canadian airs, which have come down from the old times of voyageurs and trappers—and the whole party caught the fascination and were soon singing, all together, the rollicking chorus of:—

“En roulant ma boule roulant,—en roulant ma boule.”

and the prettier, half-playful, half-serious love ditty, the refrain to “La Claire Fontaine”:

“Il y’a longtemps que je t’aime,
Jamais je ne t’oublierai,”

till every one was surprised to find that it was eleven o’clock, and time for the travelers to seek their rest in preparation for an early start.

It was with great regret that the good-byes were said next morning, and the little party separated at the Grand Trunk station. May thought she could see very well that Jack Armstrong had fallen a victim to the fresh, rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed Flora, and, accordingly, was not surprised when something was said about a possibility that he and Nellie might meet them at Quebec, by and by, and go with them down the Saguenay.

“At all events we will live in Hope,” said Jack, who was too fond of puns. “You know this is a hopeful atmosphere.”

And so they were off from old Ganeraské, as this Port of Good Hope was first called, and on the road once more.

The next stage was not very long, however. At Cobourg they utilized the “twenty minutes for refreshments” by driving rapidly about the principal streets of this old town, commemorating in its name the marriage of the young Queen with the good Albert of Cobourg. They got a distant glimpse of the tower of the Victoria University, soon to be removed to Toronto, where its name will not have the historical significance which it had here. Mrs. Sandford informed Hugh how many factories the little town contained, cloth, cars, leather, and more besides. Then they had a run of some two hours through a fertile farming country, leaving the train at Belleville, where they were to spend the remainder of the day. Taking an early luncheon, they devoted the rest of the afternoon and evening to pleasant drives about the picturesque vicinity of the pretty little city, which, Mrs. Sandford said, was first named Belleville in honor of Arabella, the wife of an early governor. That it deserved the added “e” no one doubted, for all admired its fine situation at the head of the noble Bay of Quinte, with two rapid rivers, the Trent and the Moira, running through the town. Everywhere that they drove in the neighborhood they came upon charming glimpses of bay and river, or rich fields of waving grain, thriving orchards and pleasant old homesteads surrounded by their farm-buildings, making many delightful rural pictures to carry away. And again Mrs. Sandford reminded them how all that comfort and prosperity was the late fruit of the hard labors and patiently borne privations of the loyal old settlers, who chose to begin life over again in the wilderness, rather than sacrifice their political principles and disown the flag they loved so well.

“I’m afraid I’m not such a Tory as you are, Aunt Bella,” said Hugh; “few of us juniors are in these latter days. But, all the same, it was a noble thing to do—to follow their principles to the bitter end, and go out, like Abraham, into the wilderness.”

“But I’m not sure that they were all noble,” interposed Kate, who always loved to take the other side for argument’s sake. “You know some of them, at any rate, never thought that the American ‘rebels’ would succeed; and when they did, of course, with feeling running so high, they couldn’t expect much comfort among them, in any case; and many of the Loyalists had their farms confiscated, so that they hadn’t much choice but to move out!”

“Yes; and a burning shame it was for those who confiscated them!” rejoined Mrs. Sandford, who had some traditions of the kind in her own family. “And I know well enough you got these Yankee ideas from that Mr. Winthrop!”

“Well,” said Kate, calmly, “it was all for the best in the end, though, of course, it was hard for the people who were driven from their homes. But you see, if they had not had to leave them, we might never have had this glorious ‘Canada of ours,’ of which we are so proud!”

“Yes,” remarked Hugh, “Mr. Armstrong told me that the narrow and mistaken policy of the American leaders at that time was really the foundation of British Canada.”

And then he went on give them some of the information he had got out of Mr. Armstrong’s books, the preceding evening, in regard to the beautiful valley of the Trent, through which they were driving. He told them how Champlain, three centuries ago, had sung its praises at the Court of the Grand Monarque, as “a region very charming and delightful,” where the park-like aspect of the trees suggested the previous occupancy of the country in bygone days by some superior race. Then, putting aside this pre-historic period, it was here that Champlain, on his way to his mistaken raid on the Iroquois, which was the beginning of so much strife and trouble, had joined his savage allies in an Indian “Chevy Chase”—in which, by mishap, he wounded one of his dusky friends. But these old stories have long ago been forgotten, in the interest of mines—gold and iron—which, found in the vicinity, have, as usual, somewhat deteriorated the region to which they have given an artificial stimulus. As they drove in from Trenton, a small place at the confluence of the Trent with the bay, in the soft falling dusk, Hugh entertained his companions by repeating some of his favorite passages from “Hiawatha;” and May, who was poetical and patriotic enough to be something of a student of Canadian poetry, repeated a sonnet by one of Canada’s earliest singers, Charles Sangster, who, falling on evil days, has not achieved the fame which his genius deserved:—

“My footsteps press, where, centuries ago,
The red man fought and conquered, lost and won;
Where tribes and races, gone like last year’s snow,
Have found th’ eternal hunting grounds, and run
The fiery gauntlet of their active days,
Till few are left to tell the mournful tale;
And these inspire us with such wild amaze,
They seem like spectres passing down a vale
Steeped in uncertain moonlight on their way
Towards some bourne where darkness blinds the day,
And night is wrapped in mystery profound.
We cannot lift the mantle of the past:
We seem to wander over hallowed ground,
We scan the trail of thought, but all is over-cast.”

“Thank you,” said Hugh, “I should like to see more of that poet. I like his vein very much.”

“Oh, May can give you screeds of any length from his ‘St. Lawrence and the Saguenay’ as we go along. And I daresay you can get the book in Kingston—he is a Kingstonian, I believe,” said Kate, who was not particularly poetical.

And then as the shadows of night drew softly about them, the fireflies flashed in and out of the woods with unusual brilliancy, affording the Scotch cousins a new subject for observation and delight.

“I declare,” said Hugh, “one can scarcely get rid of the feeling that they might set the woods on fire!”

“They are not common so late in the season,” said Kate. “Only now and then, for some reason best known to themselves, they show themselves, but only in the woods.”

“And there is the whip-poor-will!” exclaimed May, eagerly.

“Oh, I’m so glad!” said Flora, after listening attentively. “That is one thing I did want to see or hear!”

“You are much more likely to hear it than to see it,” said May. “It is very hard to get a good look at one, for it seldom appears in daylight.”

But soon the fireflies and the whip-poor-will were left behind, and they were once more rattling over city streets. And then, after a substantial tea, they went to rest, for the steamer for Kingston was to start at six in the morning.

As the scenery of the Bay of Quinte depends very much on the weather, the little party were fortunate in having a lovely changeful morning, with soft mists and cloud-shadows that gave a charming variety of tint and tone to the beautiful bay and its fair, gently sloping shores. The little steamer “Hero” passed in rapid succession one picturesque point after another—the bay sometimes expanding into a broad, wind-rippled expanse; sometimes narrowing into calm reaches or inlets, mirroring the foliage on either side. At the head of the largest reach or arm of the bay, the steamer stopped at the pretty little town of Picton, nestling beneath a noble wooded hill, with gentler slopes rising about it in all directions. Whether Picton or Port Hope possessed the more picturesque site was a question they found it hard to decide. Returning down this long reach Hugh was seized with a desire to see the “Lake of the Mountain,” on the high table-land above the bay, of which he had often heard. And Kate, who considered nothing impossible, actually persuaded the obliging captain to keep the boat at the landing below it for half an hour, in order to give them time for a hurried visit. Mrs. Sandford, of course, graciously declined the climb, but the others hastened up the steep ascent, where a mill-race came rushing down the height, amid a lush growth of ferns that grew luxuriously among the dark, wet rocks, between which they picked their way. But, once at the top, what a glorious view! Right below their feet stretched the lovely reach—widening out into the broad bay at the end of a long promontory diversified with fields and farms and wooded shores. Close beside them, on the other hand, lay the lovely little lake they had come to see—calmly sleeping in the sunshine, with as little apparent mystery about it as if its very existence were not an unsolved problem; one supposition being, that, as it is at about the same level as Lake Erie, it may be fed by a secret communication with that distant sheet. But they had only a few minutes to stay beside the beautiful mysterious little tarn, and to enjoy the lovely view spread before their eyes, for the steamer just below was already whistling to recall them, and they hurried down to rejoin her,—somewhat warm and out of breath, but with all the satisfaction one feels in making the best of one’s opportunities.

As they left the reach, a sun-shower rolled up, accompanied with distant thunder; but it only seemed to add a bewitching variety to the tones of the distance, and of the water, and, when the sunshine broke out again, conjuring up an exquisite rainbow, and the light and shade chased each other over the golden fields of waving barley—the beauty of the bay with the perspective of the “Long Reach” in the distance, seemed still greater than before. The travelers were content to sit still, passively absorbing the charm of the hour, while they looked on in a dreamy fashion at the various points of interest; at Point Mississauga, named, of course, in honor of the former “lords of the soil,” whose “totem,” a crane, seemed to be appropriately keeping guard over the spot; then at the various villages and townships;—at Deseronto, a busy little lumbering place, named after an Indian chief, whose formidable name signifies “Thunder and Lightning;”—at a forsaken-looking little “Bath,” with its ambitious name, and at a long succession of “towns,” or rather townships, named, by the overflowing enthusiasm of the U. E. Loyalists, after the numerous olive branches of old George the Third. There is Ernestown and Adolphustown, and Ameliasburg and Marysburgh; and there is Amherst Island, named, like Picton, after an English general, and said to have been lost by a noble owner at a game of cards! Hugh declared that the loyalty and Britishness of everything were rather monotonous, and could not refrain from heartily wishing that these good people had not, in their zeal, undertaken to change to the commonplace name of Kingston the melodious Indian name of Cataraqui! For here they were now coming in sight of this old “limestone city”—the oldest settlement in Ontario, the cradle of British Canada—and, to May, surrounded with a halo of romance from its close association with the history and fortune of her brave but hapless hero, the dauntless explorer, LaSalle.

CHAPTER III—AMONG THE BEAUTIFUL ISLANDS.

And now they were rapidly approaching the gray, “limestone city,” which rises picturesquely on its slope behind its line of wharves, and elevators, and masts of vessels, with a certain quiet dignity not unbecoming its antiquity, and derived, partly from its harmonious gray coloring, and partly from the graceful towers and spires that form so prominent a feature in its aspect. And it was by no means easy for May to call up in imagination—as she tried to do—the wild, savage loneliness of the place, with its wooded slopes, as yet untouched by the hand of the settler, as it presented itself to LaSalle, when he first discovered the advantages of making Cataraqui his base of operations; or even as it was seen by the first detachment of U. E. Loyalists, when their batteaux, slowly making their way up the St. Lawrence, rounded the long promontory now surmounted by the ramparts of Fort Henry. One tall tower, seen long before any other evidence of a city appeared, belonged, the captain told them, to the Roman Catholic Cathedral. Presently, however, extensive piles of fine public buildings attracted their attention, which they found were unfortunately the shelter of lunacy and crime, Kingston being the seat of the Provincial Penitentiary, as well as of a large asylum. In welcome contrast, they were shown the Gothic tower of Queen’s University, rising above an entourage of trees, though far from being as imposing in its dimensions as these palaces of gloom. From thence, the eye wandered over other towers and domes and spires, relieved by masses of verdure, which led them easily to believe the captain’s report that Kingston is a very attractive city, especially when summer had embowered it in shade. And there were great schooners, under a full spread of canvas, and massive lake steamers and propellers, and little active steam-launches, flitting about, in striking contrast—May thought—to the stillness of the scene, broken only by the Iroquois canoes, when Frontenac’s flotilla came in state up the lonely river to found old Fort Frontenac.

“And what a glorious sheet of water around it!” exclaimed Hugh, taking in with an admiring gaze the westward blue expanse of lake and the great wide sweep of river studded with islands, stretching away to eastward, which they told him was the St. Lawrence, at last. And then, as they rounded the curve of the fine harbor, and saw before them, on the one side, the fine cut-stone front of the City Hall and on the other, on a long, green promontory, the Royal Military College, with its smart Norman towers, they observed a long bridge behind which the river Cataraqui winds its way down from the northeast, and forms this beautiful harbor by its confluence with the St. Lawrence. Six miles up its placid stream, they were told, the Rideau Canal had its beginning at a picturesque gorge where are the first massive stone locks, which form one of the finest pieces of masonry on the continent. This Rideau Canal binds together a chain of lovely little lakes, and finally meets the Rideau River, and so makes a convenient water-way to Ottawa,—designed, it is said, by the Duke of Wellington, as a means of intercommunication remote from the frontier.

“And where are the old Tête-du-pont barracks?” asked May, who had got that name, by heart, out of Parkman, that she might be able to fix for herself the site of the old French fort which Frontenac had inaugurated and La Salle had commanded. She was shown some gray stone buildings, enclosing a quadrangle, at the nearer end of the long, low bridge crossing the Cataraqui to the opposite plateau with the green slope beyond it, on which stood the main defences of Kingston,—Fort Henry above, and, near the Military College, certain round stone towers, which, scattered about the harbor, gave quite an air of military distinction to the place.

“I’m afraid none of them would be of much good, nowadays,” remarked a passenger, and Hugh laughingly assented, adding, “We may trust, I hope, that they will never be needed.”

“Not much danger, I think,” was the reply. “We may have a tiff with the ‘States’ once in a while; but there are too many Canadians there now! We can’t afford to quarrel.”

They went, on landing, to a hotel bearing the appropriate name of “Hotel Frontenac,” where they did full justice to an early dinner. And, after that, having a couple of hours or so to spare, before starting for the island, they drove through the pleasant little city, embowered in the shady avenues extending in every direction, its streets striking off at all angles. Of course they went to look at the two cathedrals, the Roman Catholic one being a massive Gothic building with an equally massive tower, and at the graceful Gothic temple of Queen’s University, on its fine open campus, and then followed the charming drive by the lake shore, till they passed the great, and as they thought, gloomy masses of the Penitentiary and Asylum buildings, and then came out on another unimpeded view of the blue lake. Then returning, they drove back past quiet suburban residences, within spacious and shady grounds, admiring the substantial and comfortable look of the houses, and the tastefully kept surroundings;—and through the pretty little park, stretching on one side, down to the breezy lake shore, with its round stone tower, and, on the other, rising in a gentle slope crowned by a stately Grecian court-house, with picturesque church towers rising around it in the background. And at one side of this park, they made a little détour to look at the Hospital, whose plain central building was the first local habitation of the Parliament of Upper and Lower Canada, when Kingston for a few years occupied the position of capital of the recently united provinces. Then returning to their boat, they passed a handsome post-office and custom-house, of which, with her spacious city hall, Kingston is naturally somewhat vain. The houses they passed were bright with window flowers and baskets of blooming plants, prettily relieving the green sward in front; and they all agreed that Kingston bore worthily enough its prestige of being the oldest historical city in Ontario—the present name of western Canada.

But though it was nearly four o’clock, and the beautiful islands were before them—they went to snatch, at May’s desire—a peep at the old Tête-du-pont barracks, with weather-worn gateway and interior square, in which, when the foundations of the barracks were laid, there were some traces found of old Fort Frontenac, which had therefore evidently stood on that very site. May, at least, looked at it with a sincere reverence, as she thought of how many changing phases of fortune in her hero’s history that square had been the scene.

But now it was almost four o’clock, and they must hasten to the boat that was to carry them to the beautiful islands which had been beckoning them so long. As the Pierrepont glided out of the protected harbor, the afternoon sun lighted up the grey mass of the city, and the Norman towers of the Royal Military College, standing on its strip of campus, to their left, as they entered the real St. Lawrence, while beyond it rose above them the green hill-slope which forms the glacis of the low, long-stretching ramparts of Fort Henry, with its fortified water-way, and the round grey towers at its base. And as they rounded its long promontory, leaving the distant city behind it, May once more tried to picture the solitude of the scene as La Salle first knew it, broken only by his own canoe and those of the ferocious Iroquois. Meantime Hugh, not less interested in the historical associations of the place, drew from her, by cross-questioning, an outline of some of the tragic events of which Fort Frontenac had been the scene. But gradually the charm of the present hour asserted itself and all else was forgotten in watching the changing beauty of the scenery around them. A slight thunder-shower seemed to have purified the air, and the brightly shining sun lighted up the rich green of the woods, the golden tones of the harvest fields on the shores they were passing, and the grey rocks and shaggy foliage of some scattered islets on their course, one of which, Cedar island, was crowned by a round tower,—islets which were, they were told, really the outrunners of the great archipelago farther down the river. As they passed the water-rampart of the fort, Hugh observed that it seemed to be falling to pieces, and remarked that the government might look better after its property.

“It may just as well go to pieces,” said a voice behind them. “It would be of very little use if we did go in for conquest, and I hope there is no likelihood of any serious hostilities between the two countries.”

—“Well, Mrs. Sandford, have you forgotten me?” the voice continued. “How do you do, Miss Severne? I am delighted to meet you again.”

Kate had looked up with a start as the first tones of the stranger’s voice caught her ear, and perhaps there was just a tinge of heightened colour on her cheek as she greeted the speaker with her usual frank ease.

“Why, Mr. Winthrop! I never thought of encountering you in this quiet corner of the world. What accident brings you this way?”

“It was not quite an accident,” he replied, smiling. “I met Jack Armstrong yesterday on the train between Port Hope and Cobourg, and he told me of your arrangements; and as I just got in an hour or two ago, and found out that this was the speediest way of getting over to Clayton, where I am bound for a few days’ fishing, I thought I would waylay you—and here I am, as you see.”

“As we are very glad to see,” Kate replied, gracefully. “Let me introduce my cousin, Miss Thorburn, and my Scotch cousins, Mr. and Miss Macnab.”

May eyed the newcomer critically, and a little jealously, for in the interests of the incipient romance that she had begun to weave for Kate and Hugh, she did not relish his appearance—especially taken in connection with the remarks she had heard from Nellie Armstrong. He was, however, as she could not help admitting, a very pleasant-looking man, not very young, in fact, a good deal older than Hugh Macnab, with keen, scrutinizing gray eyes and mobile face, full of intelligence and expression. To May, Hugh’s was much the finer face, but she could not help feeling that Mr. Winthrop’s was decidedly attractive, and she inwardly trembled for the prospects of the younger man. She felt that Mr. Winthrop’s quick glance took in the whole personnel of the little party, as the introductions were made.

“Well, Mrs. Sandford,” he resumed, when he had courteously greeted each in turn, his eye resting for a moment, with evident admiration upon the rosy, fresh-faced Scotch lassie,—“I hope you are prepared in the goodness of your heart, to extend a little toleration to a reprobate Republican like me. I’ll try not to wound your sensibilities quite so much, this time!”

“Oh, you didn’t hurt me at all!” said that lady, good-humoredly. “I know you don’t mean any harm; it’s the way you were brought up. But you must not put traitorous ideas into these young people’s heads. There’s Kate, now——”

But here that young woman hastily interposed: “Would you mind getting us another seat, Mr. Winthrop?” said she, “Miss Macnab is quite in the sun.”

Mr. Winthrop at once performed the suggested service, and then, the previous topic having been shunted off, the whole party surrendered themselves to the dreamy charm of the afternoon—of the golden sunshine and dappling shade, that threw such a spell of beauty over the undulating shore, with its yellow harvest-fields and deep, green woods, country houses gleaming white through trees, and comfortable farmhouses nestling amid bowery orchards, beginning to be weighed down with their load of fruit.

The real width of the river, here about eight miles, is at some points narrowed down to apparently two or three miles and sometimes much less, by the large islands that divide it and extend for some twenty miles below Kingston. One of these—Howe Island, named after a British general—cuts off a very picturesque channel down which lay the course of their boat. At intervals of a few miles, the boat stopped at primitive wharves, where the country folk, who had been to market, landed with their innumerable parcels and baskets, of all shapes and sizes, farming implements, perambulators, etcetera. At one landing they put ashore a pile of dressed lumber—at another, a horse; at still another, the heterogeneous mass of luggage belonging to a family “going into villegiatura”—as Mrs. Sandford put it—including a great box containing a parlor organ. For the farmer-folk their horses and conveyances were patiently waiting, and very soon they might be seen driving slowly homewards along the country roads that followed the curve of the shore, or struck back among the fields and woods. A beautiful, new, varnished boat that had excited Hugh’s rather envious admiration from the time he came on board, was at last unshipped and rowed away by its happy owner, whose camping outfit proclaimed that he was bound on a delightful holiday. Here and there they caught glimpses of white tents and gay flags, where lived a little community of campers, who waved their handkerchiefs as the boat went by; and cheered as if a steamboat were a new and unheard-of triumph of inventive skill. At one point, the shore of the island to their right, rose picturesquely into high banks clothed with a rich growth of light, fluttering birch and sombre cedar, the contrast of which delighted the travelers. There was quite a romantic-looking landing here, beside an old ruined lime-kiln, and the road wound picturesquely up the wooded height, the two or three figures seen walking up the winding path, as the boat receded, looking—May declared—“just like people in the beginning of a story.”

“And so they are—or in the middle of it,” said Mr. Winthrop. “Each of us is living in a story of our own, after all, and I suppose each would have its own interest if it could only be read just as it is.”

“Only some stories are more interesting than others,” suggested Hugh.

“And those people evidently think theirs is particularly interesting just now,” remarked Kate, for they were just passing a little cluster of tiny cottages and tents, where a large and merry party were summering, with much display of bright bunting and many skiffs; and where young and old alike seemed to get into a state of wild excitement as the boat passed, saluting her with horns and a white flutter of handkerchiefs that might have passed for a flight of pigeons. The captain of the steamboat courteously returned the salute with his steam whistle, with the laconic remark: “Makes them feel happy,” which seemed true, for the demonstrations were renewed with fresh vigor and continued till the little encampment was out of sight.

But the dark thunder-clouds had been again stealing up behind them, and now the lights on the shore and the foliage disappeared, the cedars looking especially sombre in the growing gloom.

“There’s a squall coming down the river,” said Hugh Macnab, who had been watching from the stern the pretty grouping of the small islands that here studded the channel.

“Yes, indeed,” said Kate. “They often come up here suddenly. Look how one point after another is sponged out by the gray mist. See there, how the rain is driving down over there already.”

“And it will be here in a minute,” said Mr. Winthrop, rising hastily. “Come, you must all get into the centre of the boat, well under the awning, if you won’t go down stairs.”

Mrs. Sandford thought it best to retreat to the cabin below, being afraid of thunder, but all the others protested that it was much too interesting to watch the arrival of the storm. At a suggestion from Mr. Winthrop, however, he and Hugh made a dash down to the cabin for wraps and umbrella, returning in a second or two with an armful of waterproofs, in which the ladies were all carefully wrapped before the first heavy rain-drops came pattering down on deck. And then, for a minute, how they did come down, lashing the deck till it was flooded;—even where they sat the drops flew, into their faces, and, but for the waterproofs, would have drenched their garments. Kate, who loved a storm, was looking brilliantly handsome, and so—May was sure—thought Mr. Winthrop, who kept his position near her, so as to shelter a little from the onslaught of the rain. And how—she inwardly wondered—would Hugh Macnab like the sudden invasion from this stranger and foreigner, who seemed to make himself so very much at home? She fancied that his somewhat sensitive face looked clouded, but perhaps it was only the reflection of the clouds without, for, presently when the rain-drops gradually ceased, and the sun shone out again, brighter, as it seemed, than ever, his face brightened, too, and he watched eagerly for the first appearance of what might properly be called the real Thousand Island group.

“There they are!” Kate exclaimed, at length, as some soft, cloud-like forms loomed up against the distant horizon, still somewhat misty with the receding rain. “See how they cluster there together! And do you see those tiny white specks? Those are the lighthouses that mark the channel. And there, if you can catch a glimpse of some white houses beyond those islands—, those are part of the poetically named town of Gananoque, ‘Rocks in Deep Water,’ as the Indian name signifies. And it is a good enough description, if only they would have added ‘Rocks in Shallow Water’ as well; for there is certainly no lack of rocks in either the depths or the shallows!”

And now the little steamer began to wind in and out among the clustered islets, some of them little more than rough granite crags, bristling with wind-tossed pines, others masses of tangled foliage, and others still, partially cleared, with fanciful little cottages embowered in trees and clustering vines. At some of these cottages the inhabitants, like the campers, amused themselves by blowing a horn as a salute, to which the steamer amiably responded, after which there would be another flutter of handkerchiefs from the loungers on the verandas or by the shore.

“Well,” said Hugh, “though we know it really means nothing, it does seem pleasant to be waved at, as if one were coming home!”

“And yet the same people would only stare critically at you if they met you in the street.”

“It’s the air of these charming islands,” laughed Kate. “It makes every one so genial and overflowing with the milk of human kindness that they can’t help expressing it all round!”

“Or so idle that even this mild excitement is entertaining,” said Mr. Winthrop.

“Wait till you have tried it a little while!” said Kate. “Perhaps even you may grow less cynical there. But where are you going now?”

“I believe this little steamer will take me to Clayton to-night. My friends are there fishing, and are expecting me to join them.”

“And that is how far from here?” asked Hugh.

“About eight miles,” Kate replied—“on the American side of the river.”

“Oh, then, we shall meet again, I hope, and improve our acquaintance,” said Hugh, as he rose in response to Mrs. Sandford’s commands, for now they had rounded the last island and were rapidly approaching the pretty little town of Gananoque, while the slanting rays of the westering sun threw out the foliage of the islands and the shore into the richest green, and gave the whole scene its brightest aspect.

Close by the wharf lay a tiny steam-yacht, on whose floating pennon Kate speedily recognized the name “Oneida,” and in a moment more the waving of white handkerchiefs announced the presence of the friends who were waiting them there. To May it seemed like a fairy tale to be received into a private steam-yacht as an expected guest, instead of the open skiff she had been looking for. It was more than ever like a dream;—the little cabin, the dainty furnishings, the miniature engine with its polished brass fittings—everything seemed new, beautiful, delightful. Flora Macnab was equally delighted, declaring she had “never seen such a dear wee vessel before;” and Hugh, though quiet as usual, mentally noted everything with much satisfaction. Mr. Winthrop accompanied them on board, carrying Kate’s wraps, and was just hurrying off back to the steamer when their host, Mr. Leslie, after a brief introduction, urged that he should accompany the others as his guest.—“For I can assure you we can always make room for one guest more,”—he said with cheery hospitality.

But Mr. Winthrop declined the invitation with many thanks, on the ground that his friends were expecting him, adding that if he might be allowed to come a little later, for a day or two, he should be delighted to do so.

“Any time you will,” said Mr. Leslie, and he hurried off to catch his boat, which was on the point of starting again, while the others were duly introduced to the members of Mr. Leslie’s family who had come to meet them. The little steam-yacht only waited for a supply of baskets, containing supplies, to be stowed away on board, and then it, too, uttered its shrill little parting whistle, and darted off on its way to the island, some miles distant, which was Mr. Leslie’s summer home. To May it seemed like fairyland—this little evening sail among these lovely islands, in a yacht so low as to bring the eye on a level with their base, and not going too fast to enable her to enjoy in detail the beauty of lichen-crested rocks festooned with creepers and wild roses, and of still, placid reaches, dyed crimson and purple by the sunset hues, where clusters of snowy water-lilies were shining like stars amid the dark leaves. In the subdued evening light, the nearer islands were so soft a green—the distant ones looked softly purple in the light haze that helped to idealize the scene,—that May, for one, would have liked to wind in and out in this dreamy, leisurely fashion for hours, and was almost sorry when she was startled from her dream by the shrill whistle of the yacht, and found they were nearing a little rustic pier flanked by dusky pines and cedars.

The party were soon disembarked amid the lively little group that stood awaiting them on the pier—young men in boating flannels, lively children, young girls in cool, light blouses and dark blue skirts. Ready hands seized packages and baskets, and then they all followed an ascending, fragrant, sloping path that led between lichened rocks and nodding ferns to an open glade higher up, where stood their pretty summer cottage, with its wide verandas, looking capacious enough to accommodate two or three city houses. Mr. and Mrs. Leslie were excellent hosts; and, in a few minutes, every one was conducted to a room, and May found herself installed in what she mentally styled the dearest little nest, up under the eaves, commanding what seemed, in the transfiguring evening light, the most enchanting view of the island-studded channel. It reminded her of her room and window at the Clifton;—both views so beautiful, and yet so altogether different.

But she was not long left to her dreaming, for a peremptory horn sounded, and Kate and Flora were calling to her to hasten down to tea. Downstairs, in a simply-furnished room, with large French windows opening on a wide piazza, they found a long tea-table spread for the recent arrivals—the rest of the party having already finished their evening meal, being, indeed, too hungry to wait for anybody.

“For we’re all as hungry as hawks here!” declared one of the merry girls in a boating-dress. “Between boating and fishing and running about, we’re out all day long, and that gives one no end of an appetite.”

After tea there was a delicious hour or two on the veranda, the only alloy being the visits of a few mosquitoes. “Nothing like what we have had, however,” Mrs. Leslie observed. “We’ve often been obliged to retreat within the shelter of our mosquito-blinds in the evening. But to-morrow will be the first of August, and we are not likely to be troubled with them much longer.”

“That is a comfort!” exclaimed Flora, who seemed to be a favorite victim of the troublesome little insects. “But how startlingly bright the fireflies are,” she said presently, as it grew darker, and the scintillating living sparks of fire—as they seemed—flashed in and out of the trees, giving the impression—as Hugh remarked—that they might really set fire to them. And presently she joyously descried, faintly visible near the horizon, a silver thread of crescent moon, the promiser of much additional enjoyment during the weeks of their stay.

Next morning was as charming a morning as any one could have desired to see. The river lay still and calm, and blue as a dream, sleeping, as it seemed, in the embrace of the clustering green islands, which looked so fresh and so cool in the early morning light. May was so excited that she could not sleep a moment after the first rosy gleams of sunshine stole into her casement, which she had left wide open, that she might not lose a moment of the view which had so delighted her the evening before. As she dressed, she feasted her eyes on the delicious freshness of the early morning, on the exquisite tint of the water here and there, just rippled by the faintest breeze, the soft, distant, blue islands that seemed to float on the placid stream like “purple isles of Eden,” the rich contrast of dark evergreen and rich deciduous foliage, on the nearer shores, till it all seemed too exquisite for a reality, and in the stillness of the morning she felt as if she were still in a dream.

She was soon dressed, however, and hastened down, eager to explore, all alone, the island where she was. She had only to go a few steps from the piazza to find herself among the primitive rocks, crusted with gray lichen and cushioned with soft, velvet moss, or overhung with the glossy foliage of the bear-berry or the vines of the whortle-berry, from which the dark blue fruit was dropping as she raised them. She followed a winding pathway leading under a fragrant archway of overhanging foliage, which wound its way in a rambling fashion about the island, giving, now and then, lovely glimpses, vistas between mossy banks of rock, or pretty little vignettes framed in by an overhanging hemlock. At length, after making pretty nearly the tour of the island, wending her way among thickets of feathery sumach and broad-leaved rubus, bearing deep crimson flowers, with long festoons of partridge-berry, and its white, star-like flowers amid the pine-needles under her feet, and finding, to her great delight, some specimens of the exquisite, snowy Indian-pipe, looking—in the early morning light—more ghostly than ever—she found herself at the little landing beside the boat-house, where they had disembarked on the previous evening. There she sat down to rest on a rustic seat, placed so as to command a charming vista, with a tiny island in the foreground, which she was absorbed in contemplating, when the plash of oars broke in upon her reverie, and she turned to see who might be the early oars-man. It was Hugh Macnab, arrayed in white flannels, with a lovely cluster of wild roses in his hand. He greeted her with a smile and came up at once, holding out the roses as he approached.

“I scarcely expected to find any one up yet,” he said, laughing. “I came out just about dawn, to have the full enjoyment of this exquisite morning, and thought I would try a little cruise by myself to see whether I had forgotten the rowing I learned in my Oxford summer. And I found a little island out yonder, so inviting for a swim that I couldn’t resist it. I should like to show you that same little island,‘”—he added. “It’s only a little way; won’t you come? But what is that you have got in your hand?” he said, looking at the waxen flowers she held.

May explained what the ghostly little plant was, and he eagerly took it in order to examine it. “Oh, yes, I’ve read of this curious plant,”—he said. “I am so glad to actually see one! Now, suppose we exchange bouquets, if you will take my roses for your spectral flowers. I brought them over from that island, intending to give them to the first lady I met. Please take them;—it’s a case of the early bird getting the worm, you know.”

For May at first hesitated a little. She felt as if the roses ought by right to go to Kate, but then she could not say so. So she ended by thanking him as gracefully as her embarrassment would let her, and putting the roses carefully in her belt. They were lovely roses, too, of a peculiarly deep crimson, as the late wild roses are, and glistening still with the early dew. Hugh placed his “Pipes” carefully in his hat, for the present, and then led the way to the pretty cedar skiff, with its luxurious cane east chair at the stern, in which she took her seat, with a little inward wonder whether she were doing quite right, and the skiff was soon rapidly cleaving its way through the glassy water under the quick strokes of Hugh’s oar. It was wonderful, she thought, how much he seemed to have improved in health and spirits during the fortnight which had passed since she had first met him; and how much more color and animation he now had. Surely, she thought, Kate would never be so blind as to prefer that Mr. Winthrop, who, to her eye, was so much less attractive-looking than Hugh! She was too much preoccupied in thinking out this problem to say much, though she could silently take in the loveliness of the scene. Rounding a rocky point covered with wild roses, from which Hugh had picked his bouquet, they found themselves in a tiny bay, where the limpid wavelets lapped gently upon a beach of silver sand, while the rocks of rosy granite which formed the bay were draped in part with a tangle of luxuriant creepers and crested with sweeping pine-boughs. Presently the boat grated on the sandy beach, and Hugh handed her out of the boat and led the way to a granite ledge commanding an exquisite view of sleeping river and clustering islets. The river lay almost absolutely still, only barred here and there with long streaks of ripple that betokened an incipient breeze. The heavy masses of verdure on the opposite shore and the surrounding islands seemed also asleep; only an occasional carol of a bird broke the charmed silence. May and her companion were very silent also, for ordinary talk in such a spot, at such an hour, seemed well-nigh profane, and both were too reserved to express the deeper feelings the scene awakened. After a silent interval, May turned to call Hugh’s attention to a distant sail just catching the still slanting rays of the sun, when she noticed that he had taken a slip of paper which had been lying in the boat and was writing rapidly. She refrained from disturbing him, for how could she tell that he might not be writing poetry? But he had caught her movement, and presently stopped writing and turned towards her, when the slip of paper, which he was holding carelessly, was caught by the freshening breeze and carried close to her feet. She naturally stooped to pick it up, and involuntarily glancing at it, could see that it was poetry; but Hugh caught it from her, with so much apparent discomposure, coloring vividly, that May felt sure he was annoyed by her intervention, and felt a little uncomfortable; the more so because she could not say anything about it. She wondered whether the verses had any reference to Kate, since he seemed so much afraid of their being seen. They rowed back as silently as they had come, and the momentary annoyance soon cleared off the faces of both under the potent charm of the exquisite beauty around them. They found only the children astir; but Kate and Flora, when they came down soon after to breakfast, were very curious to know what May had been doing with herself—out all alone “almost before daylight,” they declared—and especially curious to know from whence she had got the lovely little bouquet of wild roses that looked so charming in her belt. But May laughingly declared that she did not intend to tell where she got it; and Hugh, of course, said nothing about it. She did not, however, wear it long. The roses were carefully put away before they withered, and eventually some of them were pressed to serve as a memento of the loveliest morning, May thought, that she had ever seen. She told Kate, however, that Hugh had given her a row to a neighboring island, feeling a little guilty as she did so. But Kate only remarked, as if the thing were a matter of course: “Well, I’m glad Hugh has gained so much in energy! Since he can row so well, I shall make him row me about everywhere!”

Both she and Flora, however, soon found that they had an embarras des richesses in the matter of rowing, for there were half a dozen youthful oarsmen ready and eager to row or paddle them wherever they desired to go, so that Hugh’s services were not so much in demand, and it happened, not infrequently, that May found herself his companion in their boating expeditions, and as she had not had much opportunity for rowing, he undertook to teach her to use the oars in a more artistic manner than she had as yet attained, which proved a very interesting occupation to both; though May sometimes regretted that Kate so often declined to accompany them, fancying that it really hurt Hugh.

That day and several others glided away only too swiftly. No one could imagine where the hours had gone. There were evening rows, and sails in a good-sized sailboat, always at the disposal of any of the party who cared to use it, and aimless meanderings through the tangled paths of the island, sometimes with the ostensible object of berry-picking, for the wild raspberries were still found in great abundance, and were in great request for breakfast and tea. In the forenoon there was always a general bathing party, when the young men took themselves to one end of the island, in order to practise their aquatic feats by themselves, and the girls, in their loose, short bathing suits, disported themselves to their hearts’ content in the limpid tide, in a pretty little sandy bay, lined to the water’s edge with luxuriant foliage, which almost concealed the little rustic bathing box. Then there was the luxurious lounge, with a pleasant book, before the early dinner, in a shady corner of the veranda, for these August days were pretty warm. For a while after dinner there was a suspiciously quiet air about Sumach Lodge, as it was called; but when the heat of the day began to give place to the cool afternoon breeze, the little party began to wake up from its siesta, and skiffs and canoes were hauled out and filled, as little groups departed on various expeditions, some simply to explore island nooks, some to fish, and some to gather the water-lilies which grew in a secluded bay not far off, or, on a breezy afternoon, to try a sailing cruise in a pretty “butterfly” sailboat belonging to one of he young men, who was always glad to muster a crew. In the cool of the evening the “boys” often tried their canoe races, sometimes playfully wrestling as they passed each other, for they never minded an upset, but were back in their canoes again almost as soon as they were out of them. And now that the moon was rapidly growing in size and light, no one wanted to do anything in the evening, but sit on the veranda or the shore, and enjoy the charming moonlight effects. May, of course, was never tired of watching the tremulous path of silver stretching from island to island, or the exquisite effect when some picturesque cluster of islets stood out in dark relief on what seemed a silver sea, and—a very unusual phenomenon—when the shadow of the island was thrown across its reflection in the scarcely rippled river. Hugh Macnab, like herself, seemed fascinated with the mysterious beauty of the moonlit scene, and was frequently suspected of endeavoring to reproduce its charm in verse.

These seemed truly enchanted evenings, which no one wished to cut short, so that May found that the late hours she kept at night came a good deal in the way of the enjoyment of those early morning hours which she had at first thought so delightful. But, with such moonlight pictures spread around them for their delectation, it seemed a waste of privileges to spend any of these wonderful hours in sleep; and as the moon grew later and later so did the hours of the junior members of the party.