“Are there any passenger boats that call there?” she asked.

MacDougal shook his head.

“Not reg’lar.  There’s a gas boat goes t’ the head of the lake now an’ then.  She’s away now.  Ye might hire a launch.  Jack Fyfe’s camp tender’s about to get under way.  But ye wouldna care to go on her, I’m thinkin’.  She’ll be loaded wi’ lumberjacks—­every man drunk as a lord, most like.  Maybe Benton’ll be in before night.”

She went back to the hotel.  But St. Allwoods, in its dual capacity of health-and-pleasure resort, was a gilded shell, making a brave outward show, but capitalizing chiefly lake, mountains, and hot, mineral springs.  Her room was a bare, cheerless place.  She did not want to sit and ponder.  Too much real grief hovered in the immediate background of her life.  It is not always sufficient to be young and alive.  To sit still and think—­that way lay tears and despondency.  So she went out and walked down the road and out upon the wharf which jutted two hundred yards into the lake.

It stood deserted save for a lone fisherman on the outer end, and an elderly couple that preceded her.  Halfway out she passed a slip beside which lay moored a heavily built, fifty-foot boat, scarred with usage, a squat and powerful craft.  Lakeward stretched a smooth, unrippled surface.  Overhead patches of white cloud drifted lazily.  Where the shadows from these lay, the lake spread gray and lifeless.  Where the afternoon sun rested, it touched the water with gleams of gold and pale, delicate green.  A white-winged yacht lay offshore, her sails in slack folds.  A lump of an island lifted two miles beyond, all cliffs and little, wooded hills.  And the mountains surrounding in a giant ring seemed to shut the place away from all the world.  For sheer wild, rugged beauty, Roaring Lake surpassed any spot she had ever seen.  Its quiet majesty, its air of unbroken peace soothed and comforted her, sick with hurry and swift-footed events.

She stood for a time at the outer wharf end, mildly interested when the fisherman drew up a two-pound trout, wondering a little at her own subtle changes of mood.  Her surrounding played upon her like a virtuoso on his violin.  And this was something that she did not recall as a trait in her own character.  She had never inclined to the volatile—­perhaps because until the motor accident snuffed out her father’s life she had never dealt in anything but superficial emotions.

After a time she retraced her steps.  Nearing the halfway slip, she saw that a wagon from which goods were being unloaded blocked the way.  A dozen men were stringing in from the road, bearing bundles and bags and rolls of blankets.  They were big, burly men, carrying themselves with a reckless swing, with trousers cut off midway between knee and ankle so that they reached just below the upper of their high-topped, heavy, laced boots.  Two or three were singing.  All appeared unduly happy, talking loudly, with deep laughter.  One threw down his burden and executed a brief clog.  Splinters flew where the sharp calks bit into the wharf planking, and his companions applauded.