Thus Betty rattled on as she led the way through the sitting-room and kitchen to Colonel Zane’s magazine and store-house which opened into the kitchen.  This little low-roofed hut contained a variety of things.  Boxes, barrels and farming implements filled one corner; packs of dried skins were piled against the wall; some otter and fox pelts were stretched on the wall, and a number of powder kegs lined a shelf.  A slender canoe swung from ropes thrown over the rafters.  Alfred slipped it out of the loops and carried it outside.

The canoe was a superb specimen of Indian handiwork.  It had a length of fourteen feet and was made of birch bark, stretched over a light framework of basswood.  The bow curved gracefully upward, ending in a carved image representing a warrior’s head.  The sides were beautifully ornamented and decorated in fanciful Indian designs.

“My brother’s Indian guide, Tomepomehala, a Shawnee chief, made it for me.  You see this design on the bow.  The arrow and the arm mean in Indian language, ‘The race is to the swift and the strong.’  The canoe is very light.  See, I can easily carry it,” said Betty, lifting it from the grass.

She ran into the house and presently came out with two rods, a book and a basket.

“These are Jack’s rods.  He cut them out of the heart of ten-year-old basswood trees, so he says.  We must be careful of them.”

Alfred examined the rods with the eye of a connoisseur and pronounced them perfect.

“These rods have been made by a lover of the art.  Anyone with half an eye could see that.  What shall we use for bait?” he said.

“Sam got me some this morning.”

“Did you expect to go?” asked Alfred, looking up in surprise.

“Yes, I intended going, and as you said you were coming over, I meant to ask you to accompany me.”

“That was kind of you.”

“Where are you young people going?” called Colonel Zane, stopping in his task.

“We are going down to the sycamore,” answered Betty.

“Very well.  But be certain and stay on this side of the creek and do not go out on the river,” said the Colonel.

“Why, Eb, what do you mean?  One might think Mr. Clarke and I were children,” exclaimed Betty.

“You certainly aren’t much more.  But that is not my reason.  Never mind the reason.  Do as I say or do not go,” said Colonel Zane.

“All right, brother.  I shall not forget,” said Betty, soberly, looking at the Colonel.  He had not spoken in his usual teasing way, and she was at a loss to understand him.  “Come, Mr. Clarke, you carry the canoe and follow me down this path and look sharp for roots and stones or you may trip.”

“Where is Isaac?” asked Alfred, as he lightly swung the canoe over his shoulder.

“He took his rifle and went up to the chestnut grove an hour or more ago.”

A few minutes’ walk down the willow skirted path and they reached the creek.  Here it was a narrow stream, hardly fifty feet wide, shallow, and full of stones over which the clear brown water rushed noisily.