Colman went out and walked down toward the head of the lake.  Passing out of the shadow of the trees, the open shore was before him, and the wharf at some distance, with the tiny steamer, the Wanita, lying by it in the moonlight.  There was some one coming along the sandy road, and Colman leaned against a tree and waited for him.  The dark side of the boat was toward him, and though it was quite late, a light showed in one of her windows.  When the person on the beach came near Colman, he turned and stood watching the light till it went out, and then came on.  Colman stepped out, and the comer said, “Halloa, Phil! is that you?  You startled me.  Going in?”

Philip only nodded, and they walked back to the house together, Field whistling absently.  They went up to their room, and Field sat by the window while Colman struck a light.

“Dan,” said Philip abruptly, “I want you to come on with me to-morrow.”

Field was looking out through the trees toward the wharf and boats at the head of the lake.  He turned sharply and answered:  “Phil, you’re a prig.  I’ll do nothing of the kind.”

“We’ve been here long enough, Dan,” Philip went on, taking no notice of the rudeness except in his manner.  “I shall go north in the morning.  I wish you would come with me.”

“The deuce you do!” Field retorted.  “You may do as you please.  We came to stay as long as we enjoyed it here, and there’s nothing to go for, that I know of.”

No more was said.  Colman went to bed, and Field sat smoking by the window.  After a while he forgot his cigar, and it went out.  He heard the wind whispering among the trees that almost brushed his face.  Through the branches he got glimpses of the lake placid under the moon, and the black breadths of shadow below the opposite hills.  He sat a long while, and the house became still.  He seemed alone with the night, and the hush and awe of it touched him and moulded his thought.  It was very late when he got up at last.  The lamp was still burning, and Field had not taken off his hat.  He went over and sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at his sleeping friend until the latter opened his eyes.

“Phil,” said Field, “you’re not a prig, but I’m a fool.  I’m coming with you in the morning.”

“All right, Dan,” Philip answered.  “I’m glad you are coming.  Good-night.”

They went on north next day with no definite plan, came to the lower lake and the old fort on the cliff, and, taking a great liking to the place, lingered in the neighborhood from day to day.  They happened one evening upon a queer, secluded public-house across the lake, where they fell in with a long, lean, leathery young native, who appeared to be a guide and waterman, and told them stories of the hunting and fishing among the lakes and mountains in a vein of unconscious humor and a low, even, husky voice which the friends found very agreeable.  They met him again at a fair