The children below were full of the stories the boatman had told them.  That black island there was called “Long Island,” and the other, with scarcely any trees, “Spate” or “Spirit Island,” because it was the burying-ground of the Indians.  Another was “Sheepback,” from its shape, and full of poisoned ivy, which, if accidentally touched, infected the blood, and caused swelling like erysipelas.

The younger ones, with Cecil and Bluebell, were too restless to stay in the lamp-lit room they had supped in, but wandered about, finally settling in the long drawing-room, where they could watch from the windows the moon silvering the lake, and the antlered furniture throwing strange shadows on the floor.

Then Bluebell sang the “Lorelei,” and Cecil invented legends for the lake, till, their rooms being at last prepared, the old nurse swooped down on her charges, and bore them away from the domain of Undines to that of Nod.

Colonel Rolleston had soon exhausted the resources of his new purchase, and duck-shooting having not yet begun, he went down to Quebec, taking Cecil with him, for an excursion up the Saguenay.  She was rather unwilling to go, for, though the elders got tired of a place without roads, she was perfectly content to be all day long in her canoe, fishing, sketching, reading, or picnicing with the children on the island.  But perhaps her strongest reason for not wishing to absent herself was the continual expectation of Du Meresq’s appearance.

They had had no tidings of him since they had settled at the lake; but nearly all Bertie’s advents were sudden and without warning.  From her nook in the gable she commanded the hotel landing, and few boats left it without being reconnoitred through Cecil’s binocular.

But then the Colonel wanted a companion, and was convinced it would be delightful for Cecil; so she prepared to go with well-assumed expressions of pleasure, devoutly hoping that no such contretemps as Bertie wasting any days of his leave by coming in her absence might befall.

To be sure, as she was in correspondence with him, nothing, apparently, was easier than to mention her intended trip, which, of course, would prevent his choosing that time to come to the lake; but it happened that Cecil had written last, and since a certain fatal speech, which even now maddened her to remember, she had been very particularly careful to let him make all the running.  Still, not wishing to be left in the dark should he arrive during her absence, she said, carelessly,—­“I hope, mamma, you will write now and then, and let us know how you are getting on in this dear little place.”

“Really,” returned Mrs. Rolleston, smiling, no arriere pensee having struck her,—­“I more depend on hearing from you.  Bluebell can write her fishing experiences, and how often they have tea on the islands; but all I expect to do is to travel over a good deal of my point-lace flounce before you return.”