“Mater,” said Gerald, watching the two as they walked away together, “do you think—­”

“Not often!” said his mother.  “It is a dangerous occupation.”

“True!” said Gerald.  “Well, if I mustn’t think, where is Phil?”

CHAPTER XV.

A morning hour.

It is morning in the Lonely Cove.  Before and around lies a broad stretch of glimmering water, dotted here and there with great stumps, and lined about the shore with dead trees.  Dams built in the river beyond have raised the level of the lake, and hundreds of trees have died.

On every side is a network of gnarled and knotted roots.  The black limbs grapple with each other; here one has dragged his neighbour over, and he lies with arms outstretched, writhen into antic twists and curves, as if he had died in torment; there, in singular contrast, are two friends,—­oaks, were they once?—­who have fallen into one another’s arms, and, dead, seem still to embrace and uphold each other tenderly.

Here again are stumps that gleam like gray silver, bare and polished, worn by storms and winds.  The shining water is clear, and one sees the bottom covered with particles of wood, chipped from the rotting trees, preserved by the water from further decay.

Through this silent water glides the Cheemaun, Hilda in the bow—­ where is Hilda so happy as in the birch canoe?—­Roger paddling in the stern.  As the paddle dips, bubbles rise and burst, large and round.  Behind, the dark woods curve in a lovely line; between wood and water, spread like a bed for the dead and dying trees, a swamp, bright with rushes and water-weed.

On the crest of a snow-white birch sits a great fish-hawk, with bent head and closed wings.  What is the hunter dreaming of?  Hours of sport, most likely; long pauses on balanced wings, the arrowy downward sweep, the swift plunge, and the triumph of the upward plunge, dripping and proud, bearing his prey aloft.

Some real or fancied noise disturbs the vision; he rises, spreads the wide, hollow wings, and flaps slowly away.  Roused by his flight, half a dozen crows burst suddenly into talk, and protest violently against some deadly injury, then as suddenly fall silent again.

Whirr! a kingfisher darts down with a quick splash, and back to his bough with a fish in his beak.  The canoe moves on, slowly, noiselessly; here the water is only three inches deep, but the soft bottom yields as the strong young arms ply the paddle.

Hilda lifts her hand with a warning gesture, and they are motionless once more.  Look! not fifty yards away, a group of pretty birds play and paddle in the shallow water.  Sandpipers, are they?  They might be enchanted princesses, Hilda thinks, as they go mincing along, turning their heads now to this side, now to that, admiring themselves in the clear water.  One of them finds a bit of succulent weed,