The Merryweathers Part 27

"I should hope not," said Kitty. "There's n.o.body good enough, in the first place; and besides, of course somebody must stay with Papa and Mamma."

"I suppose you will be grown up yourself some day!" said w.i.l.l.y, gruffly.

"I shall be likely to marry very young," said Kitty, seriously. "I heard Aunt Anna say so."

Gertrude stood on the wharf, looking after the retreating boat. "Poor w.i.l.l.y!" she said, with a smile; "it _is_ hard on him!"

She looked around her. It was afternoon, a still, golden day. The lake was as she loved best to see it, a sheet of living crystal, here deep blue, here glittering in gold and diamonds, here giving back shades of crimson and russet from the autumn woods that crowded down to the water's edge. Far out, her eye caught a white flash, the gleam of a paddle; there was another, just at the bend of the sh.o.r.e; and was that dark spot the prow of a third canoe, moored in the fairy cove of Birch Island? Gertrude smiled again, and her smile said many things.

Presently she raised her arms above her head, and brought them down slowly, with a powerful gesture. "How good it would be to fly!" she said, dreamily. "To fly away up to the iceberg country, where the snowy owls live!"

She stood for a long time silent, gazing out over the s.h.i.+ning water. At last she shook herself with a little laugh, and turned away. The white canoe, her own especial pet, was lying on the wharf. She launched it carefully, then taking her paddle, knelt down in the bow. A few long, swift strokes, and the canoe shot out over the lake, and rested like a great white bird with folded wings, then glided slowly on again. It was a pity there was none to see, for the picture was a fair one: the stately maiden kneeling, her golden hair sweeping about her, her white arms rising and falling slowly, rhythmically, in perfect grace.

"Tu-whoo!" said the Snowy Owl.

But only the loon answered her.

THE END.