On the western shore of the wide, wind-ruffled
sheet of water, on a wooded knoll, glimmered the lights of the village.
To Diane, stretched comfortably upon the cushions of the boat, which
had drifted idly about since early twilight, the night's sounds were
indescribably peaceful. The lap and purl of water, the rustle of
birch, the call of an owl in the forest, the noise of frog and tree
toad and innumerable crickets, they were all, paradoxically enough, the
wildwood sounds of silence.
With a sigh the girl presently paddled in to shore. As she moored her
boat, the moon swept majestically from the clouds and shone full upon a
second boatman paddling briskly by the lily beds. The boat came on
with a musical swirl of water; the bareheaded boatman waved his hand
lazily to the girl standing motionless upon the moonlit wharf, and as
lazily floated in.
"Hello!" he called cheerfully.
The moon, doomed to erotic service, was again upon the head of Mr.
Poynter.
"It's the milkman's boat!" explained Philip smiling. "He's a mighty
decent chap."
Diane's face was as pale as a lily.
"How did you know?" she asked, but her eyes, for Philip, were welcome
enough.
"I saw Carl," said he, dexterously rounding to a point at her feet.
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