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The glorious landscape outstretched at her feet soothed, as naught else could, the agitation of Maggie’s mind, for Nature’s touch is ever gentle and healing. The great expanse of water, here narrowed into a broad river, there swelling into a noble lake, was smooth as a mirror, reflecting hill and tree and rock. Beyond it, was unrolled the forest as a brightly colored carpet, for the glory of Autumn was upon it, and a trail of smoky mist hung on the horizon. An hour might have sped, when Hemlock reappeared, with paint washed off and dressed in his usual attire. Across his back was slung his rifle; at his heel was a gaunt, ill-shaped dog. “Follow,” he said, and turning backward a few paces, led to where the bank could be descended without difficulty. At the foot of it, lay waiting a canoe, with a boy in the bow. Maggie stepped lightly into the centre, and Hemlock grasping the paddle, shot the light skiff swiftly across the stream. When the opposite bank was gained, he sprang ashore and was followed by Maggie. The boy, without a word, paddled back to the village.