The Springs fell far behind, became a few white spots against the
background of dusky green. Except for the ripples spread by their wake,
the water laid oily smooth. Now, a little past four in the afternoon,
she began to sense by comparison the great bulk of the western
mountains,--locally, the Chehalis Range,--for the sun was dipping behind
the ragged peaks already, and deep shadows stole out from the shore to
port. Beneath her feet the screw throbbed, pulsing like an overdriven
heart, and Sam Davis poked his sweaty face now and then through a window
to catch a breath of cool air denied him in the small inferno where he
stoked the fire box.

The _Chickamin_ cleared Echo Island, and a greater sweep of lake opened
out. Here the afternoon wind sprang up, shooting gustily through a gap
between the Springs and Hopyard and ruffling the lake out of its noonday
siesta. Ripples, chop, and a growing swell followed each other with that
marvellous rapidity common to large bodies of fresh water. It broke the
monotony of steady cleaving through dead calm. Stella was a good sailor,
and she rather enjoyed it when the _Chickamin_ began to lift and yaw off
before the following seas that ran up under her fantail stern.

After about an hour's run, with the south wind beginning to whip the
crests of the short seas into white foam, the boat bore in to a landing
behind a low point. Here Abbey disembarked, after taking the trouble to
come aft and shake hands with polite farewell. Standing on the float,
hat in hand, he bowed his sleek blond head to Stella.

"I hope you'll like Roaring Lake, Miss Benton," he said, as Benton
jingled the go-ahead bell. "I tried to persuade Charlie to stop over
awhile, so you could meet my mother and sister, but he's in too big a
hurry. Hope to have the pleasure of meeting you again soon."