The correctness of our work was at once evident. All the indications
pointed to that; for the place showed not the slightest sign of ever
having been used as a landing-place--which is just what you would
expect after the lapse of two or three centuries.

After that, it was but the work of a moment to crook the end of the
modern road, where it approached the river through a bit of elevated
woodland (the only piece of solid land anywhere near us), and so make
it come out, like the road of old, at the "landing." Now, our man held
aloft a stick with the houseboat's burgee on it, and a photograph was
taken that we might not forget where our diverted road came out and
where to go to meet the "friggetts" that might be coming in almost any
time.

Our trifling bits of restoration made all satisfactory: an isthmus
more, a bridge less, a crook in the end of a road--and the scene went
back, as our thoughts went back, to those old James Towne days. To be
sure, the village itself was still clear across the island on the
"Maine River" side, and we could not catch a glimpse of the colonists
in their little streets nor even of the English colours flying over the
fort.

However, there was enough taking place on our own side of the island.
We had no sooner got the isthmus up out of the water than figures began
to move across it. But such figures! Was there a mistake somewhere?
These were not Englishmen, and they were not Indians. Behold, crossing
our isthmus, Dutchmen, Italians, and Poles! Suddenly, from the midst of
the group, came a glint and a flash of blue. Then we understood. These
were the "skilful workmen from foreign parts" early sent over to the
colony to make glass beads, preferably blue ones, for barter with the