she did not know whither, she did not know how, in the helplessness of
sleep, into a place where her voice could reach no human ear, was in
itself enough to freeze her where she sat, with hands locked, and wide,
frightened eyes, staring into the darkness.

After a few moments she stirred, shivered a little, and looked about her.

It was the Basin, surely. There were the maples, there was the Kleiner
Berg rolling up, soft and shadowy, among its pines. There were the
mountains, towering and sharp--terrible shadows against the sky. Here,
too, was the Dipper beneath her, swaying idly back and forth upon the
water. She remembered, with a little cry of joy, that the boat was always
locked; she could not have stirred from the shore; it would be but the
work of a moment to jump upon the wharf, then back swiftly through the
fields to the house.

She looked back. The wharf was not in sight. A dark distance lay between
her and it. The beds of lily-leaves, and the dropping blossoms of the
maples were about her on every side. She had drifted half across the pond.

She understood it all in a moment--_she had not locked the boat that
afternoon_.

What was to be done? The oars were half a mile away, in the barn at home.
There was not so much as a branch floating within reach on the water. She
tried to pull up the board seats of the boat, under the impression that
she could, by degrees, paddle herself ashore with one of them. But they
were nailed tightly in their places, and she could not stir them.
Evidently, there was nothing to be done.