Perhaps the boat would drift ashore somewhere; she could land anywhere;
even on the steep Kleiner Berg side she could easily have found footing;
she was well used to climbing its narrow ledges, and knew every crack and
crevice and projection where a step could be taken. But, no; the boat was
not going to drift ashore. It had stopped in a tangle of lily-leaves, far
out in the water, and there was not a breath of wind to stir it. If the
water had not been deep she could have waded ashore; but her practised ear
told her, from the sound of the little waves against her hand, that wading
was not to be thought of. To be sure, Gypsy could swim; but a walk of half
a mile in drenched clothes was hardly preferable to sitting still in a dry
boat, to say nothing of the inconvenience of swimming in crinoline, and on
a dark night.

No, there was nothing to be done but to sit still till morning.

Having come to this conclusion, Gypsy gave another little shiver, and
slipped down into the bottom of the boat, thinking she might lie with her
head under the stern-seat, and thus be somewhat shielded from the chilly
air. In turning up her sack-collar, to protect her throat, she touched
something soft, which proved to be the lace collar. This led her to
examine her dress. She now noticed for the first time that one stocking
was drawn up over her hand,--the other she had probably lost on the
way,--and that she had put her bare feet into rubber-boots. The lace
collar was fastened by a bit of green chenille she sometimes wore at her
throat, and which had doubtless been the snake of her dream.

Lonely, frightened, and cold as she was, Gypsy's sense of the ludicrous
overcame her at that, and she broke into a little laugh. That laugh seemed
to drive away the mystery and terror of her situation, in spite of the
curious sound it had in echoing over the lonely water; and Gypsy set