sat. Then when the sun set and the dusk drew on, it grew almost dark
on the deck and so still that you could hardly tell there was anyone
on board.

And if you had looked at the steamer from the shore or from one of
the islands, you'd have seen the row of lights from the cabin windows
shining on the water and the red glare of the burning hemlock from
the funnel, and you'd have heard the soft thud of the propeller miles
away over the lake.

Now and then, too, you could have heard them singing on the
steamer,--the voices of the girls and the men blended into
unison by the distance, rising and falling in long-drawn melody:
"O--Can-a-da--O--Can-a-da."

You may talk as you will about the intoning choirs of your European
cathedrals, but the sound of "O--Can-a-da," borne across the waters
of a silent lake at evening is good enough for those of us who know
Mariposa.

I think that it was just as they were singing like this:
"O--Can-a-da," that word went round that the boat was sinking.

If you have ever been in any sudden emergency on the water, you will
understand the strange psychology of it,--the way in which what is
happening seems to become known all in a moment without a word being
said. The news is transmitted from one to the other by some
mysterious process.

At any rate, on the Mariposa Belle first one and then the other heard