Suddenly at sunset the fog folded its gray draperies, spread its
wings, and floated off to the southwest, where that night it rested at
Death's Door and sent two schooners to the bottom; but it left behind
it a released dug-out, floating before a log fortress which had
appeared by magic, rising out of the water with not an inch of ground
to spare, if indeed there was any ground; for might it not be a
species of fresh-water boat, anchored there for clearer weather?

'Ten more strokes and I should have run into it,' thought Waring as he
floated noiselessly up to this watery residence; holding on by a
jutting beam, he reconnoitred the premises. The building was of logs,
square, and standing on spiles, its north side, under which he lay,
showed a row of little windows all curtained in white, and from one of
them peeped the top of a rose-bush; there was but one storey, and the
roof was flat. Nothing came to any of these windows, nothing stirred,
and the man in the dug-out, being curious as well as hungry, decided
to explore, and touching the wall at intervals pushed his craft
noiselessly around the eastern corner; but here was a blank wall of
logs and nothing more. The south side was the same, with the exception
of two loopholes, and the dug-out glided its quietest past these. But
the west shone out radiant, a rude little balcony overhanging the
water, and in it a girl in a mahogany chair, nibbling something and
reading.

'My sugar and my sonnets, as I am alive!' ejaculated Waring to
himself.

The girl took a fresh bite with her little white teeth, and went on
reading in the sunset light.