"So there is, and I am glad of it. He will be able to direct us. I
shouldn't be surprised if he were Mr. Jones," said Cora turning the
Petrel to shore.

Under a big willow, in a sort of natural basket seat, formed by the
uncovered roots of the big trees, a man sat, and as the boat grazed
the shore, he looked up from some papers he held in his hands. Cora
could see that he was very dark, and had that almost uncomfortable
manner of affecting extreme politeness peculiar to foreigners of
certain classes, for, as she spoke to him, he arose, slid the paper
into his pocket, and bowed most profusely.

"I am looking for the cabin of Mr. Peters," said Cora, stepping
ashore toward the tree. "Can you direct me to it?"

"The cabin of Mr. Peters?" and when the man spoke the foreign
suspicion was confirmed. "Why, who might Mr. Peters be?"

"Jim Peters; don't you know him?" asked Cora determined not to be
thrown off the track. "He lives just in here--I should think in
that grove--"

"Oh, my dear miss no! You are mistaken. No one lives around here.
I am simply a rustic, looking about. But Jim Peters?"

"Are you not Mr. Jones?" blurted out Cora.

In spite of himself the man started.

"Mr. Jones?" he repeated. "Well, that name will do as well as any