he time, and probably would have spurned the suggestion a day later.
But, the fact remains that it was true.

Where he was going, is explainable by a simpler course of analysis. He
was going to the lake. He was going to his boat. He was going out upon
the water away from the companionship of that dead thing on land. He
was going out upon the water, to be alone, and to find solace in his
loneliness. In this, he but followed involuntarily a habit which he
had practised for several years. When his home-life had pressed most
hardly upon him at times, he had slipped away from the little farm,
and rowed his boat out upon the lake, for self-communion and comfort.
So now, without realizing that he had chosen any special direction in
his flight, or that he had any fixed purpose in his mind, he ran
swiftly along the wood-choppers' path, until at length he stopped
panting on a bit of narrow beach. He stood silent for a moment, and
then concluded to get his boat and go out upon the lake. Or rather, he
thought that he formed this decision at that moment, but really it
originated when he turned towards the lake, rather than towards the
next neighbor. It was therefore not companionship, but solitude which
he sought.

Within five minutes he was rowing lustily across the mirror-like
surface of Massabesic, out towards the widest portion. The day had
been insufferably warm, it being mid-summer, but in this region the
nights are usually cool. This night was balmy. Mars had appeared, a
glowing red ball, above the eastern horizon, early in the evening, and
an hour later the almost full moon had climbed up high enough to shed
her silver rays across the waters. Later still the breeze had died
away, and slowly the bosom of the lake grew quiet, as though even the
waters had drifted into slumberous repose. When Leon started out in
his boat, almost immediately his ruffled soul recognized the influence
of the deadly calm surrounding him, for though at first he dipped his
oars deep, and rowed vigorously, making the light bark leap upward at
every pull, before he had gone a quarter of a mile, he stroked his
oars with lessening vehemence, and presently, as though thoroughly
awed by the stillness, and fearful of creating the noise even of a
ripple, he was straining every nerve to dip and withdraw his oars, and
to move his boat along without a sound. After a few minutes of this,
he slowly raised both oars, letting them rest across the gunwales
until t