ished. The dreadful
mystery of the river drew close. The world of men was far, very far
away. Centuries ago, the man had faced himself in the mirror, and had
obeyed the voice that summoned him into the darkness. In fancy, now, he
saw his empty boat swept on and on. Through what varied scenes would it
drift? To what port would the mysterious will of the river carry it? To
what end would it at last come in its helplessness?

And the man himself,--the human soul-craft,--what of him? As he had
pushed his material boat out into the stream to drift, unguided and
helpless, so, presently, he would push himself out from the shore of
all that men call life. Through what scenes would he drift? To what port
would the will of an awful invisible stream carry him? To what end would
he finally come, in his helplessness?

Again the man drank--and again.

And then, with face upturned to the leaden clouds, he laughed
aloud--laughed until the ghostly shores gave back his laughter, and the
voices of the night were hushed and still.

The laughter ended with a wild, reckless, defiant yell.

Springing to his feet in the drifting boat, the man shook his clenched
fist at the darkness, and with insane fury cursed the life he had left
behind.

The current whirled the boat around, and the man faced down the stream.
He laughed again; and, lifting his bottle high, uttered a reckless,
profane toast to the unknown toward which he was being carried by the
river in the night.

CHAPTER III.

A MISSING LETTER.

Auntie Sue's little log house by the river was placed some five
hundred yards back from the stream, on a bench of land at the foot
of Schoolhouse Hill. From this bench, the ground slopes gently to the
river-bank, which, at this point, is sheer and high enough to be well
above the water at flood periods. The road, winding down the hill,
turns to the right at the foot of the steep grade, and leads away up the
river; and between the road and the river, on the up-stream side of the
house, was the garden.

At the lower corner of the garden, farthest from the house, the strong
current had cut a deep inward curve in the high shore-line, forming thus
an eddy, which was margined on one side, at a normal stage of water, by
a narrow shelf of land between the water's edge and the foot of the
main bank. A flight of rude steps led down from the garden above to this
natural landing, which, for three miles up and down the river, was
the only poi