face, and the
curls on his forehead became wet. He flung off his hat, and redoubled
his efforts. He bent his head to his task, as his paddle bumped and
splashed its way into the water. When he looked up again, he found, to
his dismay, that Wanda Island lay right between him and his shining
goal.

This little garden of spruce and cedar had heretofore marked the bounds
of his excursions. His father had often allowed him to go out alone in
the boat or Peter's canoe, but only when he was watching from the
fields or the shore, and then he was permitted to go only up and down
in the shelter of the island. But he did not hesitate to go farther,
fearing the magic gold might vanish while he lingered. He revived his
flagging energies by picturing his father's joy and wonder when he
returned and came staggering up the path with the money. And then his
father could wear his Sunday blacks every day in the week, and never
work any more, but just ride to and from town all day long in a new
buggy, a painted one like Doctor Blair's. And they would hire Peter
Fiddle and young Peter every day in the year to hoe the fields, and
they would give away everything they grew. And the people in Willow
Lane would all be good and happy ever after. Oh, there would never be
any trouble of any kind when he came home with that pot of gold!

He paddled manfully round the island, pushing through the reeds of the
little bay and just skimming the rocks at the western extremity. But
his arms ached so, that he had to pause a moment to rest. As he did
so, he heard a loud whistle, and the steamer, _Inverness_, came round a
far point and turned her long bowsprit towards the town, lying off to
the left in a shining mist. The boy grabbed his paddle again and
redoubled his efforts. Peter had gone down to Barbay that morning on
the _Inverness_, and was in all likelihood on board, and although the
young adventurer intended to reward Peter liberally for the use of his
canoe, he felt it would be safer for him to have it on shore before its
owner returned. He took one tremendous splashing stroke, and, as he
did so, he felt a strange, sharp pain in his right arm. It made him
cry out so loud that Collie turned quickly to him with a whine of
grieved sympathy. The boy dropped the paddle across his knee and
caught his arm. Gradually the pain left and he took up the paddle
again. But somehow the glory of the expedition seemed to have
vanished. He wanted