e in the Gates now, passing slowly through the railroad bridge.
The softly tinted glassy water of Lake Algonquin, with the green
islands mirrored in its clear depths was opening out to view. The
channel too, was clear and still like crystal, save where the swell
from the bows of the _Inverness_ rolled away to the low shore and set
the bulrushes nodding a stately welcome. The echoes of the little
engine clattered away into the deep woods, startlingly clear. An ugly
brown bittern, with a harsh exclamation of surprise at the intrusion
into his quiet domain, shot across the bow and disappeared into the
swamp. A great heron sailed majestically down the channel ahead of the
boat, his broad blue wings gleaming in the sunlight. It was all so
still and beautiful that a sense of peace and content awoke in
Roderick's heart.

The _Inverness_ was making her way slowly towards the second bridge.
The channel was very narrow and shallow here and the captain's little
whistle that communicated with the powers below was squeaking
frantically. Just as the bridge began to turn, a man in a mud-splashed
buggy dashed up, a moment too late to cross, and stood there holding
his horse, which went up indignantly on its heels every time the
_Inverness_ snorted. His fair face was darkened with anger, his blue
eyes were blazing. He leaned over the dashboard and shook his fist at
the little wheel-house which held the captain.

"Get along there you, Jimmie McTavish!" He roared in a voice that was
rich and musical even in its anger. "Can't you see I'm in a hurry, you
thundering old mud-turtle? I could sail a ship across the Atlantic
while you are dawdling here. Get out of my road, I tell you! I've got
to be in town before that five train goes out, and here's that old
dromedary of yours stuck in the mud.--How? What? Oh, what in the name
of--?" He choked, spluttering with wrath, for with a final squeak the
_Inverness_ stopped altogether.

The captain darted out of the wheel-house to call down an indignant
enquiry of the Ancient Mariner as to the cause of the delay. Much
sailing in all weathers in the keen air of the northern lakes had
ruined Captain McTavish's voice, which, at best, had never been
intended for any part but a high soprano. And now it was almost
inaudible with anger. It ill became the dignity of a sea captain to be
thus publicly berated in the presence of his passengers.

"If ye'd whisht ye're noise," he screamed, "I'