"

Mrs. Blackwell replied that they had not, but that a neighbor farther
down the river owned a skiff which might be borrowed.

"Borrow it, then," said Mrs. Young. "They will lend it to _you_, of
course, in a friendly way, and then _we_ can pay _you_ something for the
use of it."

This thrifty arrangement, of which Mrs. Blackwell unaided would never
have thought, was carried into effect, and early the next morning the
skiff floated at the foot of the meadow, tied to an overhanging branch.

In the afternoon Mrs. Young, in the farm wagon, accompanied by her
hostess, and her hostess's little son as driver, set off for John Cole's
farm, to see, in Mrs. Blackwell's language, "the pynies." A little later
Anne was in the skiff, rowing up the river. She had not had oars in her
hands since she left the island.

She rowed on for an hour, through the green fields, then through the
woods. Long-legged flies skated on the still surface of the water,
insects with gauzy wings floated to and fro. A dragon-fly with
steel-blue mail lighted on the edge of the boat. The burnished little
creature seemed attracted. He would not leave her, but even when he took
flight floated near by on his filmy wings, timing his advance with hers.
With one of those vague impulses by which women often select the merest
chance to decide their actions, Anne said to herself, "I will row on
until I lose sight of him." Turning the skiff, she took one oar for a
paddle, and followed the dragon-fly. He flew on now more steadily,
selecting the middle of the stream. No doubt he had a dragon-fly's
motives; perhaps he was going home; but whether he was or not, he led
Anne's boat onward until the river grew suddenly narrower, and entered a
ravine. Here, where the long boughs touched leaf-tips over her head, and
everything was still and green, she lost him. The sun was sinking toward
the western horizon line; it was time to return; but she said to herself
that she would come again on the morrow, and explore this cool glen to
which her gauzy-winged guide had brought her. When she reached home she
found Miss Lois there, and in a state of profound discomfiture. "The man
was left-handed enough," she said, "but, come to look at him, he hadn't
any little finger at all: chopped off by mistake when a boy. Now the
little finger in the impression is the most distinct part of the whole;
and so we've lost a day, and the price of the wagon thrown in, not to
speak of enough talking