> them, glimpses of which he could see through the channel or passage

between, there was a ripple where the faint south-western breeze touched

the surface. His mind went out to the beauty of it. He did not question

or analyse his feelings; he launched his vessel, and left that hard and

tyrannical land for the loveliness of the water.



Paddling out to the islands he passed through between them, and reached

the open Lake. There he hoisted the sail, the gentle breeze filled it,

the sharp cutwater began to divide the ripples, a bubbling sound arose,

and steering due north, straight out to the open and boundless expanse,

he was carried swiftly away.



The mallards, who saw the canoe coming, at first scarcely moved, never

thinking that a boat would venture outside the islands, within whose

line they were accustomed to see vessels, but when the canoe continued

to bear down upon them, they flew up and descended far away to one side.

When he had sailed past the spot where these birds had floated, the Lake

was his own. By the shores of the islands the crows came down for

mussels. Moorhens swam in and out among the rushes, water-rats nibbled

at the flags, pikes basked at the edge of the weeds, summer-snipes ran

along the sand, and doubtless an otter here and there was in

concealment. Without the line of the shoals and islets, now that the

mallards had flown, there was a solitude of water. It was far too deep

for the longest weeds, nothing seemed to exist here. The very

water-snails seek the shore, or are drifted by the currents into shallow

corners. Neither great nor little care for the broad expanse.



The canoe moved more rapidly as the wind came now with its full force

over the distant woods and hills, and though it was but a light

southerly breeze, the broad sail impelled the taper vessel swiftly.

Reclining in the stern, Felix lost all consciousness of aught but that

he was pleasantly borne along. His eyes were not closed, and he was

aware of the canoe, the Lake, the sunshine, and the sky, and yet he was

asleep. Physically awake, he mentally slumbered. It was rest. After the

misery, exertion, and excitement of the last fortnight it was rest,

intense rest for body and mind. The pressure of the water against the

handle of the rudder-paddle, the slight vibration of the wood, as the

bubbles rushed by beneath, alone perhaps kept him from really falling

asleep. This was something which could not be left to itself; it must be

firmly grasped, and that effort restrained his drowsiness.



Three hours passed. The shore was twelve or fifteen miles behind, and

looked like a blue cloud, for the summer haze hid the hills, more than

would have been the case in clearer weather.



Another hour, and at last Felix, awakening from his slumberous

condition, looked round and saw nothing but the waves. The shore he had

left had entirely disappeared, gone down; if there were land more lofty

on either hand, the haze concealed it. He looked again; he could

scarcely comprehend it. He knew the Lake was very wide, but it had never

occurred to him that he might possibly sail out of sight of land. This,

then was why the mariners would not quit the islands; they feared the

open water. He stood up and swept the horizon carefully, shading his

eyes with his hand; there was nothing but a mist at the horizon. He was

alone with the sun, the sky, and the Lake. He could not surely have

sailed into the ocean without knowing it? He sat down, dipped his hand

overboard and tasted the drops that adhered; the water was pure and

sweet, warm from the summer sunshine.



There was not so much as a swift in the upper sky; nothing but slender

filaments of white cloud. No swallows glided over the surface of the

water. If there were fishes he could not see them through the waves,

which were here much larger; sufficiently large, though the wind was

light, to make his canoe rise and fall with their regular rolling. To

see fishes a calm surface is necessary, and, like other creatures, they

haunt the shallows and the shore. Never had he felt alone like this in

the depths of the farthest forest he had penetrated. Had he contemplated

beforehand the possibility of passing out of sight of land, when he

found that the canoe had arrived he would probably have been alarmed and

anxious for his safety. But thus stumbling drowsily into the solitude of

the vast Lake, he was so astounded with his own discovery, so absorbed

in thinking of the immense expanse, that the idea of danger did not

occur to him.



Another hour passed, and he now began to gaze about him more eagerly for

some sight of land, for he had very little provision with him, and he

did not wish to spend the night upon the Lake. Presently, however, the

mist on the horizon ahead appeared to thicken, and then became blue, and

in a shorter time than he expected land came in sight. This arose from

the fact of its being low, so that he had approached nearer than he knew

before recognising it. At the time when he was really out of sight of

the coast, he was much further from the hilly land left behind than from

the low country in front, and not in the mathematical centre, as he had

supposed, of the Lake. As it rose and came more into sight, he already

began to wonder what reception he should meet with from the inhabitants,

and whether he should find them as hard of heart as the people he had

just escaped from. Should he, indeed, venture among them at all? Or

should he remain in the woods till he had observed more of their ways

and manners? These questions were being debated in his mind, when he

perceived that the wind was falling.



As the sun went past the meridian the breeze fell, till, in the hottest

part of the afternoon, and when he judged that he was not more than

eight miles from shore, it sank to the merest zephyr, and the waves by

degrees diminished. So faint became the breeze in half-an-hour's time,

and so intermittent, that he found it patience wasted even to hold the

rudder-paddle. The sail hung and was no longer bellied out; as the idle

waves rolled under, it flapped against the mast. The heat was now so

intolerable, the light reflected from the water increasing the

sensation, that he was obliged to make himself some shelter by partly

lowering the sail, and hauling the yard athwart the vessel, so that the

canvas acted as an awning. Gradually the waves declined in volume, and

the gentle breathing of the wind ebbed away, till at last the surface

was almost still, and he could feel no perceptible air stirring.



Weary of sitting in the narrow boat, he stood up, but he could not

stretch himself sufficiently for the change to be of much use. The long

summer day, previously so pleasant, now appeared scarcely endurable.

Upon the silent water the time lingered, for there was nothing to mark

its advance, not so much as a shadow beyond that of his own boat. The

waves having now no crest, went under the canoe without chafing against

it, or rebounding, so that they were noiseless. No fishes rose to the

surface. There was nothing living near, except a blue butterfly, which

settled on the mast, having ventured thus far from land. The vastness of

the sky, over-arching the broad water, the sun, and the motionless

filaments of cloud, gave no repose for his gaze, for they were seemingly

still. To the weary gaze motion is repose; the waving boughs, the

foam-tipped waves, afford positive rest to look at. Such intense

stillness as this of the summer sky was oppressive; it was like living

in space itself, in the ether above. He welcomed at last the gradual

downward direction of the sun, for, as the heat decreased, he could work

with the paddle.



Presently he furled the sail, took his paddle, and set his face for the

land. He laboured steadily, but made no apparent progress. The canoe was

heavy, and the outrigger or beam, which was of material use in sailing,

was a drawback to paddling. He worked till his arms grew weary, and

still the blue land seemed as far off as ever.



But by the time the sun began to approach the horizon, his efforts had

produced some effect, the shore was visible, and the woods beyond. They

were still five miles distant, and he was tired; there was little chance

of his reaching it before night. He put his paddle down for refreshment

and rest, and while he was thus engaged, a change took place. A faint

puff of air came; a second, and a third; a tiny ripple ran along the

surface. Now he recollected that he had heard that the mariners depended

a great deal on the morning and the evening--the land and the

Lake--breeze as they worked along the shore. This was the first breath

of the Land breeze. It freshened after a while, and he re-set his sail.



An hour or so afterwards he came near the shore; he heard the thrushes

singing, and the cuckoo calling, long before he landed. He did not stay

to search about for a creek, but ran the canoe on the strand, which was

free of reeds or flags, a sign that the waves often beat furiously

there, rolling as they must for so many miles. He hauled the canoe up as

high as he could, but presently when he looked about him he found that

he was on a small and narrow island, with a channel in the rear. Tired

as he was, yet anxious for the safety of his canoe, he pushed off again,

and paddled round and again beached her with the island between her and

the open Lake. Else he feared if a south wind should blow she might be

broken to pieces on the strand before his eyes. It was prudent to take

the precaution, but, as it happened, the next day the Lake was still.



He could see no traces of human occupation upon the island, which was of

small extent and nearly bare, and therefore, in the morning, paddled

across the channel to the mainland, as he thought. But upon exploring

the opposite shore, it proved not to be the mainland, but merely another

island. Paddling round it, he tried again, but with the same result; he

found nothing but island after island, all narrow, and bearing nothing

except bushes. Observing a channel which seemed to go straight in among

these islets, he resolved to follow it, and did so (resting at

noon-time) the whole morning. As he paddled slowly in, he found the

water shallower, and weeds, bulrushes, and reeds became thick, except

quite in the centre.



After the heat of midday had gone over, he resumed his voyage, and still

found the same; islets and banks, more or less covered with hawthorn

bushes, willow, elder, and alder, succeeded to islets, fringed round

their edges with reeds and reed canary-grass. When he grew weary of

paddling, he landed and stayed the night; the next day he went on again,

and still for hour after hour rowed in and out among these banks and

islets, till he began to think he should never find his way out.



The farther he penetrated the more numerous became the waterfowl. Ducks

swam among the flags, or rose with a rush and splashing. Coots and

moorhens dived and hid in the reeds. The lesser grebe sank at the sound

of the paddle like a stone. A strong northern diver raised a wave as he

hurried away under the water, his course marked by the undulation above

him. Sedge-birds chirped in the willows; black-headed buntings sat on

the trees, and watched him without fear. Bearded titmice were there,

clinging to the stalks of the sedges, and long-necked herons rose from

the reedy places where they love to wade. Blue dragon-flies darted to

and fro, or sat on water-plants as if they were flowers. Snakes swam

across the channels, vibrating their heads from side to side. Swallows

swept over his head. Pike "struck" from the verge of the thick weeds as

he came near. Perch rose for insects as they fell helpless into the

water.



He noticed that the water, though so thick with reeds, was as clear as

that in the open Lake; there was no scum such as accumulates in stagnant

places. From this he concluded that there must be a current, however

slight, perhaps from rivers flowing into this part of the Lake. He felt

the strongest desire to explore farther till he reached the mainland,

but he reflected that mere exploration was not his object; it would

never obtain Aurora for him. There were no signs whatever of human

habitation, and from reeds and bulrushes, however interesting, nothing

could be gained. Reluctantly, therefore, on the third morning, having

passed the night on one of the islets, he turned his canoe, and paddled

southwards towards the Lake.



He did not for a moment attempt to retrace the channel by which he had

entered; it would have been an impossibility; he took advantage of any

clear space to push through. It took him as long to get out as it had to

get in; it was the afternoon of the fourth day when he at last regained

the coast. He rested the remainder of the afternoon, wishing to start

fresh in the morning, having determined to follow the line of the shore

eastwards, and so gradually to circumnavigate the Lake. If he succeeded

in nothing else, that at least would be something to relate to Aurora.



The morning rose fair and bright, with a south-westerly air rather than

a breeze. He sailed before it; it was so light that his progress could

not have exceeded more than three miles an hour. Hour after hour passed

away, and still he followed the line of the shore, now going a short way

out to skirt an island, and now nearer it to pass between sandbanks. By

noon he was so weary of sitting in the canoe that he ran her ashore, and

rested awhile.



It was the very height of the heat of the day when he set forth again,

and the wind lighter than in the morning. It had, however, changed a

little, and blew now from the west, almost too exactly abaft to suit his

craft. He could not make a map while sailing, or observe his position

accurately, but it appeared to him that the shore trended towards the

south-east, so that he was gradually turning an arc. He supposed from

this that he must be approaching the eastern end of the Lake. The water

seemed shallower, to judge from the quantity of weeds. Now and then he

caught glimpses between the numerous islands of the open Lake, and

there, too, the weeds covered the surface in many places.



In an hour or two the breeze increased considerably, and travelling so

much quicker, he found it required all his dexterity to steer past the

islands and clear the banks upon which he was drifting. Once or twice he

grazed the willows that overhung the water, and heard the keel of the

canoe drag on the bottom. As much as possible he bore away from the

mainland, steering south-east, thinking to find deeper water, and to be

free of the islets. He succeeded in the first, but the islets were now

so numerous that he could not tell where the open Lake was. The farther

the afternoon advanced, the more the breeze freshened, till

occasionally, as it blew between the islands, it struck his mast almost

with the force of a gale. Felix welcomed the wind, which would enable

him to make great progress before evening. If such favouring breezes

would continue, he could circumnavigate the waters in a comparatively

short time, and might return to Aurora, so far, at least, successful.

Hope filled his heart, and he sang to the wind.



The waves could not rise among these islands, which intercepted them

before they could roll far enough to gather force, so that he had all

the advantage of the gale without its risks. Except a light haze all

round the horizon, the sky was perfectly clear, and it was pleasant now

the strong current of air cooled the sun's heat. As he came round the

islands he constantly met and disturbed parties of waterfowl, mallards,

and coots. Sometimes they merely hid in the weeds, sometimes they rose,

and when they did so passed to his rear.