Too much real grief hovered in the immediate background of
her life. It is not always sufficient to be young and alive. To sit
still and think--that way lay tears and despondency. So she went out and
walked down the road and out upon the wharf which jutted two hundred
yards into the lake.
It stood deserted save for a lone fisherman on the outer end, and an
elderly couple that preceded her. Halfway out she passed a slip beside
which lay moored a heavily built, fifty-foot boat, scarred with usage, a
squat and powerful craft. Lakeward stretched a smooth, unrippled
surface. Overhead patches of white cloud drifted lazily. Where the
shadows from these lay, the lake spread gray and lifeless. Where the
afternoon sun rested, it touched the water with gleams of gold and pale,
delicate green. A white-winged yacht lay offshore, her sails in slack
folds. A lump of an island lifted two miles beyond, all cliffs and
little, wooded hills. And the mountains surrounding in a giant ring
seemed to shut the place away from all the world. For sheer wild, rugged
beauty, Roaring Lake surpassed any spot she had ever seen. Its quiet
majesty, its air of unbroken peace soothed and comforted her, sick with
hurry and swift-footed events.
She stood for a time at the outer wharf end, mildly interested when the
fisherman drew up a two-pound trout, wondering a little at her own
subtle changes of mood. Her surrounding played upon her like a virtuoso
on his violin. And this was something that she did not recall as a trait
in her own character.
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