"I think it is a horrid bother, if you want to know!" said Willy.

"Willy Merryweather! aren't you ashamed of yourself? I never heard anything so odious, when we are all so happy, and everything is so perfectly lovely. I don't see what you mean."

"I don't care, it is a bother. Nothing is the way it used to be; it's all nothing but spooning, all over the lot."

"I should not think you would use vulgar expressions, anyhow, Willy."

"'Spooning' isn't vulgar," said Willy, sulkily. "I've heard Pa say it, so there! And—look here, Kitty! Of course, it's all corking, and so on, and anyhow, girls like that kind of fuss; but it does spoil everything, I tell you. Why, Pa couldn't get a crew for the war canoe yesterday. He wanted to go to Pine Cove—at least I did, awfully, and he said all right, so we would; and then Jerry was off with Margaret in the Keewaydin, and Bell and Jack were out in the woods fiddling, and Peggy and Phil—I say, Kitty! You don't suppose they are going to get spoony, do you?"

Kitty looked very wise, and pursed her lips and nodded her head with an air of deep mystery.

"You don't!" repeated Willy, looking aghast.

"Hush, Willy!" said Kitty. "Don't say a word! don't breathe it to anybody! I hope—I think they are!"

"What a mean, horrid shame!" cried Willy, indignantly. "I do think it is disgusting."

His sister turned on him with flashing eyes. "It is you that is the shame!" she cried. "It is you who ought to be ashamed, Willy. Do you want poor Phil to be all alone when Jerry is married? Do you know that twins sometimes pine away and die, Willy Merryweather, when the other of them dies?"

"Jerry isn't going to die," said Willy, uncomfortably. "What nonsense you talk, Kitty."

"Well, marries. I should think very likely they would, then, if they didn't get married themselves. I think you are perfectly heartless, Willy. And dear Peggy, too, so nice and jolly! and if she goes away back out West without falling in love with Phil, we may never, never see her again; and she has promised me a puppy of the very next litter Simmerimmeris has. So there!"

Willy was silent for a moment, kicking the pebbles thoughtfully.

"Do you think she is—that?" he asked at length, shamefacedly.

"Of course I don't know!" said Kitty, judicially. "Of course very likely nothing is positively decided yet; but I am sure she likes him very, very much, and he takes her out whenever he has a chance."

"There's nobody else for him to take out," put in Willy; "the others are all spoon—"

"Willy, don't be tiresome! and just think! if they should get married and go to live out West, then you and I could both go out to see them, and ride all the ponies, and punch the cows, and have real lassoes, and—and—"

The children were coming home through the wood. Kitty's voice had gradually risen, till now it was a shrill squeak of excitement; but at this moment it broke off suddenly, for there was a rustling of branches, and the next moment Gertrude stood before them with grave looks.

"My dear chicks," she said, "you must not talk so loud. I was in the pine parlor, and could not help hearing the last part of what you were saying. And anyhow, I would not talk about such things, if I were you. Suppose Peggy had been with me! How do you think she would have felt? Mammy would not like to have you gossiping in this foolish way."

The children hung their heads.

"Oh! Toots," said Kitty, "I am sorry! I didn't realize that we were getting anywhere near the house. We were only thinking—at least I was—how lovely it would be if Peggy and Phil should—"

"Kitty dear, hush!" said Gertrude, decidedly. "You would better not think, and you certainly must not talk, about anything of the kind. There are enough real love-affairs to interest you, you little match-maker, without your building castles in the air. Let Peggy and Phil alone!"

"I should think there were!" said Willy. "That's just what I was saying, Toots; it's nothing but spooning, all over the place. There's no fun anywhere; this wretched love-making spoils everything. I think it's perfectly childish."

"Do you, Willy dear?" said his sister; and her smile was very sweet as she laid her hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Yes, I do. Here are the white perch rising like a house afire, and I can't get a soul to go with me. It was just the same yesterday, and it's like that almost every day now."

"Oh, Willy! I'll go with you," cried Kitty, eagerly. "Why didn't you tell me the perch were rising? Let's come right along this minute. Toots will help us with the boat, won't you, Toots?"

"Yes, I'll help!" said the Snowy Owl.

Ten minutes later the white boat was speeding on her way to the fishing-ground, the little rowers bending to their oars, chattering merrily as they went.

"That's one comfort!" Willy was saying. "We've got Toots. Nobody will get her away from us."

"I should hope not," said Kitty. "There's nobody good enough, in the first place; and besides, of course somebody must stay with Papa and Mamma."

"I suppose you will be grown up yourself some day!" said Willy, gruffly.

"I shall be likely to marry very young," said Kitty, seriously. "I heard Aunt Anna say so."

Gertrude stood on the wharf, looking after the retreating boat. "Poor Willy!" she said, with a smile; "it is hard on him!"

She looked around her. It was afternoon, a still, golden day. The lake was as she loved best to see it, a sheet of living crystal, here deep blue, here glittering in gold and diamonds, here giving back shades of crimson and russet from the autumn woods that crowded down to the water's edge. Far out, her eye caught a white flash, the gleam of a paddle; there was another, just at the bend of the shore; and was that dark spot the prow of a third canoe, moored in the fairy cove of Birch Island? Gertrude smiled again, and her smile said many things.

Presently she raised her arms above her head, and brought them down slowly, with a powerful gesture. "How good it would be to fly!" she said, dreamily. "To fly away up to the iceberg country, where the snowy owls live!"

She stood for a long time silent, gazing out over the shining water. At last she shook herself with a little laugh, and turned away. The white canoe, her own especial pet, was lying on the wharf. She launched it carefully, then taking her paddle, knelt down in the bow. A few long, swift strokes, and the canoe shot out over the lake, and rested like a great white bird with folded wings, then glided slowly on again. It was a pity there was none to see, for the picture was a fair one: the stately maiden kneeling, her golden hair sweeping about her, her white arms rising and falling slowly, rhythmically, in perfect grace.

"Tu-whoo!" said the Snowy Owl.

But only the loon answered her.