DORIS said no more on the subject. She was too well-bred to persist in such a demand when it did not seem to be welcome. But though she promptly changed the subject and talked about other things, inwardly she had become transformed into a seething cauldron of curiosity.

Sally headed the boat for the draw in the bridge, and in another few moments they had passed from the quiet, well-kept, bungalow-strewn shores of the lower river, to the wild, tawny, uninhabited beauty of the upper. The change was very marked, and the wagon bridge seemed to be the dividing line.

“How different the river is up here,” remarked Doris. “Not a house or a bungalow, or even a fisherman’s shack in sight.”

“It is,” agreed Sally. And then, in an unusual burst of confidence, she added, “Do you know what I always think of when I pass through that bridge into this part of the river? It’s from the ‘Ancient Mariner’:

Doris stared at her companion in amazement. How came this barefooted child of thirteen or fourteen, in a little, out-of-the-way New Jersey coast village to be quoting poetry? Where had she learned it? Doris’s own father and mother were untiring readers of poetry and other literature, and they were bringing their daughter up in their footsteps. But surely, this village girl had never learned such things from her parents. Sally must have sensed the unspoken question.

“That’s a long poem in a big book we have,” she explained. “It has lovely pictures in it made by a man named DorÉ.” (She pronounced it “Door.”) “The book was one of my mother’s wedding presents. It always lies on our parlor table. I don’t believe any one else in our house has ever read it but Genevieve and me. I love it, and Genevieve likes to look at the pictures. Did you ever hear of that poem?”

“Oh, yes!” cried Doris. “My father has often read me to sleep with it, and we all love it. I’m so glad it is a favorite of yours. Do you like poetry?”

“That’s about the only poem I know,” acknowledged Sally, “’cept the ones in the school readers—and they don’t amount to much. That book’s about the only one we have ’cept a Bible and a couple of novels. But I’ve learned the poem all by heart.” She rowed on a way in silence, while Doris marvelled at the bookless condition of this lonely child and wondered how she could stand it. Not to have books and papers and magazines unnumbered was a state unheard of to the city child. She had brought half a trunkful with her, to help while away the time at Manituck. But before she could speak of it, Sally remarked:

“That’s Huckleberry Heights,—at least I’ve named it that, ’cause Genevieve and I have picked quarts and quarts of huckleberries there.” She pointed to a high, sandy bluff, overgrown at the top with scrub-oak, stunted pines and huckleberry bushes. “And that’s Cranberry Creek,” she went on, indicating a winding stream that emptied into the river nearby. “‘Way up that creek there’s an old, deserted mill that’s all falling to pieces. It’s kind of interesting. Want to go sometime?”

“Oh, I’m crazy to!” cried Doris. “There’s nothing I enjoy more than exploring things, and I’ve never had the chance to before. We’ve always gone to such fashionable places where everything’s just spic and span and cut and dried, and nothing to do but what every one else does. I’m deathly sick of that sort of thing. Our doctor recommended Mother to come to this place because the sea and pine air would be so good for her. But he said it was wild, and different from the usual summer places, and I was precious glad of the change, I can tell you.” There was something so sincere in Doris’s manner that it won Sally over another point. After a few moments of silent rowing, she said:

“We’re coming to a place, in a minute, that Genevieve and I like a lot. If you want, we can land there and get a dandy drink of water from a spring near the shore.” Doris was flattered beyond words to be taken further into the confidence of this strange new acquaintance, and heartily assented. Around a bend of the river, they approached a point of land projecting out several hundred feet into the tide, its end terminating in a long, golden sandbar. Toward the shore, the land gently ascended in a pretty slope, crowned with velvety pines and cedars. The conformation of slope and trees gave the outjut of land a curious shape.

“Do you know what I call this point?” questioned Sally. Doris shook her head. “Well, you see what a queer shape it is when you look at it from the side. I’ve named it ‘Slipper Point.’ Doesn’t it look like a slipper?”

“It certainly does,” agreed Doris enthusiastically. “Why, you’re a wonder at naming things, Sally.” Her companion colored with pleasure, and beached the boat sharply on the sandbar. The three got out, put the anchor in the sand and clambered up the piny slope. At the top, the view up and down the river was enchanting, and the three sat down on the pine needles to regain their breath and rest. At length Sally suggested that they find the spring, and she led the way down the opposite side of the slope to a spot near the shore. Here, in a bower of branches, almost hidden from sight, a sparkling spring trickled down from a small cave of reddish clay, filled an old, moss-covered box, and rambled on down the sand into the river. Sally unearthed an old china cup from some hidden recess of her own, and Doris drank the most delicious water she had ever tasted.

But while Sally was drinking and giving Genevieve a share, Doris glanced at the little gold wrist-watch she wore.

“Gracious sakes!” she exclaimed. “It’s nearly five o’clock and Mother’ll begin to think I’ve tumbled into the river and drowned. She’s always sure I’m going to do that some time. We must hurry back.”

“All right,” said Sally. “Jump into the boat and I’ll have you home in a jiffy.” They raced back to the boat, clambered into their former places, and were soon shooting down the river under the impetus of the tide and Sally’s muscular strokes. The candy was by now all consumed. Genevieve cuddled down close to Doris, her thumb once more in her mouth, and went peacefully to sleep. The two other girls talked at intervals, but Sally was too busy pulling to waste much breath in conversation.

“I’ll land you right at the hotel dock,” she remarked, when at last they had come within sight of it. “Don’t worry about your canoe. I’ll bring that up myself, right after supper, and walk back.”

“Thanks,” said Doris gratefully. “That’ll save me a lot of time.” In another moment Sally had beached the boat on the shore directly in front of “The Bluffs,” and Doris, gently disengaging the still sleeping Genevieve, hopped ashore. “I’ll see you soon again, Sally,” she said, “but I’ve got to just scamper now, I’m so worried about Mother.” She raced away up the steps, breathless with fear lest her long absence had unduly upset her invalid mother, and Sally again turned her boat out into the tide.

After supper that evening, Doris sat out at the end of the hotel pier, watching the gradual approach of sunset behind the island. Her mind was still full of the afternoon’s encounter, and she wondered vaguely whether she should see more of the strange village child, so ignorant about many things, so careless about her personal appearance, who could yet quote such a wonderful poem as “The Ancient Mariner” in appropriate places and seemed to be acquainted with some queer mystery about the river. Presently she noticed a red canoe slipping into sight around a bend, and in another moment recognized Sally in the stern.

There was no Genevieve with her this time. And to Doris’s wondering eyes, the change in her appearance was quite amazing. No longer barefooted, she was clothed in neat tan stockings and buttoned shoes. Added to that, she boasted a pretty, well-fitting blue serge skirt and dainty blouse. But the only jarring note was a large pink bow of hideous hue, a patent imitation of the one Doris wore, balanced on her beautiful bronze hair. She managed the canoe with practiced ease, and waved her hand at Doris from afar.

“Here’s your canoe!” she called, as Doris hurried down the long dock to meet her on the shore. And as they met, Doris remarked:

“It’s early yet. How would you like to paddle around a while? I’ll run in and ask Mother if I may.” Again Sally flushed with pleasure as she assented, and when Doris had rushed back and seated herself in the bow of the canoe, they pushed out into the peaceful tide, wine-colored in the approaching sunset. But the evening was too beautiful for strenuous paddling. Doris soon shipped her paddle and, skilfully turning’ in her seat, faced Sally.

“Let’s not go far,” she suggested, “let’s just drift—and talk.” Sally herself was privately only too willing. Dipping her paddle only occasionally to keep from floating in shore, she nodded another approving assent. But her country unaccustomedness to conversation held her tongue-tied for a time.

“Where’s Genevieve?” demanded Doris.

“Oh, I put her to bed at half-past six most always,” said Sally. “She’s usually so sleepy she can’t even finish her supper. But I miss her evenings. She’s a lot of company for me.”

“She’s a darling!” agreed Doris. “I just love the way she cuddles up to me, and she looks so—so appealing when she tucks that little thumb in her mouth. But, Sally, will you forgive my saying it?—you look awfully nice tonight.” Sally turned absolutely scarlet in her appreciation of this compliment. Truth to tell, she had spent quite an hour over her toilet when Genevieve had been put to bed, and had even gone flying to the village to purchase with her little hoard of pocket-money the pink ribbon for her hair.

“But I wonder if you’d mind my saying something else,” went on Doris, eyeing her companion critically. “You’ve got the loveliest colored hair I ever saw, but I think you ought never to wear any colored ribbon but black on it. Pink’s all right for very light or very dark people, but not for any one with your lovely shade. You don’t mind my saying that, do you? Sometimes other people can tell what looks best on you so much better than you can yourself.”

“Oh, no. I don’t mind—and thank you for telling me,” stammered Sally, in an agony of combined delight that this dainty new friend should approve her appearance and shame that she had made such an error of judgment in selecting the pink ribbon. Mentally, too, she was calculating just how long it would take her to save, from the stray pennies her mother occasionally gave her, enough to purchase the suggested black one. While she was figuring it out, Doris had something else to suggest:

“Sally, let’s be good friends. Let’s see each other every day. I’m awfully lonesome when I’m not with Mother,—even more so than you, because you’ve got Genevieve. I expect to stay here all summer, and they say there are very few young folks coming to ‘The Bluffs.’ It’s mostly older people there, because the younger ones like the hotels on the ocean best. So things won’t be much better for me, even during the season. Can’t we be good friends and see each other a lot, and have a jolly time on the river,—you and Genevieve and I?”

The appeal was one that Sally could scarcely have resisted, even had she not herself yearned for the same thing. “It—it would be fine!” she acknowledged, shyly. “I’m—I’m awfully glad—if you want to.”

They drifted about idly a while longer, discussing a trip for the next morning, in which Sally proposed to show her new friend the deserted mill, up Cranberry Creek. And Doris announced that she was going to learn to row, so that the whole burden of that task might not fall on Sally.

“But now I must go in,” she ended. “It’s growing dark and Mother will worry. But you be here in the morning at half-past nine with your boat, if we’d better not take the canoe on account of Genevieve, and we’ll have a jolly day.”

Not once during all this time, had there been the least reference to the mysterious hint of Sally’s during the earlier afternoon. But this was not at all because Doris had forgotten it. She was, to tell the truth, even more curious about it than ever. Her vivid imagination had been busy with it ever since, weaving all sorts of strange and fantastic fancies about the suggestion. Did the river have a mystery? What could its nature be, and how had Sally discovered it? Did any one else know? The deepening shadows on the farther shore added the last touch to her busy speculations. They suggested possibilities of every hue and kind. But not for worlds would she have had Sally guess how ardently she longed for its revelation. Sally should tell her in good time, or not at all, if she were so inclined: never because she (Doris) had asked to be admitted to this precious secret.

They beached the canoe, still talking busily about the morrow’s plans, and together hauled it up in the sea-grass and turned it bottom upward. And then Sally prepared to take her departure. But after she had said good-bye, she still lingered uncertainly, as if she had something else on her mind. It was only when she had turned to walk away across the beach, that she suddenly wheeled and ran up to Doris once more.

“I—I want to tell you something,” she hesitated. “I—perhaps—sometime I’ll tell you more, but—the secret—Genevieve’s and mine—is up on Slipper Point!”

And before Doris could reply, she was gone, racing away along the darkening sand.