“Quite a walk.  About two miles through the bush.  But I know the way and the trail is fairly good, or should be.  It branches off from the one we took this morning.”

The sun was gone when they turned back into the woods but the wonderful after-light of the long Canadian sunset would be with them for a good time yet.  There was no breeze to stir the trees, but the air had cooled.  It was not unpleasantly hot, now, even in the thickest places.  The doctor stepped out briskly.

“Listen!” Esther paused with uplifted finger.  The trees were very still but in the undergrowth the life of the woods was beginning to stir.  Startled squirrels raced up the fallen logs, glancing backward with curious but resentful eyes.  Hidden skirmishings and rustlings were everywhere and something brown and furry darted across the path with a faint cry.

“Don’t you feel as if you were in some fairy country?” asked the girl.  “You can feel and hear them all about you though they keep well hidden.  A million eager eyes are watching, Lilliputian armies lie in ambush beneath the leaves.  How quiet they are now that we have stopped moving, but as soon as we go on the hurry and skurry will break out afresh!  We are the invading army and the fairies fly to help the wood-folk protect their homes.”

As they branched into the deeper path the light grew dimmer.  Outside, it would still be clear golden twilight but here the grey had come.  And now the trees grew closer together and a whispering began—­a weird and wonderful sighing from the soul of the forest; the old, primeval cry to the night and to the stars.

It was almost dark when they reached the tiny clearing by the lake.  Across the cleared space the water could be seen, faintly luminous, with the black square of the cabin outlined against it.  There was no sign of life or light from the dark windows.  A dog began to bark sharply.

“He is chained!” said Callandar.  “We are fortunate.”

“How can you tell?”

“A free dog never barks in that tone.  I think he has been a bad dog to-day.  Killing chickens, perhaps, or chasing cats.  A man-hater, like your old witch, is certain to have cats!  I wonder where she is?  Does she count going to bed at sundown as one of her endearing peculiarities?”

“Quite the contrary, I imagine.  Let’s knock.”

They raced up the path to the door like children and struck some lusty blows.  No one answered.  The door was locked and every window was blank.

“Knock again!”

They knocked again, banged in fact, and then rattled the windows.

“She could never sleep through all that racket!” said Callandar with conviction.  “She must be out.  Well, out or in, we’ve got to get that boat.  Let’s explore—­this path ought to lead to the lake.”

“Shall we steal it?” in a delighted whisper.

“We probably shall.  You won’t mind going to jail, I hope?”