Saul turned his back on the water.  The large, cold morning rang to his voice—­“Gee.  Yo-hoi-ist.  Yo-hoi-eest.  Gee.”  The oxen, answering to his voice and his goad, laboured onward over the sandy strip that bound the beach, up the hill among the maple trees that grew thickly in the vale of the small river.  Bates watched till he saw the cattle, the cart, and Saul’s stalwart form only indistinctly through the numerous grey tree-stems that broke the view in something the way that ripples in water break a reflection.  When the monotonous shouting of Saul’s voice—­“Gee, gee, there.  Haw, wo, haw.  Yo-hoi-eest,” was somewhat mellowed by the widening space, Bates stepped into the boat, and, pushing off, laboured alone to propel her back across the lake.

It took him longer to get back now that he was single-handed.  The current of the lake towards its outlet tended to push the great clumsy scow against the shore.  He worked his craft with one oar near the stern, but very often he was obliged to drop it and push out from shore with his pole.  It was arduous, but all sense of the cold, bleak weather was lost, and the interest and excitement of the task were refreshing.  To many men, as to many dogs, there is an inexplicable and unreasoning pleasure in dealing with water that no operation upon land can yield.  Bates was one of these; he would hardly have chosen his present lot if it had not been so; but, like many a dry character of his stamp, he did not give his more agreeable sensations the name of pleasure, and therefore could afford to look upon pleasure as an element unnecessary to a sober life.  Mid pushings and splashings, from the management of his scow, from air and sky, hill and water, he was in reality, deriving as great pleasure as any millionaire might from the sailing of a choice yacht; but he was aware only that, as he neared the end of his double journey, he felt in better trim in mind and body to face his lugubrious and rebellious ward.

When, however, he had toiled round the black rock cliff which hid the clearing from the river’s head, and was again in full sight of his own house, all remembrance of the girl and his dread of meeting her passed from him in his excessive surprise at seeing several men near his dwelling.  His dog was barking and leaping in great excitement.  He heard the voices of other dogs.  It took but the first glance to show him that the men were not Indians.  Full of excited astonishment he pushed his boat to the shore.

His dog, having darted with noisy scatter of dry leaves down the hill to meet him, stood on the shore expectant with mouth open, excitement in his eyes and tail, saying as clearly as aught can be said without words—­“This is a very agreeable event in our lives.  Visitors have come.”  The moment Bates put his foot on land the dog bounded barking up the hill, then turned again to Bates, then again bounded off toward the visitors.  Even a watchdog may be glad to see strangers if the pleasure is only rare enough.