The conductor led his charges from the track through a muddy stubble-field and down to a point where half a dozen small rowboats were waiting among the willows.  Dauntless and Eleanor were well up in front, their faces set resolutely toward Omegon.  For some well-defined reason, Windomshire and Anne were the last in the strange procession.  The medical college agent, the tall and sombre Mr. Hooker, was the first man into a boat.  He said it was a case of life or death.

Eleanor looked backward down the long file of trailers, a little smile on her lips.

“They are not all going away to be married, are they, Joe?” she said, taking note of the unbroken array of sour countenances.

“It looks like a funeral, my dear.  Look at the cadaverous individual beside the con—­Heavens, Nell, isn’t that—­by George, it is!  It’s old Mrs. Van Truder!  Back there about half-way—­the fat one.  See her?  Good Lord!”

Eleanor turned pale and the joyous light fled from her eyes.

“Oh, dear!  I forgot that the Van Truders spend all their summers at Omegon.  And it is she—­and he, too.  Oh, Joe, it’s just awful!”

“She’s the worst old cat in town,” groaned Dauntless.  “We can’t escape her.  She’ll spot us, and she’ll never let go of us.  I don’t mind him.  He’s so near-sighted he couldn’t see us.  But she!”

“She will suspect, Joe—­she’s sure to suspect, and she’ll watch us like a hawk,” whispered the distressed Eleanor.  The Van Truders lived in the same block with the Thursdales in town.  “She’ll telegraph to mother!”

“That reminds me,” muttered Joe, looking at his watch.  “I had hoped to telegraph to your mother about this time.”

“She will forgive us,” said she, but she failed in her assumption of confidence.  As a matter of fact she felt that her mother would not forgive.

“Well, you left a note pinned on your pillow,” said he, as if that covered all the sins.

“Yes, but it was directed to Miss Courtenay, asking her to break it gently to mamma,” said she, dismally.

They had reached the edge of the river by this time and others came up with them.  For a while they managed to keep out of old Mrs. Van Truder’s range of vision, but her sharp eyes soon caught sight of them as they tried to slip into a boat that was already crowded to its full capacity.

“Why, Eleanor Thursdale!” shouted the old lady, her aristocratic eyes almost crossing in their stare of amazement.

“Discovered!” groaned Dauntless to the willows.

Mrs. Van Truder pounced upon Eleanor and, between personal questions and impersonal reflections upon non-government railways, gave her a dizzy quarter of an hour.  She ignored Mr. Dauntless almost completely,—­quite entirely when she discovered Mr. Windomshire in the background.  Little old Mr. Van Truder, in his usual state of subjection, was permitted to study the scenery at close range.