hurriedly. He seated himself on the thwart and looked out to get his direction. Yes, there it still hung, away out there at the end of the island, gleaming bigger and brighter than ever. The canoe was large, and the paddle clumsy, but he was filled with such a passion to get that gold that he made wonderful progress. He leaned far over the side, splashing the heavy paddle into, the water, until, what with his unsteady stroke, his dangerous position on the thwart, and Collie's mad attempts to catch the passing gulls, the wonder was that the rainbow expedition did not come to grief as soon as it was launched. But the Lad had been brought up on the water, and had already had many a lesson in canoeing from Peter Fiddle, and, after the first excitement, he realised his mistake. So he slid to his knees and ordered Collie to the bottom of the canoe in front of him. Then, gazing intently ahead, he paddled, in a zigzag course, out towards the wonderful golden haze.

Somehow it had a strange, elusive way of seeming to be in one place and then appearing in another. The canoeist grew hot, and panting with his efforts. The perspiration stood out on his round, rosy face, and the curls on his forehead became wet. He flung off his hat, and redoubled his efforts. He bent his head to his task, as his paddle bumped and splashed its way into the water. When he looked up again, he found, to his dismay, that Wanda Island lay right between him and his shining goal.

This little garden of spruce and cedar had heretofore marked the bounds of his excursions. His father had often allowed him to go out alone in the boat or Peter's canoe, but only when he was watching from the fields or the shore, and then he was permitted to go only up and down in the shelter of the island. But he did not hesitate to go farther, fearing the magic gold might vanish while he lingered. He revived his flagging energies by picturing his father's joy and wonder when he returned and came staggering up the path with the money. And then his father could wear his Sunday blacks every day in the week, and never work any more, but just ride to and from town all day long in a new buggy, a painted one like Doctor Blair's. And they would hire Peter Fiddle and young Peter every day in the year to hoe the fields, and they would give away everything they grew. And the people in Willow Lane would all be good and happy ever after. Oh, there would never be any trouble of any kind when he came home with that pot of gold!

He paddled manfully round the island, pushing through the reeds of the little bay and just skimming the rocks at the western extremity. But his arms ached so, that he had to pause a moment to rest. As he did so, he heard a loud whistle, and the steamer, Inverness, came round a far point and turned her long bowsprit towards the town, lying off to the left in a shining mist. The boy grabbed his paddle again and redoubled his efforts. Peter had gone down to Barbay that morning on the Inverness, and was in all likelihood on board, and although the young adventurer intended to reward Peter liberally for the use of his canoe, he felt it would be safer for him to have it on shore before its owner returned. He took one tremendous splashing stroke, and, as he did so, he felt a strange, sharp pain in his right arm. It made him cry out so loud that Collie turned quickly to him with a whine of grieved sympathy. The boy dropped the paddle across his knee and caught his arm. Gradually the pain left and he took up the paddle again. But somehow the glory of the expedition seemed to have vanished. He wanted Aunt Kirsty when that pain came into his arm, more than he wanted all the gold of all the rainbows he had ever seen. He bent to his paddle with much less vim, and slowly and painfully round the island he came, and out into the open lake. And then,—where, oh, where, was the pot of gold? And where was the rainbow? He seemed to have come out with one stroke of his paddle from a world that was all colour and light to one that was cold, grey and dreary. He looked about him amazed. All the beauty of the lake had faded into mist. The rainbow was gone! A chill, damp breeze fanned his hot face, coming down from the north, where the clouds had grown black. The little mariner sat on his heels in the bottom of his canoe and looked about him in dismay. Surely the pot of gold had not gone. Perhaps it was hidden away behind those dark clouds and would come gleaming out again right in front of him. But though he sat and waited, the world only grew greyer and darker. Collie stood up again and barked defiance at a heron that sailed away overhead, but his little master sharply bade him lie down. The pain in his arm gave another twinge, and slowly and sadly he took up his paddle and turned his canoe homeward.

As he did so he felt a light breeze lift him. It came from the north, where those dark clouds had swallowed up his rainbow. A strange, weird thing was happening up there in those clouds, and the boy paused to watch. Down the shimmering floor of the lake, sweeping slowly towards him, came a great army. Stealthy, hurrying shapes, with bent, grey-cowled heads, and trailing garments, rank on rank they stole forward, mystery and fear in their every movement. Many a time, on an autumn evening, the boy had watched the fog start away up the lake and come stealing down, until the islands and the town and the forest were covered as with a blanket. But he had never seen anything so awesome as this. The strange shapes into which the light gusts of wind had driven the mist made them look like an army of ghosts driven out of the haunts of night. They were bringing night in their train, too. For as they swept silently onward, everything in earth and lake and sky was blotted out. One by one the islands vanished; the far-off eastern shore was wiped away as if by some magic hand. The tower of the little Indian church stood out for a moment above the flood and then sank engulfed; and the next moment the great host had swept over the little sailor and he was walled in and cut off from land and water, alone in a cloudy sea with neither shore nor sky nor surface. The boy turned swiftly towards his home, and when he saw that it, too, was gone, he uttered a cry of terror. "Daddy, oh, Daddy!" he wailed. Collie came close and licked his face and whined, then looked about him and growled disapprovingly at the weird thing that surrounded them. The boy put his arms tight around the dog's neck and hugged him. "Oh, Collie!" he cried, "we're lost, and I don't know where home is and where Daddy is." It was not the loss of gold that troubled him now. He stared about him in the greyness, striving to make out some object. The fog was so thick that he could see only the length of the canoe, but a big, darker mass of shadow in a world of shadows, told him where Wanda Island lay, and grasping his paddle, he started in what he believed to be the direction of home. He paddled until he was out of breath, rested a moment, then went at it again with all his might. The pain in his arm returned, but he dared not stop. And as he worked madly in his efforts to reach home, the gentle wind was slowly but surely carrying him out to the open lake.

Every few minutes the thought of his father would overcome him and he would drop his paddle and, sinking down beside Collie, would sob aloud. Then he would rise again bravely and go at his task, but each time with feebler efforts. The pain in his arm, which kept returning at intervals, was sometimes so bad he had to stop and nurse it. He was wet to the skin now, and Collie's hair was dripping. Whenever he rested, he spent the interval calling loudly for his father, while Collie helped him by barking, but though he listened till his ears were strained, only the soft lap, lap, of the waves against the canoe answered. As night came on the thick pall grew heavier and blacker, and at last he could not see even the length of the canoe.

The sore arm became almost helpless at last, and he could paddle only a few strokes at long intervals. He slipped down beside Collie,