was only fair, as it was necessary to proceed rather slowly because spring rains had uncovered big boulders that it seemed best to avoid. Also there were chickens—never had the Whale's way been so beset by loitering hens. When these had finally been left behind, the Whale came to a pleasant stretch of country road partly overgrown with short, fragrant grass.

"If it's all like this," said Mrs. Crane, sniffing contentedly, "it won't take long to travel seventeen miles."

Unfortunately, it wasn't like that for any great distance. Soon the Whale was panting laboriously up a long, stony hill; down which a foolish little creek that had strayed from its proper bed was meandering aimlessly but with most disastrous results. It had made deep, jagged, treacherous furrows that had to be skilfully avoided; so it took considerable time to climb the damaged hill. After that, the road was sandy.

The sand in northern Michigan seems sandier than any other sand. Mr. Black was certain that it was at least a mile deep along that dreadful road, skirted by a dreary stretch of small poplars. But far ahead, this dauntless man could see the beckoning green of lofty trees—he fixed hopeful eyes on that and coaxed the groaning Whale to nobler efforts. Where the sand was deepest, everybody but Bettie and Mr. Black got out and walked—or waded along the dusty roadside; and sometimes they pushed the Whale when that weary leviathan threatened to stick. At length, however, the dusty car lurched heavily into the grateful shade of a fine forest road, carpeted smoothly with pine needles and the decaying leaves of oak, maple, and elm trees, whose branches, green and lovely with spring foliage, met overhead.

"Oh," breathed Bettie, lying back luxuriously among her cushions, "isn't this just beautiful!"

"Let's go slowly," pleaded Mrs. Crane. "It's years since I've seen such woods. I declare! I'd like to stay right here."

"I guess the mosquitoes 'd be glad to have you," said Mr. Black. "Are all those girls aboard? They won't need to do any walking as long as this lasts—it was made for the Whale!"

Unfortunately, the beautifully smooth ground stretched before them for only a few precious moments, though the forest itself grew wilder and more interesting at every turn of the wheels. After a time, the road began to dip steadily downward. Presently the Whale was sliding over clay, pushing through deep, clinging mire, splashing through puddles of stagnant water, or bumping over stretches of half-submerged corduroy.

"Peter," said Mrs. Crane, rather nervously, when her patient, elderly brother had climbed out for the fourth time to pull long ropes of tangled weeds out of the wheels, "don't you think we'd better give up and turn back? It's getting worse and worse."

"No," returned Mr. Black, "I don't. I started out to look at that land and I'm going to find it. Besides, Timothy Burbank drove over this road this spring and he says it's open all the way to Barclay's Point—my place is a mile this side of Barclay's."

"But Timothy rode in a buckboard."

"He said he guessed the Whale could make it and I've no reason to doubt his word. Anyhow, we're going on—we're so muddy now that a little more won't hurt us; and there's one comfort; there are no steep precipices on this road for us to tumble from."

It was fortunate, too, that Mr. Black carried a hatchet, because several times it became necessary to chop fallen trees—luckily they were small ones—out of the road; and once it was necessary to repair a broken bridge; but the girls, who helped with that, thoroughly enjoyed the task. Occasionally, the Whale was obliged to ford a certain small river that crossed the road an astonishing number of times. Also, with increasing frequency, Mr. Black was obliged to crawl under the car to see what was the matter with the machinery; but, on the whole, the Whale behaved surprisingly well.

Presently the road which, up to that moment, had stretched mainly toward the north, turned sharply toward the east.

"Ah!" breathed Mr. Black, with a deep sigh of satisfaction. "Timothy says our place is just three miles from this turn. Does anybody want to go back now?"

Nobody did, so the Whale pushed on; and, wonder of wonders! For a whole delightful mile the road was good, alluringly good. The big car fairly pranced with pleasure, and all the passengers settled back comfortably against the cushions. But after that one deceiving mile! Never was there a more discouraging stretch of road—if it were road. Sunken boulders, slime-covered water, deep black mud, rotting corduroy, jutting logs, weed-grown swamp. The Whale's passengers were jounced and jolted, spattered and scratched. Low-growing branches slapped their faces and reached maliciously for unguarded tresses. Altogether, this final two miles of wilderness surpassed all the rest—suppose there were no bottom to that mud! Even Henrietta was too frightened for speech.

Finally the Whale, with a last despairing gasp that died away to an alarming silence, refused to go a single inch farther.

"It's all out for everybody," said Mr. Black, who now looked as concerned as the others. "Something's given out—it's not surprising."

"But," objected Mrs. Crane, "how are we to get home?"

"Hush, woman," returned Mr. Black, whimsically, "folks on their way to a picnic don't talk about going home. Let's get there first."

"Why!" cried light-footed Marjory, who had darted ahead and back again with her news, "we're out of that swamp, anyway. This road goes right uphill and it's sandy."

"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Black. "That means that we're almost there. Come back, Marjory, and get your share of the load; everybody must carry something. Bettie, can you walk half a mile if you're helped over the rough places?"

"A whole mile if I have to—I'm not tired."

"The air," remarked Jean, sniffing curiously, when the party had reached the top of the brief ascent, "smells different. My! Isn't it good! I feel it way down inside of me."

"It's the lake," explained Mr. Black. "In less than ten minutes you're going to see something."

The prediction proved true. In a very few moments the road branched, the right fork led them north, then swerved again toward the east, the forest stopped with a suddenness that was startling, and the picnic found itself in a wide, grassy clearing at the very edge of the big, blue lake. The bigness and the blueness were dazzling. The curved beach stretched like a broad golden ribbon in either direction.

"This," said Mr. Black, "is the place."

"Oh, Peter!" cried Mrs. Crane, dropping her end of the heaviest hamper. "How much of it is ours?"

"Every scrap. All that you can see."

"What! Down to that rocky point?"

"Yes, and up the other way to that other rocky point—a whole mile of shore line."

"And the island off that little projection—is that ours?"

"Every inch of it."

"Why, Peter!"

"Fine, isn't it? We own a river, too—there's the mouth of it down the shore. What do you think of it all, Sarah?"

"Peter, it's—it's heaven!"

"And uninhabited," declared Mr. Black, supposing that he was speaking the exact truth, "except for our seven selves."

There was, however, an eighth inhabitant; and a human one at that. But for the time being no one suspected it.

CHAPTER III
A Predicament

"PETER," queried Mrs.