Her feet were bare, and drops of dew she had shaken from the

branches hung in her loose-flying hair. Obviously she had come into her

own.

“I’ve been all over the island,” she announced

laughingly, “and there are two things wanting.”

“You’re a good judge, Joan. What are they?”

“There’s no animal life, and there’s no—water.”

“They go together,” I said. “Animals don’t bother

with a rock like this unless there’s a spring on it.”

And as she led me from place to place, happy and

excited, leaping adroitly from rock to rock, I was glad to note that my

first impressions were correct. She made no reference to our

conversation of the night before. The new spirit had driven out the

old. There was no room in her heart for fear or anxiety, and Nature had

everything her own way.

The island, we found, was some three-quarters of a

mile from point to point, built in a circle, or wide horseshoe, with an

opening of twenty feet at the mouth of the lagoon. Pine-trees grew

thickly all over, but here and there were patches of silver birch,

scrub oak, and considerable colonies of wild raspberry and gooseberry

bushes. The two ends of the horseshoe formed bare slabs of smooth

granite running into the sea and forming dangerous reefs just below the

surface, but the rest of the island rose in a forty-foot ridge and

sloped down steeply to the sea on either side, being nowhere more than

a hundred yards wide.

The outer shore-line was much indented with

numberless coves and bays and sandy beaches, with here and there caves

and precipitous little cliffs against which the sea broke in spray and

thunder. But the inner shore, the shore of the lagoon, was low and

regular, and so well protected by the wall of trees along the ridge

that no storm could ever send more than a passing ripple along its

sandy marshes. Eternal shelter reigned there.

On one of the other islands, a few hundred yards

away—for the rest of the party slept late this first morning, and we

took to the canoe—we discovered a spring of fresh water untainted by

the brackish flavour of the Baltic, and having thus solved the most

important problem of the Camp, we next proceeded to deal with the

second—fish. And in half an hour we reeled in and turned homewards,

for we had no means of storage, and to clean more fish than may be

stored or eaten in a day is no wise occupation for experienced campers.

And as we landed towards six o’clock we heard the

clergyman singing as usual and saw his wife and Sangree shaking out

their blankets in the sun, and dressed in a fashion that finally

dispelled all memories of streets and civilisation.

“The Little People lit the fire for me,” cried

Maloney, looking natural and at home in his ancient flannel suit and

breaking off in the middle of his singing, “so I’ve got the porridge

going—and this time it’s not burnt.”

We reported the discovery of water and held up the

fish.

“Good! Good again!” he cried. “We’ll have the first

decent breakfast we’ve had this year. Sangree’ll clean ‘em in no time,

and the Bo’sun’s Mate–-“

“Will fry them to a turn,” laughed the voice of Mrs.

Maloney, appearing on the scene in a tight blue jersey and sandals, and

catching up the frying-pan. Her husband always called her the Bo’sun’s

Mate in Camp, because it was her duty, among others, to pipe all hands

to meals.

“And as for you, Joan,” went on the happy man, “you

look like the spirit of the island, with moss in your hair and wind in

your eyes, and sun and stars mixed in your face.” He looked at her with

delighted admiration. “Here, Sangree, take these twelve, there’s a good

fellow, they’re the biggest; and we’ll have ‘em in butter in less time

than you can say Baltic island!”

I watched the Canadian as he slowly moved off to the

cleaning pail. His eyes were drinking in the girl’s beauty, and a wave

of passionate, almost feverish, joy passed over his face, expressive of

the ecstasy of true worship more than anything else. Perhaps he was

thinking that he still had three weeks to come with that vision always

before his eyes; perhaps he was thinking of his dreams in the night. I

cannot say. But I noticed the curious mingling of yearning and

happiness in his eyes, and the strength of the impression touched my

curiosity. Something in his face held my gaze for a second, something

to do with its intensity. That so timid, so gentle a personality should

conceal so virile a passion almost seemed to require explanation.

But the impression was momentary, for that first

breakfast in Camp permitted no divided attentions, and I dare swear

that the porridge, the tea, the Swedish “flatbread,” and the fried fish

flavoured with points of frizzled bacon, were better than any meal

eaten elsewhere that day in the whole world.

The first clear day in a new camp is always a

furiously busy one, and we soon dropped into the routine upon which in

large measure the real comfort of every one depends. About the

cooking-fire, greatly improved with stones from the shore, we built a

high stockade consisting of upright poles thickly twined with branches,

the roof lined with moss and lichen and weighted with rocks, and round

the interior we made low wooden seats so that we could lie round the

fire even in rain and eat our meals in peace. Paths, too, outlined

themselves from tent to tent, from the bathing places and the landing

stage, and a fair division of the island was decided upon between the

quarters of the men and the women. Wood was stacked, awkward trees and

boulders removed, hammocks slung, and tents strengthened. In a word,

Camp was established, and duties were assigned and accepted as though

we expected to live on this Baltic island for years to come and the

smallest detail of the Community life was important. •

Moreover, as the Camp came into being, this sense of

a community developed, proving that we were a definite whole, and not

merely separate human beings living for a while in tents upon a desert

island. Each fell willingly into the routine. Sangree, as by natural

selection, took upon himself the cleaning of the fish and the cutting

of the wood into lengths sufficient for a day’s use.