The Slipper Point Mystery | Page 5

crowned with velvety pines and cedars. The conformation of slope and trees gave the outjut of land a curious shape.
"Do you know what I call this point?" questioned Sally. Doris shook her head. "Well, you see what a queer shape it is when you look at it from the side. I've named it 'Slipper Point.' Doesn't it look like a slipper?"
"It certainly does," agreed Doris enthusiastically. "Why, you 're a wonder at naming things, Sally." Her companion colored with pleasure, and beached the boat sharply on the sandbar. The three got out, put the anchor in the sand and clambered up the piny slope. At the top, the view up and down the river was enchanting, and the three sat down on the pine needles to regain their breath and rest. At length Sally suggested that they find the spring, and she led the way down the opposite side of the slope to a spot near the shore. Here, in a bower of branches, almost hidden from sight, a sparkling spring trickled down from a small cave of reddish clay, filled an old, moss-covered box, and rambled on down the sand into the river. Sally unearthed an old china cup from some hidden recess of her own, and Doris drank the most delicious water she had ever tasted.
But while Sally was drinking and giving Genevieve a share, Doris glanced at the little gold wrist-watch she wore.
"Gracious sakes!" she exclaimed. "It's nearly five o'clock and Mother 'll begin to think I've tumbled into the river and drowned. She's always sure I'm going to do that some time. We must hurry back."
"All right," said Sally. "Jump into the boat and I 'll have you home in a jiffy." They raced back to the boat, clambered into their former places, and were soon shooting down the river under the impetus of the tide and Sally's muscular strokes. The candy was by now all consumed. Genevieve cuddled down close to Doris, her thumb once more in her mouth, and went peacefully to sleep. The two other girls talked at intervals, but Sally was too busy pulling to waste much breath in conversation.
"I 'll land you right at the hotel dock," she remarked, when at last they had come within sight of it. "Don't worry about your canoe. I 'll bring that up myself, right after supper, and walk back."
"Thanks," said Doris gratefully. "That 'll save me a lot of time." In another moment Sally had beached the boat on the shore directly in front of "The Bluffs," and Doris, gently disengaging the still sleeping Genevieve, hopped ashore. "I 'll see you soon again, Sally," she said, "but I've got to just scamper now, I'm so worried about Mother." She raced away up the steps, breathless with fear lest her long absence had unduly upset her invalid mother, and Sally again turned her boat out into the tide.
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After supper that evening, Doris sat out at the end of the hotel pier, watching the gradual approach of sunset behind the island. Her mind was still full of the afternoon's encounter, and she wondered vaguely whether she should see more of the strange village child, so ignorant about many things, so careless about her personal appearance, who could yet quote such a wonderful poem as "The Ancient Mariner" in appropriate places and seemed to be acquainted with some queer mystery about the river. Presently she noticed a red canoe slipping into sight around a bend, and in another moment recognized Sally in the stern.
There was no Genevieve with her this time. And to Doris's wondering eyes, the change in her appearance was quite amazing. No longer barefooted, she was clothed in neat tan stockings and buttoned shoes. Added to that, she boasted a pretty, well-fitting blue serge skirt and dainty blouse. But the only jarring note was a large pink bow of hideous hue, a patent imitation of the one Doris wore, balanced on her beautiful bronze hair. She managed the canoe with practiced ease, and waved her hand at Doris from afar.
"Here's your canoe!" she called, as Doris hurried down the long dock to meet her on the shore. And as they met, Doris remarked:
"It's early yet. How would you like to paddle around a while? I 'll run in and ask Mother if I may." Again Sally flushed with pleasure as she assented, and when Doris had rushed back and seated herself in the bow of the canoe, they pushed out into the peaceful tide, wine-colored in the approaching sunset But the evening was too beautiful for strenuous paddling. Doris soon shipped her paddle and, skilfully turning in her seat, faced Sally.
"Let's not go far," she suggested, "let's just drift - and talk." Sally herself was privately only too willing. Dipping her paddle only occasionally