Peter will come to us when Father John comes." She had turned, looking into the pit-gloom ahead of them, so dark that the canoe seemed about to drive against a wall.

Under its bow the water gurgled like oil.
"We are entering the big cedar swamp," he explained.

"It is like Blind Man's Buff, isn't it?
Can you see ?" "Not beyond the bow of the canoe, Roger." "Work back to me," he said, "very carefully." She came, obediently.
"Now turn slowly, so that you face the bow, and lean back with your head against my knees." This also, she did.
"This is much nicer," she whispered, nestling her head comfortably against him.

"So much nicer." By leaning over until his back nearly cracked he was able to find her lips in the darkness.
"I was thinking of the brush that overhangs the stream," he explained when he had straightened himself.

"Sitting up as you were it might have caused you hurt." There was a little silence between them, in which his paddle caught again its slow and steady rhythm.