She had drifted half across the pond.
She understood it all in a moment--_she had not locked the boat that afternoon_.
What was to be done?
The oars were half a mile away, in the barn at home.
There was not so much as a branch floating within reach on the water.

She tried to pull up the board seats of the boat, under the impression that she could, by degrees, paddle herself ashore with one of them.

But they were nailed tightly in their places, and she could not stir them.
Evidently, there was nothing to be done.
Perhaps the boat would drift ashore somewhere; she could land anywhere; even on the steep Kleiner Berg side she could easily have found footing; she was well used to climbing its narrow ledges, and knew every crack and crevice and projection where a step could be taken.

But, no; the boat was not going to drift ashore.

It had stopped in a tangle of lily-leaves, far out in the water, and there was not a breath of wind to stir it.