He studied it long and came to the conclusion that it was smoke.
"Smoke!" said he to himself.

"Maybe that means Wareville." The raft glided gently with the current, moving so smoothly and peacefully that it was like the floating of a bubble on a summer sea.
Paul still lay in a dreamless sleep.

The water was silver in the shade and dim gold where the sunshine fell upon it, and the trees, a solid mass, touched already by the brown of early autumn, dropped over the stream.

Afar, a fine haze, like a misty veil, hung over the forest.

The world was full of peace and primitive beauty.
They drifted on and the spire of smoke broadened and grew.