I want to go to a little backwater in the next stream." She settled herself in the stern and they glided down the narrow thoroughfare.

The rose bushes from the garden almost lapped the water as they passed.

Behind, the long low cottage, the deserted dinner-table, the smooth lawn with its beds of scarlet geraniums and drooping lilac shrubs in the background, seemed like a scene from fairyland, to attain a perfection of detail unreal, almost theatrical.
"To the right when you reach the river, please," she directed.

"You will find there is scarcely any current.

We turn up the next stream." There was something almost mysterious, a little impressive, about the broad expanse of river into which they presently turned.