A line of driftwood, hammered by the ice and bleached white by the sun, marked the subsidence of the water from its high, spring level.

Small islands broke the shining surface, some covered with stunted trees and some quite bare.

The rocks about the beach were curiously worn, but Agatha knew they had been ground smooth by drifting floes.

Behind the beach, the forest rolled back in waves of somber green to a bold ridge that faded into leaden thunder-clouds.
The landscape was wild, and although it had nothing of the savage grandeur Agatha expected, she thought it forbidding.

Its influence was insidious; one was not daunted by a glance, but realized by degrees its grimness and desolation.