CHAPTER VII
THE DEED IN TRUST
HER little gasoline-driven car—delicate as though a jeweler had made it—was waiting for them under the canopy beside the house, when they went out. She delayed a moment to ask Alan to let down the windows; the sky was still clear, and the sunshine had become almost warm, though the breeze was sharp and cold. As the car rolled down the drive, and he turned for a long look past her toward the lake, she watched his expression.
"It's like a great shuttle, the ice there," she commented, "a monster shuttle nearly three hundred miles long. All winter it moves back and forth across the lake, from east to west and from west to east as the winds change, blocking each shore half the time and forcing the winter boats to fight it always."
"The gulls go opposite to it, I suppose, sticking to open water."
"The gulls? That depends upon the weather. 'Sea-gull, sea-gull,'" she quoted, "'sit on the sand; It's never fair weather when you're on the land.'"
Alan started a little. "What was that?" he asked.
"That rhyme? One which the wives of the lake men teach their children. Did you remember that too?"
"After you said it."
"Can you remember the rest of it?"
"'Green to Green—Red to Red,'" Alan repeated
