The Missing Formula

“You couldn’t hire me to spend a night alone at Stewart Island! Imagine how lonely and terrifying it must be for Anne Fairaday!”

Madge Sterling did not give the impression of a girl easily daunted. Gazing out across the stretch of ruffled water toward the pine-covered isle which drowsed like a huge green sea turtle in the heat of a midsummer sun, she made a most striking picture. Her auburn hair had been whipped carelessly back from her face by the wind. She was tanned to a healthy, mellow bronze, and the blue of her sweater exactly matched the blue of her eyes—eyes which at the moment were troubled and serious.

“It doesn’t seem right for Anne to stay there without a companion,” she continued, addressing the kindly-faced, elderly woman who stood beside her at the boat landing.

Mrs. Brady nodded soberly.

“We really should do something about it. I had no idea she was staying alone until Jack French told us this morning. Of course, the Fairadays always have kept to themselves. This girl may not care to have us interfere in her private affairs.”

“Everything is changed now, Aunt Maude,” Madge protested quickly. “I’m sure Anne would have mixed more with folks if her father hadn’t kept her so close at home. Now that he is dead she needs friends more than ever.”

“Why not go over there this afternoon and find out how matters stand?” Mrs. Brady suggested quietly. “The least we can do is to invite her to stay here at the lodge until she has had time to plan her future.”

Madge’s face brightened and she gave her aunt an affectionate squeeze.

“I knew you’d say that! I’ll start this very minute!”

She promptly untied a canoe moored at the landing but before she could launch it two men with axes swung over their shoulders came down the shore trail. Recognizing Mr. Brady and Old Bill Ramey, the man-of-all-work about the lodge, Madge was in the act of stepping into the canoe when her uncle hailed her.

She did not attempt an answer but waited until he drew nearer the landing. He came at a brisk pace, carrying his fifty-two years with a jaunty vigor that was the envy of many a younger man. His ruddy cheeks were framed in a healthy tan acquired by a life-long devotion to the out-of-doors and his alert, blue eyes snapped with the joy of being alive.

“Where away, Chick-a-dee?” he inquired with interest.

“I thought I’d paddle over to Stewart Island,” Madge informed. “Do you want the canoe, Uncle George?”

“No, you’re welcome to it, only I wonder if you noticed the clouds.” Mr. Brady turned to survey the horizon. “It looks to me as though a storm may blow up. It probably won’t amount to much but I believe you’ll be safer in the skiff.”

“Oh, bother!” Madge grumbled, casting an aggrieved glance at the boat. “It would take me all day to get over to the island in that cumbersome thing!”

After a brief study of the sky she thought better of it and reluctantly launched the skiff. She bent to the oars and with practiced skill sent the craft skimming over the water. Rounding the point, she lost sight of her aunt and uncle who had turned back toward the Brady lodge.

Madge had arrived at Loon Lake only three days before, but already she found herself slipping naturally back into the easy, carefree ways of a wilderness environment. She sniffed the fragrant balsam air contentedly and allowed the boat to drift while she watched a long-necked crane sail majestically over the water.