And, after all, there was really nothing out of the way
about these visits of an unknown animal, for although our own island was
destitute of life, we were in the heart of a wilderness, and the
mainland and larger islands must be swarming with all kinds of
four-footed creatures, and no very prolonged swimming was necessary to
reach us. In any other country it would not have caused a moment's
interest--interest of the kind we felt, that is. In our Canadian camps
the bears were for ever grunting about among the provision bags at
night, porcupines scratching unceasingly, and chipmunks scuttling over
everything. "My daughter is overtired, and that's the truth of it," explained
Maloney presently when he rejoined us and had examined in turn the other
paw-marks. "She's been overdoing it lately, and camp-life, you know,
always means a great excitement to her. It's natural enough, if we take
no notice she'll be all right." He paused to borrow my tobacco pouch and
fill his pipe, and the blundering way he filled it and spilled the
precious weed on the ground visibly belied the calm of his easy
language. "You might take her out for a bit of fishing, Hubbard, like a
good chap; she's hardly up to the long day in the cutter. Show her some
of the other islands in your canoe, perhaps. Eh?" And by lunch-time the cloud had passed away as suddenly, and as
suspiciously, as it had come. But in the canoe, on our way home, having till then purposely ignored
the subject uppermost in our minds, she suddenly spoke to me in a way
that again touched the note of sinister alarm--the note that kept on
sounding and sounding until finally John Silence came with his great
vibrating presence and relieved it; yes, and even after he came, too,
for a while. "I'm ashamed to ask it," she said abruptly, as she steered me home, her
sleeves rolled up, her hair blowing in the wind, "and ashamed of my
silly tears too, because I really can't make out what caused them; but,
Mr. Hubbard, I want you to promise me not to go off for your long
expeditions--just yet. I beg it of you." She was so in earnest that she
forgot the canoe, and the wind caught it sideways and made us roll
dangerously. "I have tried hard not to ask this," she added, bringing
the canoe round again, "but I simply can't help myself." It was a good deal to ask, and I suppose my hesitation was plain; for
she went on before I could reply, and her beseeching expression and
intensity of manner impressed me very forcibly. "For another two weeks only--"

"Mr. Sangree leaves in a fortnight," I said, seeing at once what she was
driving at, but wondering if it was best to encourage her or not. "If I knew you were to be on the island till then," she said, her face
alternately pale and blushing, and her voice trembling a little, "I
should feel so much happier." I looked at her steadily, waiting for her to finish. "And safer," she added almost in a whisper; "especially--at night, I
mean." "Safer, Joan?" I repeated, thinking I had never seen her eyes so soft
and tender. She nodded her head, keeping her gaze fixed on my face. It was really difficult to refuse, whatever my thoughts and judgment may
have been, and somehow I understood that she spoke with good reason,
though for the life of me I could not have put it into words. "Happier--and safer," she said gravely, the canoe giving a dangerous
lurch as she leaned forward in her seat to catch my answer. Perhaps,
after all, the wisest way was to grant her request and make light of it,
easing her anxiety without too much encouraging its cause. "All right, Joan, you queer creature; I promise," and the instant look
of relief in her face, and the smile that came back like sunlight to her
eyes, made me feel that, unknown to myself and the world, I was capable
of considerable sacrifice after all. "But, you know, there's nothing to be afraid of," I added sharply; and
she looked up in my face with the smile women use when they know we are
talking idly, yet do not wish to tell us so. "_You_ don't feel afraid, I know," she observed quietly. "Of course not; why should I?" "So, if you will just humour me this once I--I will never ask anything
foolish of you again as long as I live," she said gratefully. "You have my promise," was all I could find to say. She headed the nose of the canoe for the lagoon lying a quarter of a
mile ahead, and paddled swiftly; but a minute or two later she paused
again and stared hard at me with the dripping paddle across the thwarts. "You've not heard anything at night yourself, have you?" she asked. "I never hear anything at night," I replied shortly, "from the moment I
lie down till the moment I get up." "That dismal howling, for instance," she went on, determined to get it
out, "far away at first and then getting closer, and stopping just
outside the Camp?" "Certainly not." "Because, sometimes I think I almost dreamed it." "Most likely you did," was my unsympathetic response. "And you don't think father has heard it either, then?" "No. He would have told me if he had." This seemed to relieve her mind a little. "I know mother hasn't," she
added, as if speaking to herself, "for she hears nothing--ever." *       *       *       *       *

It was two nights after this conversation that I woke out of deep sleep
and heard sounds of screaming. The voice was really horrible, breaking
the peace and silence with its shrill clamour. In less than ten seconds
I was half dressed and out of my tent. The screaming had stopped
abruptly, but I knew the general direction, and ran as fast as the
darkness would allow over to the women's quarters, and on getting close
I heard sounds of suppressed weeping. It was Joan's voice. And just as I
came up I saw Mrs. Maloney, marvellously attired, fumbling with a
lantern. Other voices became audible in the same moment behind me, and
Timothy Maloney arrived, breathless, less than half dressed, and
carrying another lantern that had gone out on the way from being banged
against a tree. Dawn was just breaking, and a chill wind blew in from
the sea. Heavy black clouds drove low overhead. The scene of confusion may be better imagined than described. Questions
in frightened voices filled the air against this background of
suppressed weeping. Briefly--Joan's silk tent had been torn, and the
girl was in a state bordering upon hysterics. Somewhat reassured by our
noisy presence, however,--for she was plucky at heart,--she pulled
herself together and tried to explain what had happened; and her broken
words, told there on the edge of night and morning upon this wild island
ridge, were oddly thrilling and distressingly convincing. "Something touched me and I woke," she said simply, but in a voice
still hushed and broken with the terror of it, "something pushing
against the tent; I felt it through the canvas. There was the same
sniffing and scratching as before, and I felt the tent give a little as
when wind shakes it.