The Ocean's Surprise. [A] "I think I can see it!"--said Betsy, with the quick perception of the child in the midst of his first wonder. "I think I know which way you mean to steer; and if you don't mind, I think I'll take the tiller." "Oh! I shall get over it in a moment!" said Betsy, cheerfully. "I'm so glad I came, and I've enjoyed every thing so much. But I mustn't go and wear out the boat. It's dreadful!"--and she laughed to herself as she thought of the "long pull" before her in the return. "Where is that strange spot, Mr. Stout?" "Well, I can't exactly tell you, for I haven't been there this many a year. It's 'bout half a mile ahead, I guess, and you see the woods and things kind o' rising up a little just as you come round there, and making a pretty good-sized hill of it. You must 'bout keep your eye on that, and you'll come to it about the first of the next turn." "Very well, I will; and now I think I shall want to go to sleep, and dream about that blue and white place." She was almost sure she could not go to sleep so long as her eye caught the lovely vision; for, though she had had her dinner, she had never before been up the lake as far as this, and there was a new delight in every thing. But she did not care if she should never see anything more, for she was sitting where the sun would warm her, and she was so near seeing that mysterious spot, which seemed almost like a fairyland to her, and she was so glad to be there at last. Betsy went to sleep so easily that she was almost inclined to think her father had not been so far wrong in his plan of keeping her quiet and enjoying the quiet, after all. Her face was in the breeze, and when she fell off in sleep, a half-smile rested on her lips. She was a beautiful child with her round cheek and dark eyelashes, and her fair hair, such a contrast to the deep blackness of the forest, and she looked as beautiful as if this fairy spot had been the picture of a fairy paradise. Even the little waves which rippled up about her did not interfere with her beauty, for they seemed as lovely as she did, and helped to make her look like a cherub resting in a sea of blue, with snowy clouds above her, and blue sky beyond, and the waters below that rose up into little hills in their sweep, and fell back with a music that might make one forget all their beauty in listening. It was such a scene as Betsy's dreams used to dwell upon, when she thought herself the happiest child in the world, for a dream of one afternoon, when her Uncle Edward had carried her away with him, all the way up that glorious road to the lake. He had not thought of that picture then, and he did not think of it now, or he might have wondered what this child was dreaming about. A robin flew on the water, making beautiful circles in the blue; but that was all he saw that was beautiful. For he did not know how lovely Betsy had become to herself, as she sat there in the light of the sun; and he had a world of his own to occupy his thoughts just now, as he soared high above the mountains. And now a ripple came out of the blue. It drew nearer, as the ripple does when you drop a stone in its shallow waters, and it is lifted and carried toward you; so this ripple grew larger and more beautiful as it came along. It seemed to come nearer by every wave, and at last to stop just in front of Betsy. Then the ripple moved back again, and Betsy was left with nothing but the ripple. The sky and forest, mountains and river, one above the other, were all there, but her eyes were fixed on the ripple, and the ripple only. A moment it rested there before it melted away. And the ripple grew larger, and the ripple moved back, and Betsy saw that the waters were broken into a sudden wave which rose and swelled over the boat. "Betsy! Betsy! Look at me!" The girl jumped up, and started to her feet with a half cry of terror. She looked up to the spot from which the voice had come, and her eyes were blinded with the shock of seeing her father standing there by the mast, with a tall beech-tree rising up between them, a good way up the shore. "Betsy! Betsy! Where are you? Speak to me!" Then the voice came nearer, and made a kind of choking sound, and she knew it must be little Bob. [Illustration: Then the voice came nearer, and made a kind of choking sound, and she knew it must be little Bob.] "Betsy! Betsy! What's the matter? Where are you?" Then it made a kind of whining cry, as if it saw something in the water, but he called again, and Betsy saw him making his way down the boat, until he was close to her. "O daddy! daddy! it's me--it's me!" and she stretched out her hands. The great boat had righted itself again, and he had one in each, and there she was beside him in a moment, clinging to him as if he was the only safety. "O daddy! I'm so glad you have come! I'm so glad you came to take me home!" "Oh! did you think that I hadn't?" he said, holding her close; "didn't you think I would come, if I could?" She looked up at him, and thought that she had never seen him look so sober. He looked troubled and ashamed, and yet proud of her. Betsy had a great many faults, but pride in her was not one of them. She was a very human child, for all her love of fairies, and it was the only fault she had of such a sort as to do her real harm. But perhaps there was no harm in it, for she could love quite as well with that feeling as if she had no pride in herself. If she did not think so well of herself, she certainly thought a great deal more of her father than she did before he crossed the lake. He had the same sort of proud look which she had when she told him what a good girl she had been, and how she had made him go over the water. He had some pride now, too, in knowing that she was his child, and that she was like him. "I'm so glad you came, Daddy, for I've been alone here all by myself, and I've had such beautiful thoughts!" "So have I," said Mr. Stout. "I could not go away, not for any thing, and the folks at the house told me about it. So I brought you home to stay with me." "Do you suppose I shall stay a long time with you, daddy?" she said, looking up into his face. "Yes, my dear; I believe we shall have a good deal of fun together," said Mr. Stout, patting her hand. He had no hesitation now about telling her of his plan, but he had felt that she might not like it, and he had gone very cautiously about the whole matter. He had not told Betsy until the very last that she could come with him. She had been so entirely satisfied with his plan as she thought it, that he had told her that, if she would only come, he thought he could be all right for a while. "You know I've lived so long alone," said Betsy, "that sometimes I have fancied all the folks around me didn't care to have me, and I wondered at them, for I thought my folks were good folks. I fancied so the first night, when the folks at the hotel at Peekskill didn't want me to sleep with them." Mr. Stout said nothing for a minute; he only looked down on his little daughter. "Did you get used to it at last, Betsy?" "No, indeed, daddy; not when I heard you stirring about in the morning, and thinking how you wouldn't mind such a little thing as that. I was dreadfully sorry to leave you all alone, but I knew I should get used to it very soon, for I always get used to everything. I could stand the noises at the hotel, for there was a little girl there whom I liked very much." "Poor little thing! she must be a poor kind of a girl!" "Why, no, daddy, she was very well off. She had everything she wanted, and a pretty little room, and people about her all day long, and I liked her very much. But she would look out of her window, and see the smoke from our chimney, and the old place was so lonesome. So I was very sorry for her, though I thought you would get used to me in a few