Hazel, and sometimes with strained civility. She wandered away from him
and from his labors for her comfort, and passed hours at Telegraph Point,
eying the illimitable ocean. She was a riddle. All sweetness at times,
but at others irritable, moody, and scarce mistress of herself. Hazel was
sorry and perplexed, and often expressed a fear she was ill. The answer
was always in the negative. He did not press her, but worked on for her,
hoping the mood would pass. And so it would, no doubt, if the cause had
not remained.
Matters were still in this uncomfortable and mysterious state when Hazel
put his finishing stroke to her abode.
He was in high spirits that evening, for he had made a discovery; he had
at last found time for a walk, and followed the river to its source, a
very remarkable lake in a hilly basin. Near this was a pond, the water of
which he had tasted and found it highly bituminous; and, making further
researches, he had found at the bottom of a rocky ravine a very wonderful
thing--a dark resinous fluid bubbling up in quite a fountain, which,
however, fell down again as it rose, and hardly any overflowed. It was
like thin pitch.
Of course in another hour he was back there with a great pot, and half
filled it.
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