The fog had come almost without warning. When, after leaving the bank, at four o'clock or thereabouts, I walked down to the shore and pulled my skiff out to where the Comfort lay at her moorings, there had not been a sign of it. Now I was near the entrance of the bay, somewhere abreast Crow Point, and all about me was gray, wet blankness. Sitting in the stern of the little launch I could see perhaps a scant ten feet beyond the bow, no more.

It was the sudden shift of the wind which had brought the fog. When I left the boat house there had been a light westerly breeze. This had died down to a flat calm, and then a new breeze had sprung up from the south, blowing the fog before it. It rolled across the water as swiftly as the smoke clouds roll from a freshly lighted bonfire. It blotted Denboro from sight and moved across the bay; the long stretch of beach disappeared; the Crow Point light and Ben Small's freshly whitewashed dwellings and outbuildings were obliterated. In ten minutes the Comfort was, to all appearances, alone on a shoreless sea, and I was the only living creature in the universe.

I was not troubled or alarmed. I had been out in too many fogs on that very bay to mind this one. It was a nuisance, because it necessitated cutting short my voyage, although that voyage had no objective point and was merely an aimless cruise in search of solitude and forgetfulness. The solitude I had found, the forgetfulness, of course, I had not. And now, when the solitude was more complete than ever, surrounded by this gray dismalness, with nothing whatever to look at to divert my attention, I knew I should be more bitterly miserable than I had been since I left that wedding. And I had been miserable and bitter enough, goodness knows.

Home and the village, which I had been so anxious to get away from, now looked inviting in comparison. I slowed down the engine and, with an impatient growl, bent over the little binnacle to look at the compass and get my bearings before pointing the Comfort's nose in the direction of Denboro. Then my growl changed to an exclamation of disgust. The compass was not there. I knew where it was. It was on my work bench in the boat house, where I had put it myself, having carried it there to replace the cracked glass in its top with a new one. I had forgotten it and there it was.

I could get along without it, of course, but its absence meant delay and more trouble. In a general way I knew my whereabouts, but the channel was winding and the tide was ebbing rapidly. I should be obliged to run slowly—to feel my way, so to speak—and I might not reach home until late. However, there was nothing else to do, so I put the helm over and swung the launch about. I sat in the stern sheets, listening to the dreary “chock-chock” of the propeller, and peering forward into the mist. The prospect was as cheerless as my future.

Suddenly, from the wet, gray blanket ahead came a call. It was a good way off when I first heard it, a call in a clear voice, a feminine voice it seemed to me.

“Hello!”

I did not answer. I took it for granted that the call was not addressed to me. It came probably, from the beach at the Point, and might be Mrs. Small hailing her husband, though it did not sound like her voice. Several minutes went by before it was repeated. Then I heard it again and nearer.

“Hello! Hello-o-o! Where are you?”

That was not Mrs. Small, certainly. Unless I was away off in my reckoning the Point was at my right, and the voice sounded to the left. It must come from some craft afloat in the bay, though before the fog set in I had seen none.

“Hello-o! Hello, the motor boat!”

“Hello!” I answered. “Boat ahoy! Where are you?”

“Here I am.” The voice was nearer still. “Where are you? Don't run into me.”

I shifted my helm just a bit and peered ahead. I could see nothing. The fog was thicker than ever; if that were possible.

“Where are you?” repeated the unseen voyager, and to my dismay, the hail came from the right this time.

“Don't move!” I shouted. “Stay where you are. I will keep shouting . . . LOOK OUT!”

Out of the fog to starboard a long dark shadow shot, silent and swift. It was moving directly across the Comfort's bow. I jammed the wheel over and the launch swung off, but not enough. It struck the canoe, for it was a canoe, a glancing blow and heeled it down to the water's edge. There was a scrape, a little scream, and two hands clutched at the Comfort's rail. I let go the wheel, sprang forward and seized the owner of the hands about the waist. The canoe, half full of water, disappeared somewhere astern. I swung Mabel Colton aboard the launch.

I think she spoke first. I do not remember saying anything, and I think it must have been at least a full minute before either of us broke the silence. She lay, or sat, upon the cockpit floor, her shoulders supported by the bench surrounding it, just where I had placed her after lifting her over the rail. I knelt beside her, staring as if she were a spirit instead of a real, and rather damp, young lady. And she stared at me. When she spoke her words were an echo of my thought.

“It IS you?” she gasped.

“Yes.”

“This—this is the third time.”

“Yes.”

Another interval of silence. Then she spoke once more and her tone was one expressing intense conviction.

“This,” she said, slowly, “is getting to be positively ridiculous.”

I did not deny it. I said nothing.

She sat up. “My canoe—” she faltered.

The mention of the canoe brought me partially to my senses. I realized that I was kneeling on the deck of a launch that was pounding its way through the fog with no one at the helm. I sprang to my feet and seized the wheel. That my doing so would be of little use, considering that the Comfort might be headed almost anywhere by this time, did not occur to me. Miss Colton remained where she was.

“My canoe—” she repeated.

I was awakening rapidly. I looked out into the mist and shook my head.

“I am afraid your canoe has gone,” I said. And then, as the thought occurred to me for the first time, “You're not hurt, I hope? I dragged you aboard here rather roughly, I am afraid.”

“No, I am not hurt. But—where are we?”

“I don't know, exactly. Somewhere near the mouth of the bay, that is all I can be sure of. You, are certain you are not hurt? You must be wet through.”

She got upon her feet and, leaning over the Comfort's rail, gazed about her.

“I am all right,” she answered. “But don't you know where you are?”

“Before the fog caught me I was nearly abreast the Point. I was running at half speed up the channel when I heard your hail. Where were you?”

“I was just beyond your boat house, out in the middle of the bay. I had come out for a paddle before dinner. I did not notice the fog until it was all about me. Then I think I must have been bewildered. I thought I was going in the direction of home, but I could not have been—not if you were abreast the Point. I must have been going directly out to sea.”

She shivered.

“You are wet,” I said, anxiously. “There is a storm coat of mine in the locker forward. Won't you put that about your shoulders? It may prevent your taking cold.”

“No, thank you. I am not wet, at all; or, at least, only my feet and the bottom of my skirt. I shall not take cold.”

“But—”

“Please don't worry. I am all right, or shall be as soon as I get home.”

“I am very sorry about your canoe.”

“It doesn't matter.”

Her answers were short now. There was a different note in her voice. I knew the reason of the change. Now that the shock and the surprise of our meeting were over she and I were resuming our old positions. She was realizing that her companion was the “common fellow” whose “charming and cultivated society” was not necessary to her happiness, the fellow to whom she had scornfully offered “congratulations” and whom she had cut dead at the Deans' that very afternoon. I made no more suggestions and expressed no more sympathy.

“I will take you home at once,” I said, curtly.

“If you please.”

That ended conversation for the time. She seated herself on the bench near the forward end of the cockpit and kept her head turned away from me. I, with one hand upon the wheel—a useless procedure, for I had no idea where the launch might be headed—looked over the rail and listened to the slow and regular beat of the engine. Suddenly the beat grew less regular. The engine barked, hiccoughed, barked again but more faintly, and then stopped altogether.

I knew what was the matter. Before I reached the gasolene tank and unscrewed the little cover I knew it. I thrust in the gauge stick and heard it strike bottom, drew it out and found it, as I expected, dry to the very tip. I had trusted, like an imbecile, to Lute. Lute had promised to fill that tank “the very first thing,” and he had not kept his promise.

There was not a pint of gasolene aboard the Comfort; and it would be my cheerful duty to inform my passenger of the fact!

She did not wait for me to break the news. She saw me standing there, holding the gauge stick in my hand, and she asked the natural question.

“What is the matter?” she demanded.

I swallowed the opinion of Mr. Rogers which was on the tip of my tongue.

“I am sorry,” I stammered, “but—but—well, we are in trouble, I am afraid.”

“In trouble?” she said coldly. “What trouble do you mean?”

“Yes. The fact is, we have run out of gasolene. I told my man, Rogers, to fill the tank and he hasn't done it.”

She leaned forward to look at me.

“Hasn't done it?” she repeated. “You mean—why, this boat cannot go without gasolene, can it?”

“Not very well; no.”

“Then—then what are we going to do?”

“Anchor and wait, if I can.”

“Wait! But I don't wish to wait. I wish to be taken home, at once.”

“I am sorry, but I am afraid that is impossible.”

I was on my way forward to where the anchor lay, in the bow. She rose and stepped in front of me.

“Mr. Paine.”

“Yes, Miss Colton.”

“I tell you I do not wish you to anchor this boat.”

“I am sorry but it is the only thing to do, under the circumstances.”

“I do not wish it. Stop! I tell you I will not have you anchor.”

“Miss Colton, we must do one of two things, either anchor or drift. And if we drift I cannot tell you where we may be carried.”

“I don't care.”

“I do.”

“Yes,” with scornful emphasis, “I presume you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—never mind what I mean.”

“But, as I have explained to you, the gasolene—”

“Nonsense! Do you suppose I believe that ridiculous story?”

“Believe it?” I gazed at her uncomprehendingly. “Believe it,” I repeated. “Don't you believe it?”

“No.”

“Miss Colton, do you mean that you think I am not telling you the truth? That I am lying?”

“Well,” fiercely, “and if I did, would it be so astonishing, considering—considering the TRUTHS you have told me before?”

I made no further effort to pass her. Instead I stepped back.

“Would you mind telling me,” I demanded, with deliberate sarcasm, “what possible reason you think I might have for wishing to keep you here?”

“I shall tell you nothing. And—and I will not have you anchor this boat.”

“Is it your desire then that we drift—the Lord knows where?”

“I desire you to start that engine and take me home.”

“I cannot start the engine.”

“I don't believe it.”

For a moment I hesitated. Then I did what was perhaps the most senseless thing I ever did in all my life, which is saying considerable. I turned my back on her and on the anchor, and seated myself once more in the stern sheets. And we drifted.

I do not know how long we drifted before I regained my sanity. It must have been a good while. When I first returned to my seat by the wheel it was with the firm determination to allow the Comfort to drift into the bottomless pit rather than to stir hand or foot to prevent it. In fact that particular port looked rather inviting than otherwise. Any torments it might have in store could not be worse than those I had undergone because of this girl. I sat, silent, with my gaze fixed upon the motionless engine. I heard my passenger move once or twice, but I did not look at her.

What brought me to my senses was the boat hook, which had been lying on the seat beside me, suddenly falling to the floor. I started and looked over the rail. The water, as much of it as I could see through the fog, was no longer flat and calm. There were waves all about us, not big ones, but waves nevertheless, long, regular swells in the trough of which the Comfort rocked lazily. There was no wind to kick up a sea. This was a ground swell, such as never moved in Denboro Bay. While I sat there like an idiot the tide had carried us out beyond the Point.

With an exclamation I sprang up and hurried forward. Miss Colton was sitting where I had left her.

“What is it?” she asked. “What are you going to do?”

“I am going to anchor,” I said.

“I do not wish you to anchor.”

“I can't help that. I must. Please stand aside, Miss Colton.”

She tried to prevent me, but I pushed her away, not too gently I am afraid, and clambered forward to the bow, where the anchor lay upon its coil of line. I threw it overboard. The line ran out to its very end and I waited expectantly for the jerk which would tell me that the anchor had caught and was holding. But no jerk came. Reaching over the bow I tried the line. It was taut and heavy. Then I knew approximately how far we had drifted. We were beyond the shoal making out from Crow Point over the deep water beyond. My anchor rope was not long enough to reach the bottom.

Still I was not alarmed. I was provoked at my own stubbornness which had gotten us into this predicament and more angry than ever at the person who was the cause of that stubbornness. But I was not frightened. There were other shoals further out and I left the anchor as it was, hoping that it might catch and hold on one of them. I went back once more to my seat by the wheel.

Then followed another interval of silence and inaction. From astern and a good way off sounded the notes of a bell. From the opposite direction came a low groan, indescribably mournful and lonely.

My passenger heard it and spoke.

“What was that?” she demanded, in a startled tone.

“The fog horn at Mackerel Island, the island at the mouth of Wellmouth harbor,” I answered.

“And that bell?”

“That is the fog bell at Crow Point.”

“At Crow Point? Why, it can't be! Crow Point is in Denboro Bay, and that bell is a long way behind us.”

“Yes. We are a mile or more outside the Point now. The tide has carried us out.”

“Carried us—Do you mean that we are out at sea?”

“Not at sea exactly. We are in Cape Cod Bay.”

“But—why, we are still drifting, aren't we? I thought you had anchored.”

“I tried to, but I was too late. The water is too deep here for the anchor to reach bottom.”

“But—but what are you going to do?”

“Nothing at present. There is nothing I can do. Sit down, please.”

“Nothing! Nothing! Do you mean that you propose to sit there and let us be carried out to sea?”

“We shall not be carried far. There is no wind. When the tide turns we shall probably be carried in again.”

“But,” sharply, “why don't you do something? Can't you row?”

“I have only one oar.”

“But you must do something. You MUST. I—I—It is late! it is growing dark! My people! What will they think?”

“I am sorry, Miss Colton.”

“Sorry! You are not sorry! If you were you would do something, instead of sitting there as—as if you enjoyed it. I believe you do enjoy it. You are doing it purposely to—to—”

“To what, pray?”

“Never mind.”

“But I do mind. You have accused me of lying, Miss Colton, and of keeping you here purposely. What do you mean by it?”

“I mean that—that—Oh, you know what I mean! You hate me and you hate my father, and you are trying to—to punish us for—for—”

I had heard enough. I did not propose to hear any more.

“Miss Colton,” I interrupted, sternly, “stop! this is silly. I assure you that I am as anxious to end this—excursion—of ours as you can be. Your being afloat in Denboro Bay in a canoe was your own recklessness and not my fault. Neither was it my fault that the launch collided with your canoe. I called to you not to move, but to stay where you were. And, moreover, if you had permitted me to anchor when I first attempted to do so we should not be in this scrape. I shall get you out of it just as quick as I can. In order that I may do so I shall expect you to stop behaving like a child and do as I tell you. Sit down on that bench and keep still.”

This had the effect I meant it to. She looked at me as if she could not believe she had heard aright. But I met her gaze squarely, and, with a shudder of disgust, or fear, I do not know which, she turned her back upon me and was silent. I went forward to the cuddy, found the tin horn which, until that moment, I had forgotten, and, returning, blew strident blasts upon it at intervals. There was little danger of other craft being in our vicinity, but I was neglecting no precautions.

The bell at Crow Point sounded further and further astern. The twilight changed to dusk and the dusk to darkness. The fog was as thick as ever. It was nearly time for the tide to turn.

Suddenly there was a jerk; the launch quivered, and swung about.

“Oh! what was that?” demanded Miss Colton, shortly.

“The anchor,” I answered. “We have reached the outer shoal.”

“And,” hesitatingly, “shall we stay here?”

“Yes; unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless . . . Hush! listen!”

There was an odd rushing sound from the darkness astern, a sort of hiss and low, watery roar. I rushed to the bow and dragged the anchor inboard with all my strength. Then I ran to the wheel. I had scarcely reached it when I felt a hand on my arm.

“What is it?” asked the young lady, her voice quivering. “Oh, what is it?”

“Wind,” I answered. “There is a squall coming. Sit down! Sit down!”

“But—but—”

“Sit down.”

She hesitated and I seized her arm and forced her down upon the bench beside me. I threw the helm over. The rushing sound grew nearer. Then came a blast of wind which sent my cap flying overboard and the fog disappeared as if it had been a cloth snatched away by a mighty hand. Above us was a black sky, with stars showing here and there between flying clouds, and about us were the waves, already breaking into foam upon the shoal.

The Comfort rocked and wallowed in the trough. We were being driven by the wind away from the shoal, but not fast enough. Somehow or other we must get out of that dangerous neighborhood. I turned to my companion. She had not spoken since the squall came.

“Miss Colton,” I said, “give me your hands.”

I presume she could not imagine what I meant. No doubt, too, my tone and the request frightened her. She hesitated. I seized her hands and placed them on the spokes of the wheel.

“I want you to hold that wheel just as it is,” I commanded. “I must go forward and get steerage way on this craft somehow, or we shall capsize. Can you hold it, do you think?”

“Yes; I—I think so.”

“You must.”

I left her, went to the cuddy and dragged out the small canvas tarpaulin which I used to cover the engine at night. With this, a cod line, the boathook, and my one oar I improvised a sort of jury rig which I tied erect at the forward end of the cockpit. Then I went aft and took the wheel again. The tarpaulin made a poor apology for a sail, but I hoped it might answer the purpose well enough to keep the Comfort before the wind.

It did. Tacking was, of course, out of the question, but with the gale astern the launch answered her helm and slid over the waves instead of rolling between them. I sighed in relief. Then I remembered my passenger sitting silent beside me. She did not deserve consideration, but I vouchsafed a word of encouragement.

“Don't be frightened,” I said. “It is only a stiff breeze and this boat is seaworthy. We are all right now.”

“But why did you take up the anchor?”

By way of answer I pointed aft over the stern. In the darkness the froth of the shoal gleamed white. I felt her shudder as she looked.

“Where are we going now—please?” she asked, a moment later.

“We are headed for the Wellmouth shore. It is the only direction we can take. If this wind holds we shall land in a few hours. It is all deep water now. There are no more shoals.”

“But,” anxiously, “can we land when we reach there? Isn't it a bad coast?”

“Not very. If we can make Mackerel Island we may be able to get ashore at the light or anchor in the lee of the land. It is all right, Miss Colton. I am telling you the truth. Strange as it may seem to you, I really am.”

I could not help adding the last bit of sarcasm. She understood. She drew away on the bench and asked no more questions.

On drove the Comfort. The first fierceness of the squall had passed and it was now merely what I had called it, a stiff breeze. Out here in the middle of the bay the waves were higher and we shipped some spray over the quarter. The air was sharp and the chill penetrated even my thick jacket.

“You must be cold,” I said. “Aren't you?”

“No.”

“But you must be. Take the wheel a moment.”

“I am not cold.”

“Take the wheel.”

She took it. I groped about in the cuddy again, got out my storm coat, an old pea jacket which I wore on gunning expeditions, and brought it to her.

“Slip this on,” I said.

“I do not care for it.”

“Put it on.”

“Mr. Paine,” haughtily, “I tell you . . . . oh!”

I had wrapped the coat about her shoulders and fastened the upper button.

“Now sit down on the deck here,” I ordered. “Here, by my feet. You will be below the rail there and out of the wind.”

To my surprise she obeyed orders, this time without even a protest. I smiled grimly. To see her obey suited my humor. It served her right. I enjoyed ordering her about as if I were mate of an old-time clipper and she a foremast hand. She had insulted me once too often and she should pay for it. Out here social position and wealth and family pride counted for nothing. Here I was absolute master of the situation and she knew it. All her life she would remember it, the humiliation of being absolutely dependent upon me for life and safety and warmth. I looked down at her crouching at my feet, and then away over the black water. The Comfort climbed wave after wave.

“Mr. Paine.”

The tone was very low but I heard it.

I came out of my waking dream—it was not a pleasant one—and answered.

“Yes?” I said.

“Where are we?”

“We are making fair progress, everything considered. Are you warmer now?”

“Yes—thank you.”

She said no more, nor did I. Except for the splash of the spray and the flapping of the loose ends of the tarpaulin, it was quiet aboard the Comfort. Quiet, except for an odd sound in the shadow by my knee. I stooped and listened.

“Miss Colton,” I said, quickly. “What is it?”

No answer. Yet I heard the sound again.

“What is it, Miss Colton?” I repeated. “What is the matter? Why are you crying?”

“I—I am NOT crying,” indignantly. And on the very heels of the denial came a stifled sob.

That sob went to my heart. A great lump rose in my own throat. My brain seemed to be turning topsy-turvy. A moment before it had been filled with bitterness and resentment and vengeful thoughts. Now these had vanished and in their place came crowding other and vastly different feelings. She was crying, sobbing there alone in the dark at my feet. And I had treated her like a brute!

“Miss Colton,” I pleaded, in an agony of repentance, “what is it? Is there anything I can do? Are you still cold? Take this other coat, the one I have on. I don't need it, really. I am quite warm.”

“I am not cold.”

“But—”

“Oh, please don't speak to me! PLEASE!”

I closed my lips tightly and clutched the wheel with both hands. Oh, I had been a brute, a brute! I should have known that she was not herself, that she was frightened and nervous and distraught. I should have been considerate and forbearing. I should have remembered that she was only a girl, hysterical and weak. Instead I had—

“Miss Colton,” I begged, “please don't. Please!”

No answer; only another sob. I tried again.

“I have been a cad,” I cried. “I have treated you abominably. I don't expect you to forgive me, but—”

“I—I am so frightened!” The confession was a soliloquy, I think; not addressed to me at all. But I heard it and forgot everything else. I let go of the wheel altogether and bent over her, both hands outstretched, to—the Lord knows what. I was not responsible just then.

But while I still hesitated, while my hands were still in the air above her, before they touched her, I was brought back to sanity with a rude shock. A barrel or so of cold water came pouring over the rail and drenched us both. The launch, being left without a helmsman, had swung into the trough of the sea and this was the result.

I am not really sure what happened in the next few seconds. I must, I imagine, have seized the wheel with one hand and my passenger with the other. At any rate, when the smoke, so to speak, had cleared, the Comfort was headed on her old course once more, I was back on the bench by the wheel, Mabel Colton's head was on my shoulder, and I was telling her over and over that it was all right now, there was no danger, we were perfectly safe, and various inanities of that sort.

She was breathing quickly, but she sobbed no more. I was glad of that.

“You are sure you are not hurt?” I asked, anxiously.

“Yes—yes, I think so,” she answered, faintly. “What was it? I—I thought we were sinking.”

“So did I for a moment. It was all my fault, as usual. I let go the wheel.”

“Did you? Why?”

“I don't know why.” This was untrue; I did. “But you are wet through,” I added, remorsefully. “And I haven't another dry wrap aboard.”

“Never mind. You are as wet as I am.”

“Yes, but I don't mind. I am used to it. But you—”

“I am all right. I was a little faint, at first, I think, but I am better now.” She raised her head and sat up. “Where are we?” she asked.

“We are within a few miles of the Wellmouth shore. That light ahead is the Mackerel Island light. We shall be there in a little while. The danger is almost over.”

She shivered.

“You are cold!” I cried. “Of course you are! If I only had another coat or something. It is all my fault.”

“Don't say that,” reproachfully. “Where should I have been if it had not been for you? I was paddling directly out toward those dreadful shoals. Then you came, just as you have done before, and saved me. And,” in a wondering whisper, “I knew it was you!”

I did not ask her what she meant; I seemed to understand perfectly.

“Yes,” I said.

“But I tell you I knew it was you,” she repeated. “I did not know—I did not suspect until the moment before the collision, before the launch came in sight—then, all at once, I knew.”

“Yes. That was when I knew.”

She turned and gazed at me.

“YOU knew?” she gasped, hysterically. “Why—what do you mean?”

“I can't explain it. Just before your canoe broke through the fog I knew, that is all.”

It was unexplainable, but it was true. Call it telepathy or what you will—I do not know what it was—I am certain only that, although I had not recognized her voice, I had suddenly known who it was that would come to me out of the fog. And she, too, had known! I felt again, with an almost superstitious thrill, that feeling of helplessness which had come over me that day of the fishing excursion when she rode through the bushes to my side. It was as if she and I were puppets in the hands of some Power which was amusing itself at our expense and would have its way, no matter how we might fight against it.

She spoke as if she were struggling to awaken from a dream.

“But it can't be,” she protested. “It is impossible. Why should you and I—”

“I don't know . . . Unless—”

“Unless what?”

I closed my lips on the words that were on the tip of my tongue. That reason was more impossible than all else.

“Nothing,” I stammered.

She did not repeat her question. I saw her face, a dainty silhouette against the foam alongside, turned away from me. I gazed at it until I dared gaze no longer. Was I losing my senses altogether? I—Ros Paine—the man whose very name was not his own? I must not think such thoughts. I scarcely dared trust myself to speak and yet I knew that I must. This silence was too dangerous. I took refuge in a commonplace.

“We are getting into smoother water,” I said. “It is not as rough as it was, do you think?”

If she heard the remark she ignored it. She did not turn to look at me. After a moment she said, in a low voice:

“I can't understand.”

I supposed her to be still thinking of our meeting in the fog.

“I cannot understand myself,” I answered. “I presume it was a coincidence, like our meeting at the pond.”

She shook her head. “I did not mean that,” she said. “I mean that I cannot understand how you can be so kind to me. After what I said, and the way I have treated you; it is wonderful!”

I was obliged to wait another moment before I could reply. I clutched the wheel tighter than ever.

“The wonderful part of it all,” I said, earnestly, “is that you should even speak to me, after my treatment of you here, to-night. I was a brute. I ordered you about as if—”

“Hush! Don't! please don't. Think of what I said to you! Will you forgive me? I have been so ungrateful. You saved my life over and over again and I—I—”

“Stop! Don't do that! If you do I shall—Miss Colton, please—”

She choked back the sob. “Tell me,” she said, a moment later, this time looking me directly in the face, “why did you sell my father that land?”

It was my turn to avoid her look. I did not answer.

“I know it was not because of the money—the price, I mean. Father told me that you refused the five thousand he offered and would accept only a part of it; thirty-five hundred, I think he said. I should have known that the price had nothing to do with it, even if he had not told me. But why did you sell it?”

I would have given all I had, or ever expected to have, in this world, to tell her the truth. For the moment I almost hated George Taylor.

“Oh, I thought I might as well, give in then as later,” I answered, with a shrug. “It was no use fighting the inevitable.”

“That was not it. I know it was not. If it had been you would have taken the five thousand. And I know, too, that you meant what you said when you told me you never would sell. I have known it all the time. I know you were telling me the truth.”

I was astonished. “You do?” I cried. “Why, you said—”

“Don't! I know what I said, and I am so ashamed. I did not mean it, really. For a moment, there in the library, when Father first told me, I thought perhaps you—but I did not really think it. And when he told me the price, I KNEW. Won't you tell me why you sold?”

“I can't. I wish I could.”

“I believe I can guess.”

I started. “You can GUESS?” I repeated.

“Yes. I think you wanted the money for some purpose, some need which you had not foreseen. And I do not believe it was for yourself at all. I think it was for some one else. Wasn't that it?”

I could not reply. I tried to, tried to utter a prompt denial, but the words would not come. Her “guess” was so close to the truth that I could only stammer and hesitate.

“It was,” she said. “I thought so. For your mother, wasn't it?”

“No, no. Miss Colton, you are wrong. I—”

“I am not wrong. Never mind. I suppose it is a secret. Perhaps I shall find out some day. But will you forgive me for being so hateful? Can you? What is the matter?”

“Nothing—nothing. I—you are too good to me, that is all. I don't deserve it.”

“Hush! And we will be friends again?”

“Yes. . . . . Oh, no! no! I must not think of it. It is impossible.”

“Must not think of it? When I ask you to? Can't you forgive me, after all?”

“There was nothing to forgive.”

“Yes, there was, a great deal. Is there something else? Are you still angry with me because of what I said that afternoon at the gate?”

“No, of course not.”

“It was hateful of me, I know. But I could see that you wished to avoid me and I was provoked. Besides, you have punished me for that. You have snubbed me twice since, sir.”

“I snubbed YOU?”

“Yes—twice. Once when we met in the street. You deliberately turned away and would not look at me. And once when I passed you in the canoe. You saw me—I know you did—but you cut me dead. That is why I did not return your bow to-day, at the wedding.”

“But you had said—I thought—”

“I know. I had said horrid things. I deserved to be snubbed. There! now I have confessed. Mayn't we be friends?”

“I . . . Oh, no, we must not, for your sake. I—”

“For my sake! But I wish it. Why not?”

I turned on her. “Can't you see?” I said, despairingly. “Look at the difference between us! You are what you are and I—”

She interrupted me. “Oh,” she cried, impatiently, “how dare you speak so? How dare you believe that money and—all the rest of it influences me in my friendships? Do you think I care for that?”

“I did not mean money alone. But even that Miss Colton, that evening when we returned from the trip after weakfish, you and your father and I, I heard—I did not mean to hear but I did—what your mother said when she met you. She said she had warned you against trusting yourself to 'that common fellow,' meaning me. That shows what she thinks. She was right; in a way she was perfectly right. Now you see what I mean by saying that friendship between us is impossible?”

I had spoken at white heat. Now I turned away. It was settled. She must understand now.

“Mr. Paine.”

“Yes, Miss Colton.”

“I am sorry you heard that. Mother—she is my mother and I love her—but she says foolish things sometimes. I am sorry you heard that, but since you did, I wish you had heard the rest.”

“The rest?”

“Yes. I answered her by suggesting that she had not been afraid to trust me in the care of Victor—Mr. Carver. She answered that she hoped I did not mean to compare Mr. Carver with you. And I said—”

“Yes? You said—?”

“I said,” the tone was low but I heard every syllable, “I said she was right, there was no comparison.”

“You said THAT!”

“Yes.”

“You said it! And you meant—?”

“I meant—I think I meant that I should not be afraid to trust you always—anywhere.”

Where were my good resolutions—my stern reasons to remember who and what I was—to be sane, no matter at what cost to myself? I do not know where they were; then I did not care. I seized her hand. It trembled, but she did not draw it away.

“Mabel—” I cried. “Mabel—”

“BUMP!”

The Comfort shook as the bow of a dory scraped along her starboard quarter. A big red hand clasped the rail and its mate brandished a good-sized club before my eyes.

“Now,” said a determined voice, “I've got ye at last! This time I've caught ye dead to rights! Now, by godfreys, you'll pay me for them lobsters!”