Ruth Nickerson greeted Donald with unusual warmth. She was now a woman beautiful of face and figure, and McKenzie had never seen her look so entrancing and desirable, while the sincerity of her welcome caused his heart to thump wildly. When she took his hand, she stepped close to him and looked up into his face with wide open eyes—eyes as clear and as blue as a Trade wind sky, and there was a hint of deep regard in them which made him feel ridiculously happy. For a space he retained her soft fingers in his and she made no attempt to withdraw them.

“I am so glad to see you, Donald,” she said softly, and there was a depth of feeling in her voice that he had never heard before. “And I, you,” he murmured, and he gave her hand another press before releasing it.

She stood back a space and scanned him from head to foot. He was dressed neatly and becomingly in a grey tweed and with tan boots. His collar and tie were in accordance with the latest fashion, and a Halifax barber had spent an hour trimming his hair, shaving his cheeks, and manicuring his sun-tanned strong fingers. This last was a piece of the fussiness of early training, and when he departed, his barber remarked to a workmate, “Them rich guys are great on havin’ their lunch hooks fussed up. By th’ mitts on him, I reckon he’s bin spendin’ th’ winter sportin’ ’round in Bermuja playin’ goluff an’ paddlin’ canoes.”

Nothing of the desperate ordeal of three weeks before appeared in his face or figure. His features glowed with a healthy tan and the white skin of his forehead—hat-shaded from sun and sea wind—served to contrast with his dark wavy hair. There was a snappy glint of vigorous strength in his large dark eyes which matched the erectness of his slim figure, and his present appearance caused Ruth to hark back in memory of the day, four years previous, when she had first met him—a rough looking, tousled-headed sea boy, garbed in clothes which were a caricature.

After the survey, which Donald endured somewhat abashed, she remarked laughingly, “My! Donald McKenzie, if I were to meet you on the street I wouldn’t know you—you’re grown so——” She was going to say “handsome,” but hesitated and caught him by the arm. “Come into the parlor and tell me all about your dreadful adventures. It must have been awful.” And she led him to a sofa and motioned him to a seat beside her.

As he was reluctant to tell the story, she plied him with questions to which he returned jocular answers. It is bad form for a sailor to relate personal adventures in any other way. “Yes,” he observed humorously, “we cut away the mast because it made the vessel lop-sided and very uncomfortable. When we cut it down and got it clear of the ship, things were much nicer. The gale? Oh, it was quite a breeze—quite a breeze! I should imagine you people ashore had an awful time in the streets with the shingles flying and the signs and telephone poles falling down. None of those dangers at sea—thank goodness!” And he heaved a sigh of mock relief.

She asked about Williams and Sanders, but when she saw the fun die out of his smiling eyes and a look as of pain light in their depths, she cried hastily, “No, no, don’t let’s talk about that! Let’s change the subject. Are you going as captain of a vessel this summer?”

“No,” he answered, almost pathetically. “It’s me for the dory and trawl-hauling again. I guess Old Heneker thought I used vessels too roughly to risk giving me another command. But he’s promised to give me a chance of a vessel next spring, so that’s encouraging.”

“You intend remaining at sea then?” she ventured somewhat apprehensively.

“Sure thing!” answered McKenzie. “There’s nothing else I can do and there’s nothing else I care to do. Seafaring is my hobby and my profession, and I do not wish anything better.”

“Wouldn’t you care to have a shore occupation? Something connected with ships?”

“Some day, yes!” he replied, “but not yet. Some day when it does not pay me to go to sea or when I’ve made enough to keep away from it. But I have a home and a mother to keep and it is only by fishing and navigating vessels that I can make the money. I couldn’t make enough at any other occupation. I wouldn’t care to be an office clerk and I don’t want to be a shore laborer. What could I do ashore worth while? Nothing!”

Her face fell a little at this, but Donald failed to notice it. He was gratifying his artistic sense of proportion and his appreciation of beauty in regarding the lovely roundness of her bare forearms and the perfect sweep of shoulders and neck. What a glorious head of hair she had!—he mused as he gazed thoughtfully on its wavy, coiled tresses with a sheen on them where they caught the light like the sun on a raven’s wing. She was very, very pretty this Nova Scotia lassie, he thought, but with his silent admiration came a recurrent pang of fear that someone other than he would call her “wife.” He talked away, and while he talked he sub-consciously tried to imagine possessing this charming girl for his own; to slip his arms around those perfectly moulded shoulders, and, looking into those wide blue eyes, slowly press her body and her lips to his. It was an enchanting thought—a fancy to set his blood afire; to realize his heart’s desire, to have this wonderful, virile, glorious creature in his arms and to hear her whisper, “I love you!”

They switched from the relation of storm happenings to a description of Cuba. He seemed inspired by her company, and as he dilated on the beauties of the sapphire seas, the palms, the dazzling sunlight, and the ancient glories of Old Havana, she saw in him an artist, a romanticist, and a nature-lover, drawing on a clear and retentive memory for the painting of a word picture which his masterly telling limned before her imaginative eyes. She lay back on the sofa cushions and gazed at his features dreamily, and as he talked she felt a strange thrill in her heart and he appeared then to her as her Knight Splendid. She pictured him in shining armor—a Conquistadore in morion and cuirass—a caballero of Royal Spain—a cavalier as intrepid, as brave, and as chivalrous as those of whom he was talking in his relation of Cuba’s history, and she could picture him in fancy leaving her for the conquest of a new world with her glove in his helmet and clear purpose and courage burning in his dark eyes.

“Those are glorious latitudes,” he was saying. “Warm, yet cool with the steady Trade wind forever blowing and ruffling the sea into little waves which sparkle in the dazzling sunlight. As the ship rushes along the schools of flying fish leap out almost from the curl of the bow wave, and with their wings glistening like mother-of-pearl in the sun they slip into the blue water again to be followed by another school. And those palms! I think the palm is a most beautiful tree! There is something graceful about them which delights the eye as they bend and sway to the wind with their fronds rustling and sighing in accompaniment to the murmur of the surf on the white sand beaches. It’s a rare tree, the palm, and the only trees which compare with them for beauty, in my mind, are our own Canadian spruce and pine.”

Ruth admitted to herself that she was in love with Donald then. But when he ceased talking and she lost the spell of his eyes and voice, cold reason would intervene and endeavour to stifle the feeling within her. “Love him! Love him! Love him!” Desire and the woman’s heart urged, but Reason came with a repressive “No! No!” and as she wavered between the two, Reason would conquer and Justice and Honor would murmur, “Play the game fairly. Tell him it cannot be!”

Cultured, handsome, brave, generous and all as he was, yet he was but a common fisherman, with but a bare and hazardous livelihood assured him. Love him, she might, but she knew she would not marry him as a fisherman, and he would not change his occupation. She admired the fishermen; she had listened, with her imagination thrilled, to tales of their adventurous existence, but ever since she was a little child she had shuddered at the thought of ever having a near one and a dear one following that hazardous vocation. She feared for her brother, Judson, and she would fear ten times more for the man she loved. The recent gale in which Donald had lost a man and seen another maimed for life; in which he himself had escaped death but narrowly, served to stiffen her determination. She could not marry him. She admitted she was a coward, but she could not bear the strain and anxiety of the days when her man was at sea. When she married, her husband would have to be near and to home.

At last Judson and Helena came in and interrupted their delightful tÊte-À-tÊte. They had been to a theatre and they burst into the parlor full of the recollections of a pleasurable show, and with their entry the conversation became general. Then they had some playing and singing, and when McKenzie prepared to depart he felt that the time was fast approaching when he would have to declare himself. Ruth’s attitude towards him gave him hope and he knew instinctively that he stood well in her estimation. This evening she had been particularly charming to him—not the charm of a hostess to a dear friend—but rather the charm of a woman in whose heart love was budding; that indefinable something, the touch of fingers, the fleeting glances and soft-spoken phrases which only lovers can understand, and McKenzie was quick to sense it.

In the darkened hallway she pressed close to him and her hair brushed his face, leaving a faint and indescribably sweet perfume in his nostrils. In the reflected light her rounded shoulders and head were faintly illuminated, and she became, to his imagination, a Venus of the shadows; a woman waiting to be caressed and loved unseen by prying eyes and desirous of keeping her affections secret. While he stood whispering to her the intoxication of her presence and the circumstances were causing his blood to pound through his veins. She, too, was fighting a tumult in her heart. “Love him!” urged Desire and the woman in her, but Reason’s icy hand repressed the inclination. She would have to decide soon—aye, even now. If she gave way...?

Walter Moodey’s face rose before her eyes. She’d have no reason to fear sea terrors with him. He was handsome, manly, generous ... and yet she had a deep feeling for this poor, brave, clean-hearted Scotch fisher-boy. But the sea ... the lonely nights. The hazardous livelihood ... the sweating toil of it. It was hard, terribly hard, but it could not be otherwise. A tremendous wave of sympathy swept over her and she found herself murmuring, “Don! Kiss me ... and go!”

She barely whispered the words, but the telepathy of love communicated their import to his quickened sensibilities and he crushed her to his breast. For a moment—a space of seconds charged with happiness supreme—he could feel the throbbing of her heart and her warm, soft body against his as their lips met in the age-old seal of love. Then, drunk with the sense of possession, with the intoxicating sensation of having held this glorious creature in his arms for a delicious and memorable portion of time, of having kissed her on that desirable mouth, he reeled away, feeling that he had reached the uttermost heights of visioned and desired joy.

When McKenzie left, Ruth immediately felt ashamed of her weakness and cringed mentally at the thought of her impulsive action. It was sympathy and a feeling which she could not control that spurred her to display her excess of emotion, and she knew that Donald had misinterpreted her true feelings towards him. She admired and respected him, but she did not love him enough to marry him. He had neither money nor prospects sufficient to give her what she expected and had been used to, and she was too much of a coward to become the wife of a fisherman. With Walter Moodey as her husband she would move in a sphere corresponding to her desires, tastes and ambition. With Donald McKenzie she would live as a house-drudge, solitary for long periods, uncertain as to the future for many years, and unable to enjoy and fraternize with the things and people she admired.

In her bedroom she lay in the dark and analyzed the spirit which urged her to the action which she was now repenting. It was purely sympathy—sympathy for a manly, clean-hearted young fellow who loved her and whom she would be putting on the rack within a short period when she accepted Walter Moodey. Moodey was in her class. He was handsome, clever, generous, courteous and a gentleman, and she thought she loved him. When he was with her she was sure of it, and it was only when she was alone and thinking of McKenzie that the little doubt came.

McKenzie’s voyage in the Alameda was the cause of his undoing. Ruth had heard the story from Judson and the horror of it had stiffened her determination to break off the dangerous intimacy with Donald. She laid awake the best part of the night a prey to conflicting emotions, and scheme after scheme ran through her mind like sheep racing through a pen gate. She would have to let McKenzie know the real state of affairs between them. To let him go away with the impression which he undoubtedly had, would be a torture to her conscience and self-respect. She would write him to Eastville the first thing in the morning and explain—but ... if the letter should not reach him before he sailed? Or again, if it did, how would he act? This caused her much speculative pain, and for a space, her reason refused to suggest an easier way. Harassed by her fears she ultimately decided to evade and postpone the day of reckoning with McKenzie. Walter had already proposed to her, but she had not given her answer. She would accept him and have him hasten the marriage ere Donald returned from the fishery in the fall, and by doing so she would be spared the necessity of making painful explanations and of living in the same locality with him.

Stampeded into this ruthless line of action, she tried to soothe her conscience that it was for the best. Next day she accepted Walter Moodey. The engagement was to be kept secret, and they were to marry in August.

Meantime, McKenzie was living in the seventh heaven of delight. His feet trod air and his head was in the clouds. In his mind, Ruth’s action gave her to him. They had sealed their pledge without words and she would become his wife on the asking. In his exhilaration of spirit he was not above feeling sorry for Moodey. “Poor chap,” he murmured. “I hope he don’t take it too hard, and may he get a girl as good as Ruth.” Happy, with love in his heart and a song on his lips McKenzie went to the Banks.

The Windrush “wet her gear” on the Western grounds most of the time, but the spring trip was a rough and windy one and fishing was below the average. Donald was anxious to make money—it was now an obsession with him—and Archie Surrette, his dory-mate, would curse his excess of zeal when he rolled, bone-tired, into his bunk o’ nights. “By Judas Priest!” he’d growl, “McKenzie’s killin’ me! I’m rushed from mornin’ to night. He don’t want to stop even to eat, an’ to-day, after we’d hauled an’ baited six tubs o’ gear agin’ that tide an’ wind an’ my back near busted an’ dark acomin’ and me wishin’ I wuz aboard and in me bunk, he says, ‘By gorry, Archie, if I had another bucket o’ bait I’d haul an’ spin ’em out again!’ I ups an’ says, says I, ‘Donald McKenzie! ef you have a mind to do that, ye kin put me aboard th’ vessel and ye kin take th’ dory yerself and spin ’em out agin, for I be damned ef I will!’”

And when the bait was finished and the schooner was heading for Eastville to land her spring catch, it was McKenzie who went to her wheel and swung her off as the skipper gave the course. “West Nor’West and drive her, you!”

“West Nor’West, and I’ll drive her! I’ll tear the mains’l off this peddler before she slacks her gait!” McKenzie grinned cheerfully. He was directing her course for home and Ruth, and in a moderate gale, with a tuck in the big mainsail, the Windrush was storming through the night with a bone in her teeth. Watch after watch came aft to relieve him, but he waved them away with a laugh. “Leave her to me, boys,” he shouted. “I’m a steersman and I’ll walk her along. If I leave her to some of you Jonahs, the wind’ll drop or come away a nose-ender!”

The for’ard gang christened him “Stormalong McKenzie” that night. In the weight of the breeze blowing the schooner commenced that peculiar leaping and plunging which indicates a “driven” vessel, and whole seas were coming over the bows and washing as far aft as the gurry-kid. In the forecastle the men lay in their bunks and listened to the continuous “barroombing” outside—the drumming of the bow-wave, the crashes of the water falling on deck and the swash and trickle across the planks overhead. Now and again she would swipe a big one and the jar of its impact against the bowsprit and the windlass above would douse the lamp screwed to the pawl-post; the anchor stock would thump against the bows, and the vessel would creak and groan in every straining timber.

Crash! A heavy thud and a rolling noise on deck as if huge boulders were being thrown along the planks. “He’s capsized th’ chain-box this time,” growled a nautical Sherlock Holmes from the depths of his bunk. Crash! Thud! Swish! Another comber aboard, and Sherlock remarked, “That one fetched agin th’ dories, I’ll bet. McKenzie’ll start somethin’ overboard afore long!” But the snores from the bunks proved that most of the gang were not worrying.

A nervous look-out man scrambled aft in the dark and shouted to Donald, “Th’ starb’d nest o’ dories is workin’ aft, Mac!” And the other, with a laugh, replied, “Don’t let that scare you, John! Get a gripe around their sterns and let me know when the windlass comes aft. Time enough then to shout!” And thus he drove her storming—a slugging twelve to fourteen knots throughout the night—and next morning, before the dawn, the light on Eastville Cape blinked them a homeward-bounder’s welcome.

Aye! ’Tis not always Boreas that drives a vessel into port; oft-times Cupid is more of a driver than the breezy god!

Donald surprised his mother just as she was bringing in a pail of milk from the little barn, and he also whirled her off her feet with the gladness of his welcome. Then he sat down to a breakfast such as seamen dream about—not that they didn’t fare well on the Windrush, but much seafaring provender comes out of cans and salt brine, and fresh milk, eggs and vegetables can be appreciated after weeks of preserved food.

“Ruth Nickerson is home,” observed the mother, well aware of the importance of her announcement even though Donald had skilfully concealed from her all ideas of serious intentions. Mother’s instincts are keen, however, especially where love and another woman is concerned, and she smiled to herself at Don’s look of false surprise and his careless “Is that so? And how is she?” Just as if he wasn’t dying to know if she were home!

“I think Mr. Moodey and Helena Stuart are down here also,” she went on. Another time, this announcement of Moodey’s presence in Eastville would have given him a sinking feeling, but now he could afford to be generous. He didn’t mind poor Moodey. Jolly good of him to stick around and keep Ruth company. Fine chap, Moodey! The mother continued, “I heard something about them having a picnic down to Salvage Island to-day. The young people of the church have chartered the packet steamer for the trip. They’re to start about eleven.”

“A picnic?” ejaculated Donald. “Oho! I’d like to get in on that. Wonder if Jud’ll be going?” He had scarcely finished speaking before Captain Nickerson appeared in the kitchen door. After greeting Mrs. McKenzie he said to Donald, “The church folk are having a picnic cruise to Salvage Island—clam bake and all that sort of thing—and I reckon I’ll go. Will you come along? The boys’ll get the fish out and the stores aboard, and we’ll pull out day after to-morrow. You’ll be with us? Right! Meet me at our house. The packet’ll pull out at eleven.”

He had departed but a few minutes when Caleb Heneker walked up. He was evidently in a fix about something by the manner in which he hustled up to the house. “Is yer son araound, Mrs. McKenzie?” he enquired. “Want to see him particular. H’ard he got in this mornin’.” And when Donald appeared the old man got to business right away.

“I’ve got the schooner Amy Anderson loaded with dry fish for San Juan, Porty Reek, and th’ skipper I had for her has gone raound to Annapolis to take a three-master. Naow, I’m stuck. I can’t git a man I kin trust to take my vessel daown, and I’ve come to see ef you’d go in her. I’ve got to git her away right naow—she’s three weeks late already—and I got a cable this mornin’ sayin’ ef th’ cargo don’t leave within’ twenty-four hours they’ll refuse th’ shipment. Kin you go?”

Donald was rather taken back. “How about my fishing?” he enquired. “I couldn’t leave Captain Nickerson short a man, and, also, I doubt if it would pay me to leave the Windrush to go West India freighting.”

Heneker waved his handkerchief to cool himself. “That’s all right,” he answered quickly, “I saw Judson Nickerson just naow and he says he’s agreeable for you to go. It’s easier to git fishermen than skippers and in this case I’m willin’ to pay you as much as what you’d make afishin’. That’s square, ain’t it?”

McKenzie nodded. He was in a quandary and couldn’t make up his mind right away. They might make a big stock fishing and he knew that Caleb couldn’t pay on the basis of a high-line trip for a West Indian run. Then after he came back he might have to kick around idle. He wanted to think the matter over, but Caleb insisted on an answer one way or the other. Mrs. McKenzie had been saying nothing, and to her the wily Heneker turned, “Best for him to take my offer, ma’am,” he observed. “She’s a fine big hundred an’ twenty-five-ton schooner—a noo vessel—and it’s better to be a captain than a fisherman. Besides, I’m agoin’ to give him a vessel to skipper afishin’ next season.” The old pride was working in Janet’s mind and she thought of the “captain” part of it. Donald was, in her opinion, more suited for master than fisherman, and besides, hadn’t Mr. Heneker offered to make his money as much as if he were fishing?

“I think, Don, Mr. Heneker is right,” she said, “Captain Nickerson is willing for you to go and he can easily get another man to fill your place.”

Donald rose to his feet. “I’ll go, Mr. Heneker,” he said quickly. “I’ll get my gear aboard this morning—you’ll loan me a sextant—and I’ll get out with the early tide after midnight——”

“Can’t ye go out this afternoon?” queried the vessel owner.

“No!” said the other decisively, thinking of Ruth and the picnic. “I must have a few hours ashore. I’ve been two months at sea and just got in. I’ll take her out at two in the morning if she’s ready.”

Caleb rose to go. “Right, son,” he said. “And don’t be scared to drive her. That fish must be got down there quick. I want to hold the business and avoid payin’ another insurance on it. You’ll either load molasses or salt home. The agents’ll give you instructions.”

After he left Donald shed his sea clothes, bathed, shaved and dressed, and glanced over a number of picture post cards from Joak McGlashan who had gone home to Glasgow for a visit. McGlashan was having a six months’ holiday after six years absence from home, and by the addresses from whence the cards came he was having a time and a half. “I’ll be back in time to go to the West Indies with you in the fall,” he wrote. “Hope you have good fishing and high line stocks this summer. Am enjoying myself, but I like the Canadian weather better than this. It’s aye raining here.”

About half-past ten he took leave of his mother and went to the Nickerson home. As he stepped up to the door his heart was pounding like a sledge-hammer against his ribs, and he felt pleasurably excited at the thought of seeing Ruth again after two months’ absence. The memory of that farewell in Halifax was still vivid, and he hoped, ere he sailed for Porto Rico, that he would be fortunate enough to have such another delightful valedictory moment with the girl of his heart.

She came to the door at his knock, and Donald noticed, with something of a shock, the half-fearful look in her eyes when she greeted him. She was pale and her hand was feverishly hot when she received his cordial clasp. “You’re a little pale,” he remarked in anxious concern. “Are you feeling all right, Ruth?” She led the way nervously into the parlor. “Oh, I’m all right,” she replied. “It’s the warm weather, I guess, and rushing around to get ready for the picnic. And how have you been?”

They sat and talked for a while, but to Ruth the conversation was an ordeal. She answered and remarked mechanically while her sub-conscious mind was thinking of the cruel duplicity which she was practising on the young fellow beside her. His eyes told her, too eloquently, of the manner in which he regarded her. She could see that and she looked forward to the day’s excursion with dread. It was too late now to withdraw from going, and she felt that the fateful hour was coming and it might as well be elsewhere as in her own home. By nature, open-hearted and free from deceit, it was terribly hard for her to dissemble her feelings, and for the past two months her thoughts had been whirling around like a chip in an eddy. In the quiet of the night Donald’s handsome tanned face, with its large dark eyes, would keep constantly coming before her in spite of all her efforts to eradicate all thoughts of him from mind and heart.

She was secretly engaged to Walter, and when he was with her she felt composed and happy, though, strangely enough, in all her intimate moments with him she had never been thrilled as she had been with McKenzie the night he bade her good-bye in Halifax. Walter had kissed her at the moment of their engagement, but there was something lacking on her part. She could not respond to his warm embrace and caress, and she thought it was because of her mind being troubled with the deception she was forced to play on McKenzie. When she gazed at the handsome, confident young sailor seated beside her, a strange yearning filled her—a desire for something she did not know—but when her feelings were becoming distraught, cold reason calmed them by bringing up her self-imposed axiom that she would not, and could not, marry a fisherman, nor exist as a fisherman’s wife.

Moodey came in, and after a puzzled glance at Donald and Ruth—a lightning glance with just a hint of jealousy in it—he thrust forth his hand and greeted McKenzie cordially. “I’m glad to see you again, Mac,” he said warmly. “You’re looking fine and dandy, by Jove, and as hard as nails. Going to the picnic with us? Good! We’ll have a jolly good time.” Donald returned the greeting with equal cordiality—the more so as he felt some regret for Moodey. A fine chap, Moodey, he thought. The affectation and swank of college days had been toned down, but he was still a little “uppish” with others not in his exact social scale.

With Helena Stuart and Judson making a party all to themselves, the other three walked down to the steamer. Ruth walked between them, outwardly care-free and as charming as ever, but torn in heart and mind with a dread of the day’s possible events.

Promptly at eleven the steamer, with a party of seventy-five young men and women aboard, cast off and proceeded down the harbor. It was a fine warm day and the sea was smooth, but in the pilot-house Captain Eben Westhaver was worrying. To Judson he confided his fears. “It’s a nice day naow, cap’en, but look at th’ glass and that brassy-lookin’ sky to th’ south’ard. Not that we need worry ’bout a summer squall in this able packet, but it ain’t pleasant picnicking in wind an’ rain, an’ we don’t want t’ have a crowd o’ sea-sick wimmen aboard.”

The other laughed scornfully. “Wall, naow, ef that ain’t a coaster talking my name ain’t Nickerson! Judas Priest! There never was a shore-ranger yet but what didn’t go to sea with one eye on the barometer and another off to wind’ard. Ye seem to hop ’tween harbor and harbor dodgin’ every little breeze and scared to death of a bit of cloud. What if the barometer is low? I’ve seen it fall often-times and nawthing happen. Tcha! Go ahead and don’t be such an old woman!”

They landed on the Island about one and had a most glorious dinner. Then some of the young men remained to prepare for the clam-bake supper, and others, boys and girls, broke off into groups and roamed around in the woods or along the sandy beaches. Judson and Helena vanished, leaving Ruth, Walter and Donald together.

“I’m going to have a swim,” said Moodey. “I brought my suit along. How about it, Mac?”

Donald made a negative gesture. “Have no swimming gear,” he said.

“I can get you a suit from some of the others. Come on in.”

Ruth, dreading to be left alone with Donald, added her plea to Moodey’s. “Yes, Donald, why don’t you go? Let me see you and Walter have a race.”

McKenzie laughed. “I can’t swim very much and besides I’m not stuck on bathing in these waters. Too cold for me.”

Moodey gave a half sneer as he remarked, “I should have thought you sailors could stand anything in that line. I haven’t pounded ice off a ship’s rigging or doubled Cape Horn, but I’ve gone in swimming at the North West Arm in Halifax in winter. Well, since you’re not coming, take care of Ruth. I’m off.”

When he went, McKenzie felt that his opportunity had come. With his heart pounding rapidly, he said, “Ruth, let’s walk up under the trees. We can sit down and watch Walter swimming from there.”

Dreading the coming minutes she was about to dissent, but something beyond her control compelled her to follow him. Seated under the trees, she sat dumbly waiting, and with her eyes looking far off to sea. Gazing into her face, Donald took her hand and she made no resistance.

“Ruth,” he said very quietly, and in the tone of his voice there was a nervous tremor. “You made me very happy that night I left you in Halifax.” He paused as if expecting a sympathetic response, but none came. Ruth felt her heart pounding as if it would choke her. He continued slowly and in the same nervous low tone. “You know, girlie”—she winced at the term—“I loved you ever since we first met four years ago, and—and since that night in Halifax I’ve been thinking of you night and day.” He wanted to say a great deal more but words failed. He drew a deep breath, and gazing intently at her slowly paling face, he said simply, “Ruth, darling, I love you. Will you marry me?”

The moment had come! Ruth made an effort to regain her composure. Not daring to look at his face, she slowly withdrew her hand from his and replied in a faint whisper, which seemed, to her strained imagination, to echo inside of her, “I—I can’t!”

Donald gave a slight start. Her shoulder was against his and she felt it. It seemed to have temporarily bereft him of speech. After a pause, which to Ruth seemed an eternity, he asked quietly, “Why, Ruth?”

She lost her composure for a moment and felt like crying, but regaining her self-control, answered in the same barely audible voice, “I’m already engaged.”

“Engaged? To whom?” The quiet question held a note of intense surprise. Astounded, uncomprehending, McKenzie stared at her averted face in a daze.

She almost choked as she replied, “To Walter!”

It seemed an age before he spoke again, but when he did the tremor was more noticeable, though there was no anger in the tone, but instead, a note of astonishment. “Why, Ruth, how can that be? Don’t you love me?”

Still looking away from him; not daring to look at his face, she shook her head and murmured, “No, Donald!”

“I don’t believe it!” His words came quick and there was no tremor in his voice. Catching her hand again, he gripped it in his strong fingers, and repeated. “I don’t believe it!” Then with appeal in his tones, he added, “Look into my eyes, Ruth, and tell me that! I don’t—I can’t—believe it ... after that night!”

Her resolution was wavering, but cold reason was saying insistently, “If you give way now you’ll surrender to him. You’ll be a fisherman’s wife. You’ll live in a cottage and keep a home for a man who’ll be with you but seldom. You’ll lie awake nights worrying about him. You’ll not be able to enjoy the things you desire and admire. You may love ... but love flies out of the window when poverty comes in at the door. Your culture, your education will be thrown away, and some day, maybe, you’ll be standing in your cottage door with a child in your arms and there’ll be a vessel coming in with a half-masted flag ... and some man will be saying to you, ‘Aye, your husband was lost at sea!’” She shuddered at the thought and steeled her heart. She would not look into his eyes. If she did so, she would waver, she knew. She cared for him more than she thought, and her heart was breaking.

“No, Donald, I—I like you very, very much, but I can’t ... will not ... marry you!”

Still grasping her hand, he asked huskily, “Do you mean that, Ruth?” She answered with a nod, but wishing to hear it from her own lips he repeated. “Do you mean that, Ruth?”

“Yes!”

He released her hand quickly and rose to his feet. Straightening himself up to his full height he squared his shoulders, and with moisture glistening on his forehead, turned and gazed at her. It was his Gethsemane, this spot, and the pain in his heart showed in his eyes. The girl sat on the grass with averted face, nervously tearing a spring flower to shreds. “Ruth,” he said at last in a voice charged with emotion, “With the exception of my mother, you’ve shaken my faith in women forever. Good-bye!” The farewell came from his lips like the snap of a whip, and when she raised her tear-filled eyes, it was to see him striding through the woods with his head high and his shoulders square.

When he vanished in the greenery, she gave a queer little sob and commenced to cry. For a minute she gave way to her pent-up emotions, and only when she saw Walter coming out of the sea did she arise and run back to a little stream in the woods. Bathing her eyes in the cool water, she coaxed the evidences of tears from her face and tried to console herself that the ordeal was over. But in her heart of hearts she knew that it was just beginning.