“In three days more, Florence,” said he gravely, “it will be exactly two years since we sailed here all alone. Those two years have been to me like a long, long life, so much of danger and trouble and suffering have been compassed in them. Were I to tell you all, you’d own that few men could have borne my burden without being crushed by it. It was not death in any common shape that I confronted; but I must not speak of this. What I would say is, that through all the perils I passed, one image floated before me--one voice was in my ear. It was yours.” “Dear Harry, let me implore you not to go back to these things.” “I must, Florence--I must,” said he, still more sadly. “If I pain you, it is only your fair share of suffering.” “My fair share! And why?” “For this reason. When I knew you first, I was a worn-out, weary, heart-sick man of the world. Young as I was, I was weary of it all; I thought I had tasted of whatever it had of sweet or bitter. I had no wish to renew my experiences. I felt there was a road to go, and I began my life-journey without interest, or anxiety or hope. You taught me otherwise, Florence; you revived the heart that was all but cold, and brought it back to life and energy; you inspired me with high ambitions and noble desires; you gave confidence where there had been distrust, and hope where there had been indifference.” “There, there!” cried she, eagerly; “there comes another squall. You must take the helm; I am getting frightened.” “You are calmer than I am, Florence dearest. Hear me out. Why, I ask you--why call me back to an existence which you intended to make valueless to me? Why ask me to go a road where you refuse to journey?” “Do come here! I know not what I am doing. And see, it grows darker and darker over yonder!” “You steered me into stormier waters, and had few compunctions for it. Hear me out, Florence. For you I came back to a life that I ceased to care for; for you I took on me cares, and dangers, and crosses, and conquered them all; for you I won honours, high rewards, and riches, and now I come to lay them at your feet, and say, ‘Weigh all these against the proofs of that other man’s affection. Put into one scale these successes, won alone for _you_; these trials, these wounds--and into the other some humdrum letters of that good-enough creature, who is no more worthy of _you_ than he has the courage to declare it.’” As he spoke a clap of thunder, sharp as a cannon-shot broke above their heads, and a squall struck the boat aloft, bending her over till she half filled with water, throwing at the same time the young girl from her place to the lee-side of the boat. Lifting her up, Calvert placed her on the seat, while he supported her with one arm, and with the other hand grasped the tiller. “Is there danger?” whispered she faintly. “No, dearest, none. I’ll bale out the water when the wind lulls a little. Sit close up here, and all will be well.”