One afternoon, when he had taken these perplexities for another airing, he fell as it were into an April daydream by the river, leaning both elbows on the quarter-deck rail. Along the verge, and scattered among the rotten planks, peeped the russet tops of young fiddle-head ferns, which to his brooding eyes seemed almost visibly to uncurl, as a kitten’s paws uncurl, intense with drowsy and voluptuous life. Pale blades of grass were tenderly thrusting upward from edges of the warm rocks. And yet a damp scent of last year’s leaves, that perished slowly in the hollows, sternly and wholesomely reminded him how the world cherishes to destroy, and destroys to cherish infinitely. Solemnity closed down upon him, while still a kind of beatific spell ran through his veins. For a long time, and for no cause, he recalled only the winter night when they had leaned together on the rail, watching. By strong effort, at last, he denied this memory, repulsed this longing, and cleared the decks of his mind. “I must go away.” He fell back on the promise doggedly. And the thought was like lead in his shoes, that once would have winged them. “As quick as summer comes, and Ella can tend lamps, I’m off. That’s the plain course--” Voices were coming, at the first sound of which he sprang upright. Through the evergreen wall pierced the quick utterance of Tony, angrily imploring. “Treat me this way, like dirt?” he was urging. “And all because a fellow likes you, and tells you so? Honestly, I mean it, Anna. And what right have I given you to think--” “Right!” The girl’s voice also trembled, but as though with helpless fury. “What right have _you_ to hunt and drive me like--like--Oh! And I was coming here just to be rid of you!” “You can’t, my dear,” said the other, cajoling. “You can’t, and that’s a fact. Come now--” A cry echoed among the evergreens as in an empty room. “Go back, I hate the sight of you! Go back and let me alone! I wish I was a man, to kill you!” Miles had sprung to the path among the firs. It widened before him into a little alley of green shadows, where the girl stood facing Tony, her hand raised to strike. As Miles broke through upon them, she wheeled with the same look, the same cry, as when he had rowed out to her in the fog. The sailor fell back. The malignant flush that darkened his face was new and ugly; and yet in his eyes a conflicting change, still more new and lighted with a saving honesty, continued to blaze. If his anger were black as smoke, through it flickered some higher emotion. “Hiding in the bushes?” he sneered. “You seem fond of that.” Miles found himself unexpectedly at high tension. “It’s my own shore!” he cried, choking. “You be off!” He had run in close. They seemed on the point of clinching, when the girl darted between them, and with a swiftness that had the effect of strength, caught Miles by the arm, and flung Tony staggering backwards.