Florence removed her rings, and, dropping her hand over the low rail, let it trail through the dark-green water, alive with the shivering reflections of the bank verdure. The boat glided beneath the old wooden bridge at the boulevard beginning, and two small boys who were fishing from the weather-stained structure forgot their lines to watch the passage of the silent craft. Further on, the current ran more swiftly and Jack ceased paddling, relaxed, steered merely. They talked of many things in the stillness. Now and then they were moved to outbursts of sentiment occasioned by the beauty of the hills and the little surprises of charm that nature, at each curve of the wandering stream, brought into view. Overhead, feathery clouds, almost opalescent, floated in a turquoise sky; and the breeze that was wafted across the hills kissed cool their faces. Florence drew in her dripping hand and dried it on her handkerchief. The sun was obscured and she closed the blue parasol. Finally she said: "Jack--Jack dear--why did you do it?" She did not lift her eyes as she spoke, but, rather, regarded the tip of her parasol, pressed against the toe of one little patent-leather slipper. "What?" he asked calmly; so calmly that she could not tell whether he were dissembling ignorance of her meaning. "You understand," she said--"last night----" "How do you know?" he exclaimed suddenly; but before she could reply he added, gently, "I'm sorry--I'm dead sorry!" She was moved to lift her eyes by the note of contrition in his voice. Her lips parted the least bit over her teeth and she smiled. "How--how could you, dear?" she went on; "after--after--that night. I've been thinking about it all day. I didn't mean to mention it at first--but--but--I couldn't help it. You don't really like to do such things; do you, Jack? There, I know you don't. It's just what they call--spirits--I suppose----" He laughed aloud, and his laugh was echoed back across the river. "Yes," he cried, gleefully--"that's it--_spirits_!" She glanced up at him reprovingly. "You know I didn't mean that. I don't think you should laugh. But Jack dear,"--she gazed steadily, soberly, at him now--"you won't do it any more, will you?" He did not answer. "Can't you promise me, Jack--_me_?" she asked, tenderly. Long afterward she recalled to him that instant of hesitation before he replied. "I promise," he exclaimed, finally, with a brave note of resolution in his voice. She sighed and settled back more comfortably among the cushions. "I knew you would," she said. After a moment: "Do you care so very--so very, very much?" he asked. "Of course I do," she answered, quite gaily. "Why?" The eagerness in his voice startled her. It may have been that which induced the little tremor she felt pass over her. She closed her eyes as he, leaning forward, watched her. "Dearest--dearest," she heard him whisper; "is it because--because----"