"No. Jim sleeps next to him, and he is preparing for bed, now." She smiled. "What a darling my brother is, isn't he, Mr. Marche?" "He's a fine boy." They moved on together, down the rutted lane, between dismantled fences and ragged, leafless hedges. She was lithe and light and sure footed, but once or twice, as they skirted puddles, he supported her; and the touch of his hand on her body almost unnerved him. Never had he dreamed that contact with any woman could so thrill, so exquisitely shock. And every instant he was falling deeper and deeper in love with her. He knew it--realized it--made no effort to avoid it, fight it off, control it. It was only his speech and manner that he held desperately under bit and curb, letting his heart go to everlasting smash and his reason run riot. And what on earth would be the end he could not imagine, for he was leaving for the North in the morning, and he had not yet told her. As they came out upon the shore, the dory loomed up, beached, a dark silhouette against the starlit water. She laid her hands on the stern and vaulted lightly to her perch, sliding along to make room for Marche. From far away in the sound came the confused murmur of wild fowl feeding. Except for that, and the ceaseless monotone of the outer sea, there was no sound, not even the lap of water against the bow. Marche, who had been leaning forward, head bent as though watching the water, turned to the girl abruptly. "I want to do something for--Jim," he said. The girl looked up at him, not understanding. "Will your father let me?" "I don't know what you mean." "I mean that I want to send him to a good school--a good boys' school in the North." She caught her breath, was silent for a moment, then, amazed: "_Would_ you do that? Oh, I've wished for it--dreamed of it! But--how can you? You are so kind--so good to us--but how could we--accept?" "That's why I want to see your father." "For _that_! Was it really for that, Mr. Marche?" "Yes--partly." He swallowed and looked the other way, for the girl's excited face was very near his own as she bent forward to search his eyes for the least change of expression--bent nearer as though to reassure herself that he meant it seriously. For an instant her soft breath made the night air fragrant; he felt it, faint and fresh on his cheek, and turned sharply, biting his lips lest he lose all self-control. "Could you and your father spare him?" he asked carelessly. "Oh, if you only would give him that chance!" she cried. "But--tell me--_how_ can we accept such a thing of you? Is it possible?" "Would _you_ accept it?" he asked, turning toward her. The question startled her. She looked at him, striving to think clearly, trying to see this offered miracle through calm, impartial eyes. "I--I would do anything--almost--for Jim," she said. "I'd have no pride left, if his chances lay in the balance. But men--my father--may be different."