He said slowly: "Suppose I offered the same chance to you?" "What!" she said crisply. "Suppose I offered you a college finishing, Miss Herold. Would you accept?" She slowly grew scarlet under his gaze. "That would be insulting," she said, in a low voice. "Why, when only kindness is meant--as I mean it for Jim?" "It is not the same. I am a grown woman capable of caring for myself. Such an offer, however kindly meant, could only hurt me, humiliate me--and--I thought you found me companionable as I am. Friends do not offer to better each other--in such a way." "I have not offered it to you, Miss Herold." She looked up, still flushed and brilliant eyed; then her face changed softly. "I know it. I was foolishly sensitive. I know you couldn't offer such a thing to me. But I wish I knew whether we could accept for Jim. He is such a darling--so intelligent and perfectly crazy for an education. I've saved a little--that's why I wanted you to hire me for your bayman. You see I don't spend anything on myself," she added, with a blush. Marche was fighting hard for self-restraint; he was young and romantic, and his heart was very full. "What I'd like to do," he said, "would be to send Jim to some first-rate school until he is ready for college. Then I'd like to see him through college, and, if he cared for it, start him with me in business." "Oh," she cried softly, "is it possible! Is there--can any man really do such heavenly things? Have you any idea what you are saying? Do you realize what you are doing to me--with every word you utter?" "What am I doing to--to you?" he asked unsteadily. "Making me your slave," she said, in a low voice, thrilling with generous passion. "Even for the thought--even if father will not accept--what you have said to me to-night has put me in your debt forever. Truly--truly, I know what friendship is, now." She clasped her hands tightly and said something else, sweetly incoherent; and, in the starlight, Marche saw the tears sparkling on her lashes. With that he sprang nervously to the shore and began to tramp up and down the shingle, his mind in a whirl, every sense, common or the contrary, clamoring for finality--urging him to tell her the truth--tell her that he loved her, that he wanted her--her alone, out of all the world of women--that it was for love and for her, and for love of her, that he offered anything, did anything, thought anything now under the high stars or under the circling sun. And now, as he tramped savagely to and fro, he realized that he had begun wrong; that he should have told her he loved her first of all, and then acted, not promised.