“No,—not purposely. And if you did, it’s over now. You have rejected me. I understand that. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t. And I can hold my tongue.” He did not turn, but looked steadily past her at the boat’s head. An emotion stirred in her breast which took the form of a reproach. “Was it fair, then, to say this when neither of us could escape afterwards?” “I didn’t mean to speak,” he said, without looking up, “and I never meant to place you where you couldn’t escape.” It was true that she had proposed to go with him in the boat, and that she had chosen to come back with him, when he had offered to have her driven home from Leyden. “No, you are not to blame,” she said, at last. “I asked to some with you. Shall I tell you why?” Her voice began to break. In her pity for him and her shame for herself the tears started to her eyes. She did not press her question, but, “Thank you for reminding me that I invited myself to go with you,” she said, with feeble bitterness. He looked up at her in silent wonder, and she broke into a sob. He said gently, “I don’t suppose you expect me to deny that. You don’t think me such a poor dog as that.” “Why, of course not,” she answered, with quivering lips, while she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. “I was only too glad to have you come. I always meant to tell you—what I have told; but not when I should seem to trap you into listening.” “No,” she murmured, “I can believe that of you. I do believe it. I take back what I said. Don’t let us speak of it any more now,” she continued, struggling for her lost composure, with what success appeared in the fresh outburst with which she recognized his forbearance to hint at any painfulness to himself in the situation. “I don’t mind it so much on my account, but oh! how _could_ you for your own sake? _Do_ let us get home as fast as we can!” “I am doing everything I can to release you,” he said. “If you will sit here,” he added, indicating the place beside him in the stern, “you won’t have to change so much when I want to tack.” She took the other seat, and for the first time she noticed that the wind had grown very light. She watched him with a piteous impatience while he shifted the sail from side to side, keeping the sheet in his hand for convenience in the frequent changes. He scanned the sky, and turned every current of the ebbing tide to account. It was useless; the boat crept, and presently it scarcely moved. “The wind is down,” he said, making the sheet fast, and relaxing his hold on the tiller. “And—And the tide is going out!” she exclaimed. “The tide is going out,” he admitted. “If we should get caught on these flats,” she began, with rising indignation. “We should have to stay till the tide turned.” She looked wildly about for aid. If there were a row-boat anywhere within hail, she could be taken to Jocelyn’s in that. But they were quite alone on those lifeless waters.