“Tell him that I have gone to take a long walk, and he is not to wait dinner for me.” “And when shall I say you’ll be back, Miss Glo’?” “You needn’t tell him when, for I don’t know myself.” “Well, so as you gets back ’fore sun-down, I s’pose marse will be satisfied,” said the unsuspicious girl, as she resumed her rubbing of the brass knob then under her hand. Gloria then left the house to hasten on her mad errand. She walked rapidly, like one still acting under a high pressure of excitement. She reached the boat-house, which was no longer kept locked. She passed through it and went out upon the beach, for it was now low tide. There she found a little boat that she had sometimes been in the habit of rowing, near the shore. Now she got into it, put down her hand-bag and her muff, unhooked the boat-chain and threw it ashore, took the oar and pushed the boat off the sands, then seated herself and rowed for the little sandy island. The water was perfectly smooth, and her arms were braced by a strange, tense resolve. She sped swiftly over the intervening half mile, and in ten minutes reached her destination. She drew in her oar, and using it as a pole, struck it into the sands and pushed the boat up on the beach. Then she picked up her hand-bag and muff and sprang ashore. For a moment she stood still, looking all around for a chance sight of David Lindsay; for maddened as she was at this moment, there was “method” enough in that “madness” to make her unwilling to go on to the cottage and meet the placid, steady, conscientious Dame Lindsay. She soon descried the young fisherman. He was standing on the shore at some distance, bending over an upturned boat, engaged in repairing it. His position prevented him from seeing, and the sound of his own hammer from hearing her approach, of which he remained quite unconscious even when she stood by his side. She had nerved herself for the trial before her, yet now it seemed as if all the blood had forsaken her extremities and curdled about her heart, so pallid was her face. She stood for a moment at his side while he continued to hammer industriously at his work, quite unconscious of her presence, until she spoke to him in a low tone. “David Lindsay.” He started, dropped his hammer, turned, took off his hat, and stood waiting her commands. He had not seen her since the morning after he had saved her life, and now he was too much amazed at her sudden appearance on the isle to find any word by which to welcome her. He could merely wait for her to make known the object of her visit. For some moments she too continued silent. It seemed to her that it must take her life to utter the words which she had come resolved to speak, and with which this story opened: “David Lindsay, will you marry me?” It is not necessary to go over any part of that scene already related. It must be still fresh in the minds of our readers.