As he sat, sadly looking at the evening shadows reflected in the river, every circumstance connected with his intimacy with Minnie came to his mind with an interpretation different from that it had borne before. Her pretty fancy of the shell, which he had thought of often as a childish conceit bore a different meaning now. Tender looks and simple acts, which had pleased him at the time, gathered strength, and became more than tokens of mere friendship. Child as she was when he first went to sea, he recognized now that she had more than the strength of a child; that even then, indeed, she was almost a woman. When he came back, a man, she had saved his life; and when he thanked her for it--surely he could do no less!--she told him that she did not want thanks, for the having saved his life would ever be her sweetest remembrance. "Little Minnie, little Minnie," he had said, kissing her, "thank you for your devotion." He remembered that she trembled, and that something like a sob escaped her when he had kissed her. Had he done wrong? Was he to blame? All he had done had been innocently done, as from a brother to a sister. And her feelings were known to others when they had been hidden from him. Minnie's secret was known to her father and to Susan. That was the reason why Basil Kindred had questioned him so strangely, and had told him the story of his life. Words uttered by Basil, which had borne no direct signification when they were spoken, came to him now with startling vividness. "Young men are often thoughtless in their actions," Basil had said; "they do not know the depth and earnestness of some womanly natures." The revelation that had come to him served also to account for Susan's singular conduct that very morning. "So," he thought; "they believe I have been playing with Minnie's feelings; and both of them have condemned me. And I at the same time engaged to Ellen! It is too dreadful to think of. What can I do? Oh, what can I do?"