"But you don't know much about the water, do you?" "I've never seen the sea till to-day," said Helen slowly. He laughed a little. "I expect you've seen enough of it to-day. But where do you live, then, that you've never seen the sea? In the middle of the earth?" "No," said Helen, "I live in a mill." His eyelids flickered. "Do you? Yes, of course you do. I might have guessed it." "How should you guess it?" "By your blue dress," said the man. Then he fainted. She sat there miserably, waiting, ready to prop him if he fell. She did not know what else to do. Before very long he opened his eyes. "Did I go off again?" he asked. She nodded. "Yes. Well, it's time to be making a move. I dare say I can now you're here. What's your name?" "Helen." "Well, Helen, we'd better put that rope to some use. Will that tree at the other end hold?" "Yes." "Then just you untie yourself and we'll get aboard and haul ourselves home." She unfastened the rope from her body, and helped him down to her makeshift boat. "You take the paddle," he said. "My arm's damaged. But I can pull on the rope with the other." "Are you sure? Are you all right? What's your name?" "Yes, I can manage. My name's Peter. This would have been a lark thirty years ago, wouldn't it? It's rather a lark now." She nodded vaguely, wondering what she would do if he fell off the log in mid-water. "Suppose you faint again?" "Don't look for trouble," said the man. "Push off, now." Pulling and paddling they got to the bank. He took her helping-hand up it, and she saw by his movements that he was very feeble. He leaned on her as they went back to the mill; they walked without speaking. When they reached the door Peter said, "It's twenty years since I was here, but I expect you don't remember." "Oh, yes," said Helen, "I remember." "Do you now?" said Peter. "It's funny you should remember." And with that he did faint again. And this time when he recovered he was in a fever. His staying-power was gone. She put him to bed and nursed him. She sat day and night in his room, doing by instinct what was right and needful. At first he lay either unconscious or delirious. She listened to his incoherent speech in a sort of agony, as though it might contain some clue to a riddle; and sat with her passionate eyes brooding on his countenance, as though in that too might lie the answer. But if there was one, neither his words nor his face revealed it. "When he wakes," she whispered to herself, "he'll tell me. How can there be barriers between us any more?" After three days he came to himself. She was sitting by the window preparing sheep's-wool for her spindle. She bent over her task, using the last of the light, which fell upon her head. She did not know that he was conscious, or had been watching her, until he spoke. "Your hair used to be quite brown, didn't it?" he said. "Nut-brown." She started and turned to him, and a faint flush stained her cheeks.