“Merrythought,” a powerful hunter Basil had given her on her last birthday, was sagely picking his way, and was both shocked and amazed when a sudden violent pull at the reins brought him almost to his haunches just as he was enfilading the broader sandy road along the beach. Marguerite jumped, and as she jumped she tore at the fastenings of her skirt, kicking off her boots and leaving “Merrythought” to shift for himself all at one and the same time. Then she ran--ran as she had never run before, to meet the incoming waves. Already several cable-lengths from shore, her own canoe--a slight affair of canvas and whalebone--unsinkable, so it was claimed--was tossing violently up and down in the trough, and in the canoe sat Piotr, rigid as a statue, holding in front of him little Pavlo. “God give me strength!” she prayed, as she flung herself into the water and swam in long, regular strokes, rising to each successive surge, putting out all the force that was in her. “God grant that I can be in time!” she implored, feeling how slowly she was overhauling that fine-weather toy, so buoyant and so light! Piotr, his back to her, had not seen her yet, and while on the top of a long wave she shouted to him to row back, for she guessed that the tiny oars were still fastened inside the little craft, and knew that he could manage it if he were so minded. But he did not hear, and she lost sight of him as she slid down a slope of green water, her hair in her eyes, her arms stiffening in her supreme efforts to be quick, only quick! The sun between two clouds was--it seemed to her a minute later--winking ironically at her plight. She felt dizzy and sick with the agony she was going through; she, even she, the best swimmer on the coast! She rose again, sparing her breath, and all of a sudden she found herself close to the canoe, balanced on the crest of a wave. With a desperate clutch of her right arm she seized hold of its flimsy gunwale and hung on. Piotr saw the little hand, gave a startled yell and let go of the baby, who tumbled to the bottom of the narrow boat. How she controlled Piotr at that moment, how she succeeded in piloting the canoe--into which she could not climb for fear of upsetting it and its precious cargo--to the shore, Marguerite never knew. All she remembered was what looked to her like a crowd waist-deep in the foam, pulling her and her boys to dry land, and later, much later, the arms of Basil around her as she lay on some soft couch, trying her best to swallow something strong and hot that the old doctor was holding to her lips. * * * * * “Never! Never again! I know you never will, my poor darling!” It was Marguerite, four days later, speaking to Piotr--a little pale shadow of himself, with big hollows under his eyes--kneeling at her feet.