“It's really quite satisfactory,” she continued, eating; “It's like the rest of this--unreal.... What is your name?” she demanded unexpectedly. “Elim Meikeljohn.” “That's a very Northern sort of name.” “It would be hard to come by one more so,” he agreed. “It's from the highlands of Scotland.” “Then if you don't mind, I'll think of you as Scotch right now.” He conveyed to her the fact that he didn't. “Look!” she exclaimed. “There's the morning!” A thin gray streak widened across the east. Almost immediately the night dissolved. They were sweeping down the middle of a river that surprised Elim with its width and majesty. The withdrawn banks bore clustered trees, undulating green reached inland, the shaded facades of houses sat back on lawns that dipped to the stream. Rosemary Roselle's face was pale with fatigue; her eyes appeared preternaturally large; and this, for Elim, made her charm infinitely more appealing. She smoothed her dress, touched her hair with light fingers. The intimacy of it all thrilled him. A feeling of happy irresponsibility deepened. He lost sight of the probable unhappiness of tomorrow, the catastrophe that was yesterday; Elim was radiantly content with the present. “You look Northern too,” she went on; “you are so much more solemn than the Virginia men--I mean your face is.” “I suppose I've had a solemn sort of existence,” he agreed. “Life's an awful serious thing where I was born. The days are not long enough, life's too short, to get your work done. It's a stony pasture,” he admitted. He described the Meikeljohn farm land, sloping steeply to swift rocky streams, the bare existence of the sheep, the bitter winters. He touched briefly on Hester and his marriage. “It's no wonder,” she pronounced, “that you have shadows in your eyes. You can't imagine,” she continued, “how wonderful everything was in Richmond, before--I simply can't talk about it now. I suppose we are ruined, but there isn't a man or woman who wouldn't do the same thing all over again. I'm almost glad that father isn't--isn't here; misery of any kind made him so wretched ... perfect memories.” She closed her eyes. Her under lip, he saw, projected slightly, her chin was fine but stubborn. These details renewed his delight; they lent a warm humanity to her charm. “Any one would know,” she said, regarding him, “that you are absolutely trustworthy. It's a nice quality now, but I don't think I would have noticed it even a month ago. You can see that I have grown frightfully old in the littlest while. Yes, you are comfortable to be with, and I suspect that counts for a great deal. It's quite sad, too, to grow old. Oh, look, we've changed! Where do you suppose he is going? This can't nearly be Bramant's.” The mainsail had been hauled in, and the course of the sloop changed, quartering in toward the shore. The youth, moving forward, stopped to enlighten them. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the old man.