"It’s more than you think. It’s meeting the small emergencies of every day; sometimes through Mason or Sing; sometimes personally, in your quiet way. And it’s tiding her through the slow evenings when you can; she loves your violin, and the practice will be a help to you both." "All right," he answered, smiling, "I promise that much." They had reached the store and she waited on the edge of the dock while he went in for his instrument. When he came back they lingered, listening to the swash and gurgle of the tide among the piers. "You always liked this," he said presently; "you must often miss the sea." "Yes," she answered, "you don’t know how I’ve missed it. Sometimes, I’ve wanted it beyond anything." She looked at him. In the semi-darkness of the not yet risen moon, his face seemed to gather paleness. It touched her as its strength never had. The maternal down in the depths of her stirred. "And of course," she added gently, "you know, Paul, I couldn’t think of the Sound, or indeed of any of the old life here, and leave out you." It was not the words alone, nor the kind, sweet tone, nor yet her dear physical nearness, but rather that the silence which followed was eloquent with unspoken thought. It was as though he heard her spirit cry suddenly, "I can never leave out you." "You do know it," he said. "You do know it." And then it broke from him. "What made you promise to marry Judge Kingsley? What made you, when you knew how much I thought of you?" She did not answer, but she turned and walked up the dock towards the house. After a moment he overtook her. "Don’t hurry so," he said. "Are you afraid of me? I won’t hurt you." "Hurt me? You? Oh, I wish you would." But she continued to hurry and he suited his steps to hers. They reached the gate. "Wait, just a moment," he said. "You are going away tomorrow. I know I shouldn’t have said—what I did; it was worse than unfair to the Judge; but I want to know this—why did you put off that marriage? Why didn’t you go to Washington with him, as he hoped? As I hoped, for there, at least you would have been—safe!" "Please don’t worry about me, Paul," she answered, and looked past him, steadily, holding her chin high, "I can take care of myself. You ought to know that. I’m very strong-minded; it grows on me. I like to do things; be the head. And I love the settlement; I want to finish my work. Sometimes—sometimes, when I think of it, I’m afraid of Washington. I shall find it too crowded; I’m so used to lots of room." She paused, but silence was harder than speech and she went on quickly, "Not one man in a thousand would understand me, but Uncle Silas—dear Silas—" she dashed her hand across her eyes and turning, ran up the steps to the door—"knows how to manage me. He—" she groped for the knob—"He is ready to—wait." *CHAPTER XV* *THE MAN IN THE TIDE-RIP*