And Annie, holding out as long as she could, finally, with the slightest possible inclination of her head, promised. “Where will you be this evening?” he asked, as they parted. “I 'll wait on the porch--about eight.” For the rest of the afternoon Dick sat brooding in his cabin. When, a little after six, he saw Henry coming down the companionway, his heart warmed. “Thought I'd come over and eat with you,” said his cousin. “What's the matter here--why don't you light up?” Dick, by way of reply, mumbled a few words and struck a light. Henry looked at him curiously. “What is it, Dick?” he asked again. There had been few secrets between them. So far as either knew, they were the last two members of their family, and their intimacy, though never expressed in words, had a deep foundation. Before the present arrangement of Dick's work, which made it possible for them to meet at least once in the month, they had seen little of each other; but at every small crisis in the course of his struggle upward to the command of a schooner, Dick had been guided by the counsel and example of the older man. Now he spoke out his mind without hesitation. “Sit down, Henry. When--when I told you about what I have been thinking--about Annie--why did you look at me as you did?” “How did I look?” “Don't dodge, Henry. The idea struck you wrong. I could see that, and I want to know why.” “Well,” Henry hesitated, “I don't know that I should put it just that way. I confess I was surprised.” “Haven't you seen it coming?” “I rather guess the trouble with me was that I have been planning out your future without taking your feelings into account.” “How do you mean,--planning my future?” “Oh, it isn't so definite that I could answer that question offhand. I thought I saw a future for myself, and I thought we might go it together. But I was counting on just you and me, without any other interests or impediments.” “But if I should marry--” “If you marry, your work will have to take a new direction. Your interests will change completely. And before many years, you will begin to think of quitting the Lake. It isn't the life for a family man. But then--that's the way things go. I have no right to advise against it.” Henry smiled, with an odd, half bitter expression. “And from what I have seen since my eyes were opened, I don't believe it would do any good for me to object.” “You are mistaken there, Henry,” the younger man replied quietly; “it isn't going well at all. I've been pretty blue to-day.” “Well,” said Henry, with the same odd expression, “I don't know but what I'm sorry for that. That future I was speaking of seems to have faded out lately,--in fact, my plans are not going well, either. And so you probably couldn't count on me very much anyway.”