He slowly pulled himself upright, and Sylvia shrank closer to the mast. Her eyes shone like those of a startled bird who awaits only a shade more certainty of danger to dart from the spot. "No, no!" she exclaimed. "Were you really asleep?" she added naively. He gave a low laugh. "Excellent, tactful young lady. That is letting me down easy, even if I have been giving a good imitation of a fog horn. Really, I hope you will forgive me. There's only one way to secure my good manners on a boat, and that is to make me sail her." Sylvia allowed herself to be reassured by the off-hand sincerity of his tone. "Go to sleep as much as you like," she returned. "I told you I wanted to think. I'm very unhappy, Mr. Dunham," she went on after a moment, with sudden determination, and her recent excitement made actual tears veil her eyes this time. "Why, what is the matter?" "I have offended Edna." "Surely not. How?" "That is what I hoped you could tell me, else I wouldn't have mentioned it. Say, truly, if you know of anything I have done." "I certainly do not," responded Dunham, with the more emphasis that he suddenly believed he did know--exactly. The exactness was the blow. One of his arms was flung along the gunwale, and he frowned down at the other brown hand while the Idea, the overwhelming, absurd, pathetic, ridiculous Idea, paralyzed him. Sylvia had not fallen in love at first sight. Whom had she recently seen for the second time? For whom was she brewing the blackish potion? Edna had suspected. That explained her undue irritation last evening. What had Sylvia found to be lacking in her philtre? For what had she gone to the woods this morning? What mystery was contained in the white bag which she defended with such zeal? Dunham felt as if his brain were softening. It was the limit of absurdity to be connecting these semi-barbaric fantasies with this sane and charming girl. He saw how Edna had been confounded and annoyed. Submerged by the Idea, he could not at once lift his eyes to Sylvia, although it stirred him to believe that those bright drops he had seen gather might be falling. Under the sordid circumstances of her life it was quite possible that he was the first presentable man she had ever met, and the thought that she had set out with the primitive instincts and methods of a Romany girl to take him by fair means or foul roused in him a wild desire to laugh, which could be subdued only by another look at the thoughtful, feminine face so at variance with the Idea. Her soft voice broke the short silence. "You know the kindest thing you could do would be to tell me if you do know anything I have done, or even have the least suspicion of something. You've known Edna so much longer than I have." "Yes," responded Dunham. "But aren't you too sensitive?" he added to gain time. "I hope not," answered the girl with childlike simplicity. "Thinkright says sensitiveness is only selfishness. I hope it's not that."