They had walked clear up to the southernmost tip of the sandbar point. They could hear someone, perhaps a chorus of voices, singing on the whiskey boat at the Upper Landing. They could see the light of the boat's windows. There they turned and started back down the sandbar, reaching the two boats moored side by side in the deadwater. "Shall I help with those dishes to-night?" he asked. "No, we'll do them in the morning," she replied without emphasis and as a matter of course, which left him unassisted in his obvious predicament. "Well," he drawled, after a time, "it's about midnight. I must say a river goddess is--is beyond my most vivid dreams. I wonder----" "What do you wonder?" "If you'll let me kiss you good-night now?" "Yes," she answered. The stars twinkled as he put his arm around her and took the kiss which her lips gave--smiling. "I'll help with those dishes in the morning," he said, helping her up the gang plank of her boat. "Good-night!" "Good-night," she answered, and entered the cabin, the dim light of her turned-down lamp flashing across the sandbar and revealing his face for a moment. Then the door closed between them. He went to his skiff, raised the cover, and crawled into his canvas hammock which was swung from both sides of his boat. Before going to sleep he looked under the canvas at the river, at the stars, at the dark cabin-boat forty feet distant in the eddy. At the same moment he saw a face against a window pane in the cabin. "What does it mean?" he asked himself, but there was no answer. The river, when asked, seldom answers. Just as he was about to go to sleep, he started up, wide awake. For the first time on the river, he had forgotten to post up his notes. He felt that he had come that day, as never before, to the forks in the road--when he must choose between the present and the future. He lighted his lantern, sat up in his cot, and reached for his typewriter. He wrote steadily, at full speed, for an hour. When he had those wonderful and fleeting thoughts and observations nailed down and safe, he again put out his lantern, and turned in once more. Then he heard a light, gay laugh, clear and distinct-a river voice beyond question--full of raillery, and yet beneath the mocking note was something else which he could neither identify nor analyze, which he hoped was not scorn or mere derision, which he wished might be understanding and sympathy--till he thought of his making those notes. Then he despised himself, which was really good for his soul. His conscience, instead of rejoicing, rebuked him as a cad. He swore under his breath. CHAPTER XVIII Augustus Carline was a long time recovering even his consciousness. A thousand dreams, a thousand nightmares tormented his thoughts while the mangling grip of unnumbered vises and ropes sank deep into his flesh; ploughs and harrows dragged through his twisted muscles.