"You are different from everybody in the world," he answered, in a low, tender tone. "They are clay like the rest of us, only of a finer sort, but you are a bit of priceless porcelain. You are made of flowers and stars and dreams--of sunlight and moonlight, Spring and dawn. All the beauty of the earth has gone to make you--violets for your eyes, a rose for your mouth, and white morning-glories for your hands. When you smile it is like the light of a midsummer noon; when you laugh it is the music of falling waters; when you sing to yourself it is like a bird in the wilderness, breaking one's heart with the exquisite sweetness of it. Darling! darling!" he cried, passionately; "no one in the world is like you!" Beatrice was trembling, and for the moment was dumb. Robert stood before her with his hands outstretched in pleading until, emboldened by her silence, he leaned forward to take her into his arms, and she moved swiftly aside. "Very pretty," she said, with an effort, and in a matter-of-fact tone, then she laughed. "I did not know you were a poet," she continued, rising and shaking out her skirts,--"the moonlight has made you mad." "Not the moonlight, sweetheart, but you!" "Well, the two of us, then," returned Beatrice, lightly. "It's getting late, and I must go." "No!" he cried. "You said you would stay till the end of my watch!" "That was before I knew you were a poet. No, I'm going back by myself--good-night, and pleasant dreams!" He untied the pirogue for her and helped her into it, his senses reeling at the momentary touch of her hand; and when she crossed the path of gold that lay upon the water, the light shone full upon her flower-like face. The man's blood surged into his heart with rapturous pain, as, exquisite, radiant, and unattainable, she passed through the gate of the Fort and out of his sight. He stood there long after she had vanished, shaken from head to foot by a passion as pure and exalted as Sir Galahad might have felt for Elaine. CHAPTER XVI THE WORM TURNS "Beatrice," said Mrs. Mackenzie, "what day of the month is it?" "The eighth." "Why, no, it isn't," put in Mackenzie; "it's the ninth--isn't it, Rob?" "Certainly--the ninth of August." "Have it your own way," pouted Beatrice; "what do you suppose I care?" "There's George across the river," observed Mrs. Mackenzie. "I wonder why he doesn't come over!" "He's busy, I guess," said Robert; "but I think he will be over this afternoon." "How do you know?" inquired Beatrice, looking at him narrowly. "You haven't seen him to-day, have you?" "N--no," stammered Robert, uncomfortably. "I--I just thought so." For the first time he saw how ridiculous, from one point of view, their arrangement was, and became more anxious than ever to keep Beatrice in ignorance of it. Still, it had worked well, for neither had made any evident progress and their friendship was still unbroken.