I have said that the present was dismal; to my companion, indeed, it could be no otherwise; yet to me the awful gloom of disfavor and disgrace was somewhat lightened by a little throb of joy, trembling and intermittent indeed, but growing in force, and of decreasing interval, as the horses swung, splashing through rain and mud, and their riders spoke never a word. I was a woman; and I was out alone in the darkest night of our two lives with the man who to me was all men since God gave me memory; I had him to myself, to cherish, to comfort, and, if it might be, to serve; what else should I do, but, woman-like, yearn over him with bowels of compassion, and rejoice that I was the angler that should, if it pleased Heaven, fish his soul from the dark and turbid waters of despair? At length--"Ned!" I cried, but had no answer; and again, "Ned! dear Ned!" with no better luck. So I pushed my horse over against his till our knees came together, and laid my hand on his arm. And then somehow I knew, dark as pitch though it was, that he turned his head to me. "Though you be unhappy," I said, letting of set purpose the catch of a small sob come into my voice, "you do not need to flout your little friend. 'T is very like you think it all my fault, but all I could, since Philip left us, I have done,--all, I would say, that you would let me do." "More!" he cried in answer; "you have done far more than I would have had you do; for I believe you did save my life. If I thank you now," he added, with great bitterness, "I do fear my words will lack the ring of truth." "Nay," I said, as coldly as I might, in hope to engage his interest, "there is but one owes thanks for that; and it is not you." "Who then?" he asked, but languidly, as having little care for an answer. "Who but the person," I replied, "in whose sole interest it was saved?" "You speak in riddles, lad," he said, and then at once burst into a very hearty laugh at his own mistake; at which my heart danced within me to a tune very sweet; for laughter was at least a step in the way I would have him walk. "My wits have gone browsing like sheep," he went on. "Life is sweet, I do suppose, and soon I shall thank you. Even now I feel the savor of it coming back to me. Let us push on," he said, and put spurs to his horse. When I was once again by his side--"Ah!" he cried, "one is a man again with a horse between his knees." "I do not know," I replied. "Was it for that you called me lad, Captain?"