“I only meant that you were very cool in view of your danger. How a lady could be as composed as you were, when alone in a boat drifting out to sea, is more than I can comprehend. That was what I meant. I would not by any means accuse you of undervaluing my poor service.” “I am relieved,” added she, her smile meaning even more than her words. “I do not think I am lessening the value of your efforts in my behalf when I say that I should not have been very much alarmed if I had been sure of going out to sea. It is now only the middle of the forenoon: I should have been picked up by some boat or vessel bound in or out of the river.” “I must say you have more courage and self-possession than I ever happened to meet with in a lady before.” “I am quite used to the water.” “I see that you are,” laughed the artist, rising from his seat on the thwart, where all this time he had been resting from his labors, while the boat continued to drift out to sea. “Have you any oars?” he asked, after he had glanced into the bottom of the boat. “I have not, unfortunately. If I had I should not have been here.” “Then I am very thankful that you had none;” whereat the maiden blushed, and looked troubled again. “I lost the oars overboard,” she added, without noticing the pretty speech of the gallant young man. “I am glad you did, Miss----,” and he looked up into the fair face of the lady. “Miss Kingman; but I am very sorry I lost the oars, for you are as wet as a fish, and you may take cold.” “I never take cold; I am above such infirmities.” “I hope you will not, but a cold bath is not comfortable on a chilly day like this.” “This is a beautiful day, and my heart is warm enough just now to generate sufficient caloric for my whole body.” Miss Kingman did not, perhaps, precisely comprehend this bold speech. She glanced back at the Point, past which the boat had drifted, and was now tossing about like a chip on the great waves of the open bay. “You think we had better get back to the land,” continued Mr. Buckstone, interpreting her glance at the shore to mean this. “I am not at all frightened; my father is an old sailor, and I have always lived on the sea shore.” “Upon my word, I am heartily rejoiced that you are not alarmed at your situation, for really I can’t see that I have done anything more by my swim, than to give you a companion in your voyage out to sea,” replied the artist, as he glanced over the boat again in search of something that would serve as an oar. The lady was silent; perhaps disliking to say what she may have believed--that a companion like the young artist was more dangerous than the wind and the waves. Whether she thought so or not, it was true in this case, though by no fault on his part; and it would have been better for her to be buried in the depth of the ocean, with nothing but the wind and the waves to chant her requiem, than to have met Eliot Buckstone.