"Oh, very well," assented the young sailor, smiling at her; "I have been under orders, it seems to me, ever since I was born. First mother, then Josephine, and now you." He sat down in the stern-sheets with affected resignation and gathered up the yoke-lines. Emily's face had changed somewhat at this last remark, but she said nothing as she cast off the painter, stepped to the thwart, shoved off the boat, broke out the oars, and pulled away. She rowed a pretty stroke, quite as deft as Revere's had been, though lacking somewhat in power. As they cleared the wharf and headed out into the bay toward the Point she looked up at him. "You have always been under orders, you say?" "Yes." "First your mother?" "Yes." "And then,--who did you say?" with poorly simulated indifference. "Josephine,--Miss Josephine Remington," carelessly. "And who is she?" "Oh, she's an old friend of the family, a connection in a far-off way. She has lived with us pretty much since she was a child." "Are you fond of her?" coldly. "Yes," with mischievous promptness. "I suppose so," looking away. "But not so fond of her as I am of you, Emily," tenderly. "Is that really true?" eagerly. "Upon my word and honor," with convincing assurance. "And you don't love her?" "Not a bit. I love only one person in the world, and that is you," passionately. "Was she the girl you saved?" relieved, but still somewhat anxious. "She was." "Does she love you, I wonder?" "I think not. She never gave me half as much evidence of caring for me as----" He stopped suddenly. "As what?" she asked in swift alarm. "As--forgive me, Emily--as you have this afternoon." She stopped pulling instantly, her oar-blades lifted from the water in mid-stroke, drops trickling from them. "Have I been bold and forward?" she cried in dismay. "Oh, what must you think of me?" "You have been perfect," he answered, fervently; "simply perfect. I wouldn't have you changed an iota in any way. Don't let's talk about other people now. I'd rather talk about you. Tell me something about yourself, about the life you have lived, what you have done, what you have thought, what you have dreamed; tell me everything. I want to know it all." "Yes, but are you sure you do not love her?" "I never was so certain of anything in my life, except it be that I love you." There was conviction in his voice which comforted her soul. Still, she sought enlightenment upon another point. "Are you sure she doesn't love you?" "I think it is very improbable." "Well, I don't, then!" she exclaimed, vigorously resuming her stroke. "You saved her life, and I don't see how she could help it," she continued. "I didn't save your life, though, Emily." The boat was in the shadow of the island trees, where it had been when he had first spoken of love to her that morning. She let it drift; again the water made sweet music lipping along the side; they would associate it forever with these ineffable moments.