“What shall I do? I have no oars, and the thwarts are all fastened into the boat.” “I don’t know, really,” she replied, “what you can do. I wondered, when I saw you swimming out, what you intended.” “I supposed you had oars,” answered Mr. Buckstone, stung by the implied, but not intended, reproach for his thoughtless measures. “If I had had oars, I should not have needed your assistance.” “Then I am only an encumbrance to you. I suppose the boat would live longer in a sea with one person in it than with two. I have actually added to your peril, Miss Kingman, instead of removing you from it. What a blunderer I am!” “You wrong yourself. Whatever the practical result, you intended to do me a great service, and I assure you I appreciate it as such.” “I think it would be better for me now to leave you, and swim ashore.” “Swim ashore!” “And save you from my presence.” “You wrong me now, sir.” “I have come to the conclusion, that in your estimation, I have made a fool of myself.” “Far from it, sir,” protested she, earnestly. “That you owe me thanks only for my good intentions, which have stupidly increased your danger rather than diminished it.” “I have no thought but gratitude.” “For my good intentions, and contempt for my blundering work.” “I hope I have not offended you. I did not mean to say anything unkind. I am sure I owe you----” “Nothing, Miss Kingman. We are not more than half a mile from the Point, and I will swim ashore.” “Not on any account. I shall never forgive myself for my careless words.” “But when I get ashore, I will procure a boat, and come--or send some one--to your relief.” “You are vexed with me, sir. I did not mean to say a word which would wound you.” “Neither have you.” “And I do not undervalue your kind exertions in my behalf. Do not attempt to swim ashore in such a sea as this,” pleaded the lady, as she saw him look significantly over the side. “I can easily do so.” “You are nearly exhausted by your efforts in swimming off to the boat.” “That was only because I was so much alarmed for your safety.” “How noble and kind you were! And how cruel and unkind I have been to disparage your efforts; but I did not intend to disparage them,” protested she, with an earnestness which entirely removed the feeling of chagrin that lingered in the mind of the enthusiastic artist. “I hope you will forgive me, sir.” “With all my heart;” and it was with all his heart, for he could not resist the eloquence of that soft eye, and those musical tones, albeit his vexation was caused wholly by the feeling that the fair stranger did not appreciate him, rather than his exertions in her behalf. “I cannot express to you how grateful I am, and I would not have you think me unkind for all the world.”