“Yes, yes, yes, Rocko; mother is tired to-day; wait a minute.”

Pauline, sweeping by the piano, brushed the keys a little, and sang:—­

  “Drifting, drifting on and on,
  Mast and oar and rudder gone,
  Fatal danger for each one,
  We helpless as in dreams.”

What had he been about?

The air grew sweet with the sudden scent of heliotrope, and Miss Dallas pushed aside the curtain gently.

“I may have that sail across the bay before I go?  It promises to be fair to-morrow.”

He hesitated.

“I suppose it will be our last,” said the lady, softly.

She was rather sorry when she had spoken, for she really did not mean anything, and was surprised at the sound of her own voice.

But they took the sail.

Harrie watched them off—­her husband did not invite her to go on that occasion—­with that stealthy sharpness in her eyes.  Her lips and hands and forehead were burning.  She had been cold all day.  A sound like the tolling of a bell beat in her ears.  The children’s voices were choked and distant.  She wondered if Biddy were drunk, she seemed to dance about so at her ironing-table, and wondered if she must dismiss her, and who could supply her place.  She tried to put my room in order, for she was expecting me that night by the last train, but gave up the undertaking in weariness and confusion.

In fact, if Harrie had been one of the Doctor’s patients, he would have sent her to bed and prescribed for brain-fever.  As she was not a patient, but only his wife, he had not found out that anything ailed her.

Nothing happened while he was gone, except that a friend of Biddy’s “dropped in,” and Mrs. Sharpe, burning and shivering in her sewing-chair, dreamily caught through the open door, and dreamily repeated to herself, a dozen words of compassionate Irish brogue:—­

“Folks as laves folks cryin’ to home and goes sailin’ round with other women—­”

Then the wind latched the door.

The Doctor and Miss Dallas drew in their oars, and floated softly.

There were gray and silver clouds overhead, and all the light upon the sea slanted from low in the west:  it was a red light, in which the bay grew warm; it struck across Pauline’s hands, which she dipped, as the mood took her, into the waves, leaning upon the side of the boat, looking down into the water.  One other sail only was to be seen upon the bay.  They watched it for a while.  It dropped into the west, and sunk from sight.

They were silent for a time, and then they talked of friendship, and nature, and eternity, and then were silent for a time again, and then spoke—­in a very general and proper way—­of separation and communion in spirit, and broke off softly, and the boat rose and fell upon the strong outgoing tide.

“Drifting, drifting on and on,” hummed Pauline.

The west, paling a little, left a haggard look upon the Doctor’s face.