She turned and surveyed him quickly, while a red—­whether of joy or anger he could not tell—­flashed up her cheek.

“Do you mean”——­

“Miss Heath, I mean, will you marry me?”

“Mr. Raleigh, no!”

With a bow he passed on.

Mr. Raleigh trimmed the Arrow’s sail, for the breeze had sunk again, and swept slowly out with one oar suspended.  A waning moon was rising behind the trees, it fell upon the little quay that had been built that summer, and seemed with its hollow beams still to continue the structure upon the water.  The Arrow floated in the shadow just beyond.  Mr. Raleigh’s eyes were on the quay; he paused, nerveless, both oars trailing, a cold damp starting on his forehead.  Some one approached as if looking out upon the dim sheet,—­some one who, deceived by the false light, did not know the end to be so near, and walked forward firmly and confidently.  Indeed, the quay had been erected in Mr. Laudersdale’s absence.  The water was deep there, the bottom rocky.

“Shout and warn him of his peril!” urged a voice in Mr. Raleigh’s heart.

“Let him drown!” urged another voice.

If he would have called, the sound died a murmur in his throat.  His eyes were on the advancing figure; it seemed as if that object were to be forever branded on the retina.  Still as he gazed, he was aware of another form, one sitting on the quay, unseen in shadow like himself, and seeing what he saw, and motionless as he.  Would Mrs. Laudersdale dip her hands in murder?  It all passed in a second of time; at the next breath he summoned every generous power in his body, sprang with the leap of a wild creature, and confronted the recoiling man.  Ere his foot touched the quay, the second form had glided from the darkness, and seized her husband’s arm.

“A thousand pardons, Sir,” said Mr. Raleigh, then.  “I thought you were in danger.  Mrs. Laudersdale, good-night!”

It was an easy matter to regain the boat, to gather up his oars, and shoot away.  Till they faded from sight, he saw her still beside him; and so they stood till the last echo of the dipping oars was muffled in distance and lost.

Summer-nights are brief; breakfast was late on the next morning,—­or rather, Mrs. Laudersdale was late, as usual, to partake it.

“Shall I tell you some news?” asked Helen Heath.

She lifted her heavy eyes absently.

“Mrs. McLean has made her husband a millionnaire.  There was an Indian mail yesterday.  Mr. Raleigh read his letters last night, after going home.  His uncle is dying,—­old, unfortunate, forlorn.  Mr. Raleigh has abandoned everything, and must hew his own way in the world from this day forward.  He left this morning for India.”

When you saw Mrs. Laudersdale for the first time, at a period thirteen years later, would you have imagined her possessed of this little drama?  You fancy now that in this flash all the wealth of her soul burned out and left her a mere volition and motive power?  You are mistaken, as I said.