“And now my dear,” Lillian spoke briskly, “just lean your head against my shoulder, shut your eyes, and try to rest for a little; I know that sand with a rain coat covering doesn’t make the most comfortable couch in the world, but I think I can hold you so that you may be able to take a tiny nap.”

What Dicky surmised concerning the events of the afternoon, I do not know.  He must have known that the girl was madly in love with him.  Something had happened to put an end to the infatuation into which he had been slipping so rapidly.

Had he become tired of the girl’s open pursuit of him?  Had he guessed to what lengths her desperation had driven her?  Had the shock of my narrow escape from drowning startled him into a fresh realization of his love for me?

I felt too weak even to guess the solution of the riddle.  All I wanted to do was to nestle close to Dicky’s side, to be taken care of and petted like a baby.

The ride home through the sunset was a quiet one.  To me it was one of the happiest hours of my life.

Dicky, fussing over me as if I were a fragile piece of china, sat in the most sheltered corner of the boat, and held me securely against him, protecting me with his arm from any sudden lurch or jolt the boat might give.

Seemingly by a tacit agreement, the others of the party left us to ourselves.  They talked in subdued tones, apparently unwilling to spoil the wonderful beauty of the twilight ride home with much conversation.

When the boat landed, Harry Underwood, at Dicky’s suggestion, telephoned for taxis to meet the little trolley, upon which we journeyed from the beach to Crest Haven.  One of these bore the Durkees and Grace Draper to their homes; the other was to carry Harry and Lillian, with Dicky and me, to the old Brennan house.

Dr. Pettit, who was to take a train back to the city, came up to us after we were seated in the taxi: 

“I would advise that you go directly to bed, Mrs. Graham,” he said, with his most professional air.  “You have had an unusual shock, and rest is the one imperative thing.”

I felt that common courtesy demanded that I extend an invitation to the physician to call at our home when next he came to Marvin, but fear of Dicky’s possible displeasure tied my tongue.  I could not do anything to jeopardize the happiness so newly restored to me.

To my great surprise, however, Dicky impulsively extended his hand and smiled upon the young physician: 

“Thanks ever so much, old man,” he said cordially, “for the way you pulled the little lady through this afternoon.  Don’t forget to come to see us when next you’re in Marvin.”

I was tucked safely into Dicky’s bed, which he insisted on my sharing, saying that he could take care of me better there than in my own room, when he gave me the explanation of his cordiality.

“I’m not particularly stuck on that doctor chap,” he said, tucking the coverlet about me with awkward tenderness, “but I’m so thankful tonight I just can’t be sour on anybody.”