“No doubt, no doubt.  A man must be in a bad way if she couldn’t make a saint of him if she undertook it,” was the doctor’s laughing reply.

Greatly amused, Graydon repeated the words to Madge.  “She won’t undertake it in this case,” was her brusque comment.  “I have no ambition to enlighten continental heathen, with their superior tolerance of a faith good enough for women and children.”

“My charming rose has not only a thorn but a theological stiletto in her belt.”

“It is evident you have never had trouble, Graydon.”

“Why is it evident?”

“Because you are content with the surface-tide of life.”

“And you are not?”

“One rarely is when fearing to sink.”

“What has that to do with faith?”

“Faith can sustain; that’s all.”

“And your faith sustained you?”

“What else was there to sustain when day after day brought, not a choice of pleasures, but the question, Shall I live or die?”

“Poor Madge!  Dear Madge!  And you didn’t let me know.  I don’t suppose I could have helped you, though.”

“No; not then.”

“Madge,” he said, earnestly, “won’t you promise me one thing?  If you ever should have trouble of any kind again, won’t you let me help you, or at least try to?”

“I’ll see how you behave,” she said, laughing.  “Besides, it’s not women’s place to make trouble for men.  The idea!  Our mission is to soothe and console you superior beings.”

“Women do make a power of trouble for men.  Mother Eve began wrong, and—­”

“And Adam laid all his misdeeds on her weak shoulders.”

“The upshot of all this talk is, I suppose, that your shoulders are so strong, and your spirit so high, that you can at least take care of your own troubles.”

“I hope so,” she again laughed, “and be ready also to give you a lift.  When you successful men do get a tumble in life, you are the most helpless of mortals.”

“Well, well, well, to think that I am talking to little Madge, who could not say good-by to me without fainting away!”

“Good-by meant more to me than to you.  You were going away to new and pleasant activity.  I doubted whether I should see you again—­or indeed any one long,” she added, hastily.

“Don’t imagine that I did not feel awfully that night, dear Madge.  Tears do not come into my eyes easily, but I added a little salt water to the ocean as I leaned over the taffrail and saw the city that contained you fade from view.”

“Did you truly, Graydon?” she asked, turning away.

“I did, indeed.”

In her averted face and quickened respiration he thought he saw traces of more than passing feeling, but she turned on him in sudden gayety, and said:  “Whenever I see the ocean I’ll remember how its tides have been increased.  Graydon, I’ve a secret to tell you, which, for an intense, aesthetic, and vaguely devotional woman, is a most humiliating confession:  I’m awfully hungry.  When will dinner be ready?”