stout men are just about to occupy the same five stout chairs in the big windows.  I have watched them for years, and—­” The girl paused.  “Our house!  Do you suppose my father is there now?” She closed her eyes.  “I can almost see him.  Of course he is mourning me for lost; and Aunt Helen is trying to comfort him and other persons.  But there, I must not think of that, must I?” She turned to Dan and smiled bravely.

“No, you must not,” he said gravely.  “He is a man; he will bear his grief like a man.  And when you return—­”

“When I return?” interpolated the girl, quickly.  “Have you thought about that, Daniel Merrithew?”

“Not a great deal, except to resolve that if I ever get ashore I shall never again go to sea as a sailor.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that,” said Virginia.  “Ever since the night when you were shielding me from the fire—­”

Dan raised his hand.

“Anything you said that night, Miss Howland, need cause you no regret, no misgiving.  As well judge the words, the actions, of a man who knows he has but an hour to live.”

Virginia looked at him puzzled.  She started to speak, but closed her lips tight upon the words.  She was vividly flushed.

“Did I say anything so terrible then?” she asked at length.  “I am sure I can remember nothing I regret.  Of course I don’t remember much; I suppose I was awfully flighty, then.  But you were fine and brave and noble; and, whatever I said, I stand pat, as father says,” the girl laughed.  “This is such a conventional age that when a knight of modern times revives the daring and chivalry of older ages, we women have no adequate way in which to requite it, you know.”

“You must not think about it at all,” replied Dan.

“And why not?  That night I hung at the mercy of your strength and endurance to pain, when you could easily have saved yourself by letting me go.  Ah, don’t deny it,” as Dan made a gesture.  “I know!  My life was in your keeping, to save it or let it go, as you willed.  Daniel Merrithew, do you ever feel that now you have the right to be interested in that life that you alone saved?”

“What do you mean?” Dan was looking at her curiously.

The girl laughed excitedly.

“Oh, I don’t know exactly what I do mean—­except, except that I have simply felt, well, as though I have no right to be altogether my own selfish self—­in the way I used to be, I mean; that I have no longer an absolute right——­ Oh, how can I explain it clearly?  Let us say that I have a conviction that any serious change I might wish to make in my life should not be done without—­well, not consent, exactly, but good wishes—­no, I mean consent.  There, that may be putting it clumsily, but don’t you understand?”

Dan flushed.  “I have saved lives before,” he said; “and twice men have saved my life, and I never felt,—­felt the way you say toward my rescuers.”