“Oh, but you have,” and she laughed softly, a faint trace of bitterness in the sound.  “You need not deny, for I have read the truth in your face, yet without resentment.  Why should you not, indeed?  No man would wish his sister to take the chances I have with an absolute stranger.  My only excuse is the seeming necessity, and the confidence I felt in my own strength of character.  I permitted myself to come South with you, knowing your purpose to be an illegal one; I placed myself in a false position.  In doing this I was actuated by two purposes; one was to save this property which had been willed to my husband by his father.  Do you guess the other?”

“No,” I said, impressed by the earnestness with which she was speaking.  “You will tell me?”

“I mean to; the time has come when I should.  It was that I might save you from a crime.  You had been kind to me, sympathetic; I—­I liked you very much, and I knew you did not understand; that you were being misled.  I could not determine then where the fraud was, but I knew there was fraud, and that you would eventually become its victim.”

“You cared that much for me?”

“Yes,” she confessed frankly, “I did.  I would never have told you so under ordinary conditions.  But I can now, here, where we are—­alone together in this boat.”  She paused, as though endeavoring to choose the proper words.  “We both realize the changed relations between us.”

I drew a quick, startled breath.

“That—­that I love you!” the exclamation left my lips before I was aware.

“Yes,” she said calmly.  “I could not help that.  At first I never deemed such a result of our friendship possible.  I was Philip Henley’s wife, and I gave this possible danger scarcely a thought.  Indeed it did not seem a danger.  While it is true he was husband in name only, yet I was wife forever.  That is my religion.  Now the conditions are all changed, instantly changed by his death.”

“You believe then he is dead?”

“I am as sure of it as though I had seen his body.  I feel it to be true.”  There was an instant of hesitation, while I waited breathlessly.  “Do you understand now why because of the fact we can no longer remain friends?”

“Yes,” I burst forth, “because you know how I have grown to feel toward you; you—­you resent—­”

“Have I said so?”

“No, not in words; that was not necessary, but I understand.”

“Do you, indeed?”

I stared toward her, puzzled, bewildered, yet conscious that the hot blood was surging through my veins.

“You cannot mean the other?” I questioned, the swift words tripping over themselves in sudden eagerness.  “That—­that you love me?”

“And why not?  Am I so different from other women?”

I held the tiller still with one hand, but the other arm was free, and I reached out, and drew her toward me.  There was no resistance, no effort to break away.  I could see her face uplifted, the wide-open eyes.