“You have indeed proved hard to understand by more than one,” I ventured, for in spite of her graciousness the old wound rankled.  “It has puzzled me much to understand how you so gaily sent me forth to a mission that might mean death, to save this Captain de Croix.”

It was a foolish speech, and she met it bravely, with heightened color and a flash of dark eyes.

“’T was no more than the sudden whim of a girl,” she answered quickly, “and regretted before you were out of sight.  Nor did I dream you would meet my conditions by such a sacrifice.”

“You showed small interest as you stood on the stockade when we went forth!”

“You mean when Captain de Croix and I leaned above the eastern palisades?”

“Ay, not once did your eyes wander to mark our progress.”

Her eyes were smiling now, and her face archly uplifted.

“Indeed, Master Wayland, little you know of the struggles of my heart during that hour.  Nor will I tell you; for the secrets of a girl must be her own.  But I marked each step you took onward toward the Indian camp, until the night hid you,—­the night, or else the gathering tears in my eyes.”

The sudden yawing of the boat before a gust of wind drew my thought elsewhere, and kept back the words ready upon my tongue.  When once more I had my bearings and had turned back the plunging bow, she sat silent, deep in thought that I hesitated to disturb.  Soon I noted her head droop slightly to the increased movement of the boat.

“You are worn out!” I said tenderly.  “Lean here against me, and sleep.”

“Indeed, I feel most weary,” was her drowsy reply.  “Yes, I will rest for a few moments.”

How clear remains the memory of those hours, while I sat watchful of the helm, her head resting peacefully on my lap, and all about us those lonely tossing waters!  What a mere chip was our boat in the midst of that desolate sea; how dark and dreary the changeless night shadows!  Over and over again I pictured the details of each scene I have here set forth so poorly, to dream at the end of a final homecoming which should not be alone.  It was with heart thankful to God, that I watched the slow stealing upward of the gray dawn as the early rays of light crept toward us across the heaving of the waters.  It was typical of all I had hoped,—­this, and the black shadows fleeing away into the west.  Brighter and brighter grew the crimsoning sky over the boat’s bow, where Burns lay sleeping, until my eyes could distinguish a far-off shore-line heavily crowned with trees.  I thought to rouse her to the glorious sight; but even as I glanced downward into the fair young face, her dark eyes opened in instant smile of greeting.

“’T is the morning,” she said gladly, “and that dark, dark night has passed away.”

“For ever, Mademoiselle; and there is even a land of promise to be seen out yonder!”

She sat up quickly, shading her eyes with her hand as she gazed with eagerness toward where I pointed.