“I am ashamed so to exhibit my weakness,” she murmured.  “I fear I am greatly in need of food.  What day is this?”

“The twelfth of August.”

“And it was the night of the tenth when I drifted out of the mouth of the river.  Ever since then I have been drifting, the sport of the winds and waves.”

“Sit you down here, then,” I commanded, now fully awakened to her immediate need.  “The sand is yet warm from the sun, and I have food with me in my pockets.”

CHAPTER VII

A CIRCLE IN THE SAND

I have since thought it almost providential that my food supply was so limited; for, after first asking me if I had eaten all I required, she fell upon it like a famished thing, and did not desist until all was gone.  A threatening bank of dark cloud was creeping slowly up the northern sky as we were resting, but directly overhead the stars were shining brilliantly, yielding me sufficient light for the study of her face.  She was certainly less than my own age by two or three years, a girl barely rounding into the slender beauty of her earliest womanhood, with hints of both in face and form.  She was simply dressed, as, indeed, might naturally be expected in a wilderness far removed from marts of trade; but her clothing was of excellent texture, and became her well in spite of its recent exposure, while a bit of rather expensive lace at the throat and a flutter of gay ribbons about the wrists told plainly that she did not disdain the usual adornments of her sex.  And this was quickly shown in another way.  She had not yet completed her frugal meal when her mind reverted to her personal appearance, and she paused, with heightened color, to draw back her loosened hair and fasten it in place with a knot of scarlet cord.  It was surely a winsome face that smiled up at me then.

“I feel almost guilty of robbery,” she said, “in taking all this food, which was no doubt intended for your own supper.”

“Merely what chanced to be left of it,” I answered heartily.  “Had I so much as dreamed this stretch of sand was to yield me such companionship, I should have stinted myself more.”

An expression of bewildered surprise crept into her eyes as I spoke.

“Surely you are not a mere coureur de bois, as I supposed from your dress,” she exclaimed.  “Your expression is that of an educated gentleman.”

I smiled; for I was young enough to feel the force of her unconscious flattery.

“I believe I can prove descent from an old and honorable race,” I said; “but it has been my fortune to be reared in the backwoods, and whatever education has come to me I owe to the love and skill of my mother.”

My frankness pleased her, and she made no attempt to disguise her interest.

“I am so glad you told me,” she said simply.  “My mother died when I was only ten, yet her memory has always been an inspiration.  Are you a Protestant?”