“We should have to stay till the tide turned.”

She looked wildly about for aid.  If there were a row-boat anywhere within hail, she could be taken to Jocelyn’s in that.  But they were quite alone on those lifeless waters.

Libby got out a pair of heavy oars from the bottom of the boat, and, setting the rowlocks on either side, tugged silently at them.

The futile effort suggested an idea to her which doubtless she would not have expressed if she had not been lacking, as she once said, in a sense of humor.

“Why don’t you whistle for a wind?”

He stared at her in sad astonishment to make sure that she was in earnest, and then, “Whistle!” he echoed forlornly, and broke into a joyless laugh.

“You knew the chances of delay that I took in asking to come with you,” she cried, “and you should have warned me.  It was ungenerous—­it was ungentlemanly!”

“It was whatever you like.  I must be to blame.  I suppose I was too glad to have you come.  If I thought anything, I thought you must have some particular errand at Leyden.  You seemed anxious to go, even if it stormed.”

“If it had stormed,” she retorted, “I should not have cared!  I hoped it would storm.  Then at least I should have run the same danger,—­I hoped it would be dangerous.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he said.

“I forced that wretched creature to go with you that day when you said it was going to be rough; and I shall have her blood upon my hands if she dies”

“Is it possible,” cried Libby, pulling in his useless oars, and leaning forward upon them, “that she has gone on letting you think I believed there was going to be a storm?  She knew perfectly well that I didn’t mind what Adams said; he was always croaking.”  She sat looking at him in a daze, but she could not speak, and he continued.  “I see:  it happened by one chance in a million to turn out as he said; and she has been making you pay for it.  Why, I suppose,” he added, with a melancholy smile of intelligence, “she’s had so much satisfaction in holding you responsible for what’s happened, that she’s almost glad of it!”

“She has tortured me!” cried the girl.  “But you—­you, when you saw that I did n’t believe there was going to be any storm, why did you—­why didn’t—­you”—­

“I did n’t believe it either!  It was Mrs. Maynard that proposed the sail, but when I saw that you did n’t like it I was glad of any excuse for putting it off.  I could n’t help wanting to please you, and I couldn’t see why you urged us afterwards; but I supposed you had some reason.”

She passed her hand over her forehead, as if to clear away the confusion in which all this involved her.  “But why—­why did you let me go on thinking myself to blame”—­

“How could I know what you were thinking?  Heaven knows I didn’t dream of such a thing!  Though I remember, now, your saying”—­

“Oh, I see!” she cried.  “You are a man!  But I can’t forgive it,—­no, I can’t forgive it!  You wished to deceive her if you did n’t wish to deceive me.  How can you excuse yourself for repeating what you did n’t believe?”