“Oh, we can’t go on,” he answered.  “I shall get away, as soon as Maynard comes, and rid you of the sight of me.”

“Are you going away?” she softly asked.  “Why need you?  I know that people always seem to think they can’t be friends after—­such a thing as this.  But why shouldn’t we?  I respect you, and I like you very much.  You have shown me more regard and more kindness than any other friend”—­

“But I wasn’t your friend,” he interrupted.  “I loved you.”

“Well,” she sighed, in gentle perplexity, “then you can’t be my friend?”

Never.  But I shall always love you.  If it would do any good, I would stay, as you ask it.  I should n’t mind myself.  But I should be a nuisance to you.”

“No, no!” she exclaimed.  “I will take the risk of that.  I need your advice, your—­sympathy, your—­You won’t trouble me, indeed you won’t.  Perhaps you have mistaken your—­feeling about me.  It’s such a very little time since we met,” she pleaded.

“That makes no difference,—­the time.  And I’m not mistaken.”

“Well, stay at least till Mrs. Maynard is well, and we can all go away together.  Promise me that!” She instinctively put out her hand toward him in entreaty.  He took it, and pressing it to his lips covered it with kisses.

“Oh!” she grieved in reproachful surprise.

“There!” he cried.  “You see that I must go!”

“Yes,” she sighed in assent, “you must go.”

They did not look at each other again, but remained in a lamentable silence while the boat pushed swiftly before the freshening breeze; and when they reached the place where the dory lay, he dropped the sail and threw out the anchor without a word.

He was haggard to the glance she stole at him, when they had taken their places in the dory, and he confronted her, pulling hard at the oars.  He did not lift his eyes to hers, but from time to time he looked over his shoulder at the boat’s prow, and he rowed from one point to another for a good landing.  A dreamy pity for him filled her; through the memories of her own suffering, she divined the soreness of his heart.

She started from her reverie as the bottom of the dory struck the sand.  The shoal water stretched twenty feet beyond.  He pulled in the oars and rose desperately.  “It’s of no use:  I shall have to carry you ashore.”

She sat staring up into his face, and longing to ask him something, to accuse him of having done this purposely.  But she had erred in so many doubts, her suspicions of him had all recoiled so pitilessly upon her, that she had no longer the courage to question or reproach him.  “Oh, no, thank you,” she said weakly.  “I won’t trouble you.  I—­I will wait till the tide is out.”

“The tide’s out now,” he answered with coldness, “and you can’t wade.”

She rose desperately.  “Why, of course!” she cried in self-contempt, glancing at the water, into which he promptly stepped to his boot-tops.  “A woman must n’t get her feet wet.”